#valet!reader

[deepdisireslonging]

Eight Miracles With You

The Reader is invited to participate with MJF’s family Hanukkah traditions. She enjoys being included. But Max’s mind wanders as he sees her in the candlelight and can’t wait to get her alone at home.

Pairing: Maxwell Jacob Friedman x Reader

Warnings/Promises: Fluff, Smut, oral (male receiving), lipstick kink (is that a thing?), dirty talk, slight degradation, overstimulation, p-in-v, cock-warming, implied further smut

Word Count: 2900 (omg)

Note: Firstly, just: this man. Secondly: this one came out really intense. Please let me know how you guys enjoyed it with comments and reblogs! Keyboard smashes and emojis are great feedback too. Happy holidays and happy reading!

Max couldn’t take his eyes off of you. This was the first year you’d been able to participate with his family’s Hanukkah celebrations at his parent’s house. It was the family tradition to meet all in one place for the first night and the lighting of the first candle. He swore that you glowed brighter than the candles.

All night, you asked questions about the differences in traditions between your family and his, details about recipes for latkes, and sang along with his parents. You spun the dreidel with his younger cousins. Their familiar bickering about wins and losses mirrored how you handled his opponents in and around the ring. But here, you had a patience that made his chest tight.

What got him the most, though, was the candle lighting.

At each of the windows, family members placed their personal menorahs on the sills. Your candelabra sat next to his, flush with the window so as not to overlap the candles. The shamash candles were passed around to collect the flame. As the sun was setting, the candles were lit at each window, warming the room with their light and passing the light into the cold world outside. Inside, the house lights remained on, keeping his family in view with more light than their menorahs. Max sang the blessings softly, watching you over the radiance of the candlelight. He stumbled over the words; ones that he’d been singing since his childhood. He kept watching your mouth as you talked, sang, or laughed during the rest of the evening. How your hands fluttered as you talked. The dress you wore was one he’d seen before. But how it swirled around your knees as you walked had him licking his lips and his hands running through his hair.

It took forever to say goodbye. The candles were snuffed out after half an hour. But it took another forty-five minutes before it was just the two of you and his parents. After final goodbyes and the drive home, you finally noticed how fidgety he seemed. You barely sat your menorahs in the front windows before he was mumbling about needing to do something and hurrying upstairs.

You shook your head. As much as he loved being the center of attention in the ring, you hoped the crowd of family hadn’t been too much. You gave him space. In the meantime, you cleaned the kitchen from your earlier rush to prepare the sweets you took to the lighting. With a sigh, you turned off the kitchen lights and headed up stairs.

But upstairs was dark too.

“Max?”

At first, you didn’t hear a reply. Then you noticed the glow coming from your bedroom.

“I’m back here,” Max finally responded.

When you stepped into the bedroom, you gasped. Every flat surface was covered in candles. Tea-lights, tall candles, even a string of fairy lights surrounded the bed. You kept your hands clasped over your chest. “What’s all this?”

“I… well,” he floundered while running a hand through his curls.

You thought for a moment. “Maxwell. Were you a little… distracted during the candle lighting this evening?”

“Maybe.” He grinned at you and tugged you close. “Okay. Maybe a lot.”

Again, you looked around. You closed your eyes as you asked, “so instead of focusing on the miracle you were thinking about – ”

“The miracle of you coming into my life, yes.” With the way his fingers were trailing up and down your back, he wasn’t reticent in the slightest. You asked if something like this was allowed. “Well… it’d forbidden to fast during Hanukkah. So, if you’re up for it, we are allowed to, ah,” he kissed your forehead and began to let his hands wander.

You rolled your eyes. “I thought you were the one who had to be ‘up for it’ in these kind of situations.” To test your theory, you slid your hand down to the front of his pants. He was, indeed, up for it. “Okay. You’ve got the candles. You’ve got me. What’s your next step?”

He swallowed hard; his gaze homed in on your lips. “Not a clue. All I want to, all I’ve wanted to do all night was kiss you.”

“Then what are you waiting on? Another miracle?” You slid your hands up his chest and behind his neck. You scratched lightly at the bottom edge of his curls. “Come down here, Scarf Boy, and kiss me.”

With a smirk, he did just that. Small, teasing kisses at first. But as you leaned into him and hummed into his mouth, Max kissed you harder and held you tighter. His hands splayed wide around your hips, trying to feel as much of you as possible. He groaned as your hands did the same to his back and biceps. When you were breathless, he broke away.

“How you doin’ down there, sweet cheeks?”

All you could manage was a “mhmm.”

Proud of himself, he helped your legs wrap around his waist. The bed was soon under you, but Max kept you wrapped around him so he could grind into your rolling hips. He glanced down at your skirt riding up. He rocked into you harder until the fabric was bunched up around your waist. He smiled into your kisses. With a chuckle against the curve of your neck, he leaned you up with a hand behind your head. His other hand slipped between your bodies. With a little teasing and a little rubbing, he succeeded in wringing your arousal through to the front of your panties. Your jolts and whines didn’t make him stop. What did freeze him was how glossy your eyes looked. And how your mouth parted perfectly around those tiny gasps that he loved.

Glancing at your boudoir, his mind spun with an idea.

“Hey, Baby, you gonna take good care of me?” He suckled a soft mark on your neck. “Gonna take care of me so I can take real good care of you?”

You followed his glances to your collection of hair and makeup products scattered haphazardly over the low desk. “Always. But – What do you have in mind?”

He pressed a hard kiss to your lips before shifting off the bed. When he came back, he had one of your lipsticks in hand. He summoned you to sit on the edge of the mattress with a curl of his fingers.

You frowned at the tube he chose. It wasn’t one you used often. The lipstick was too dark for regular use, and really only looked good when you were expecting to be flushed. Realization froze you in place as Max lightly gripped your chin. Your lips parted so he could apply the color to your lips. It didn’t take much to image how you looked to him. Cheeks flushed from his kisses. Eyes wide with realizing what he meant to do. Lips parted in an “oh.”

With his thumb, he smeared the thick layer of color across your bottom lip. “Perfect.” He grinned. “Caught up yet?”

To answer, you reached for his belt buckle.

Max toed out of his shoes and helped your hands rid him of his pants. The button-down shirt hung open over his undershirt, though it was tight enough that you could watch his tummy contract. He regripped your chin as you brought his cock into the open. Back and forth, he enjoyed smearing your lipstick. He couldn’t wait to see what you’d look like after he filled your mouth with his length. A small hiss escaped through his teeth as your thumb circled his tip, smearing the precum there.

His head fell back as you began to kiss and down his length. When he managed to look down again, his breath stuttered to see the red lip prints that you’d left behind.

“Come on, Baby. Mark me up.” He spread his hand over the back of your head. As you swallowed him down, bit by bit, his words stuttered out between rushed breaths. “Love seeing your lips around my cock. Been dreamin’ – use your tongue, just like that – dreamin’ about having you like this all day. Been wanting to feel that mouth just like this.” He groaned as you added your hands to your movements, cupping and massaging his balls to make him twitch in your mouth. “We both know you’re too good for me. But then I’ve got you like this and – easy woman – and I think maybe you’re just as much a degenerate as I am.”

You slid off his cock with a pop. “Darling… you talk to much.”

“Make me shut up then.”

After a smirk, you took a deep breath. Max braced himself for what he knew was coming next.

Relaxing your jaw and throat as best you could, you worked your way back down his length until your lips could rest at the base of it with your nose pressed against his abdomen. Max’s eyes rolled. His thighs twitched as he fought the need to begin thrusting in and out of your mouth. Anything he wanted to say stuttered on his tongue, refusing to make any sense while you had him sucked down so well. He stumbled through a few sounds as you hollowed and sucked your cheeks.

“Gonna, gonna burst. Move, woman.”

Lightly grazing your teeth along his underside, you slid off again. He whined, tightening his grip on the back of your head. “What? I thought you wanted me to move?”

He used his thumb to hold open your jaw. “Fine. Stay still and I’ll move.” He glared at the innocent smile you gave him. Already, the color on your lips was smeared nearly past recognition. But he needed to see it obliterated. Max filled your mouth again. The sensitivity of his cock jarred as your tongue worked around him. With a grunt, he did his best to hold back. Thrusting, he took what he wanted.

Your hands slid up and down his thighs. If he slowed down, you picked up the pace. He wanted to see you debauched, and you were willing to give it to him. But you also wanted to see him wrecked.

The tightening of his hand on your head was the only warning you had before he spilled down your throat. As you swallowed, you kept him in place by gripping his hips. He tried to get away, but you took your time coming off him. When you did, you took his length in hand and guided him to lay on top of you on the bed. He grunted against the side of your neck as you gently stroked him.

“Ea-easy.” He batted your hand away. Before you could snark at him, he reached down for your slick. It didn’t take much movement from his fingers before he could triumphantly watch your eyes close with pleasure. And it didn’t take much more to remove your dress and panties. Before you could bother with removing your bra (one of the lacy blue ones that he liked) he rolled you to sit on his hips.

You squinted at him.

Max swung his hands up and back behind his head. “What?”

“What happened to I take care of you so can take really good care of me?”

“We’re getting there.” He shifted his hips under you, his half-hard cock laid out for your view. “Can’t take care of you with this. So, help a guy out.” Max smirked at you.

His face was pretty, you had to admit. Punchable. But pretty.

In Max’s view, you were stunning. The candlelight glimmered across your bared skin, flickering and giving your face different angles of illumination. You were irritated with him, but beautiful. His stomach contracted under your hand while you thumbed across the blurred line of lipstick at the base of his cock. Panting, he kept still as you pushed his undershirt up so you could see his abs. They flexed as you curled your fingers around his length, gently stroking him.

When you began to roll your hips over his stomach, with his cock trapped between you, the both of you had to moan. You with neediness, and Max with overstimulation. The wetness that had grown with sucking him off slicked up his cock and stomach. You slid back and forth, chasing the sensation of his cockhead catching your clit. But then Max reached up and took care of your bud with his thumb. You braced your hands on his chest.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Ridin’ me like a perfect slut. My slut. If you hang around me too much longer, I’ll ruin you.”

You licked your lips. “You’re already ruined me, Max. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

His other hand landed on your waist, guiding you to slide faster. Your slick gushed, giving him plenty to work with to rub up over your clit. He teased you for the mess you were making. How he wasn’t even in you yet, and you looked like you were fucked head over heels.

“You gonna cum, Baby? Just from sliding back and forth on my cock? What would your fans think of you if they knew this was the woman you became when the cameras turned off? My valet, my woman, so cock-drunk she can’t even see straight.” He used his hips to push you higher on your knees. With the extra space, he curled his fingers into your heat. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

Desperately, you nodded. All you needed was for him to keep moving his fingers like that. Just a little longer. But as he dragged them out, you keened. Between you, his cock had hardened again. He guided you back and forth, gasping to feel how wet you were. “Max-“

“Gonna take good care of you. Can you wait for me?” He ground his thumb into your clit, hoping to bring you to the brink. He had a feeling he wouldn’t last long once he had your walls around him.

“No.” Your limbs stiffened and your vision blurred as Max’s work sent you over the edge. You tried to fall forward onto his chest, but he forced you keep sitting on his lap as he laid there.

“Did you just cum?” He laughed, awed. “Poor thing. Just came around nothing. Don’t worry; I can fix that.” Lifting up your hips again, he speared you bit by bit onto his length.

Your thighs quaked on either side of his hips. Full of him and reeling from your release, your body couldn’t decide if it wanted him in or out. Your walls fluttered around his length. Beneath you, Max struggled to hold still as your body decided. Looking at the scrunch of his brow and hearing the raspiness of his breath, you knew he was close. You slid your hand up his chest. His hand caught yours after your thumb flicked over his nipple.

“Hey-“

“What?” You gently rolled your hips, making both of you gasp. “Are you the only one in this house allowed to take charge?”

Cheekily, he risked a grin that disappeared into a moan as you rolled your hips again. “I – I thought I was.”

“Are you sure about that?”

His answer was to grip your hips tight. Hands warm and grasping, their paired strength held you in place for his hips to thrust up. Your hands fell to lay over his. As he made you bounce on his lap, you did your best to keep your seat. Max watched you fall apart through lidded eyes. Heart thundering in his ears, he could still hear your cries and the prayer of his name falling from your lips. He watched your throat and lips. He watched your breasts bounce as he thrust. And he felt your walls clamping tighter and tighter around his length with each spear into your heat.

“Getting’ close, baby?”

You nodded frantically. Eyes screwed shut, you slammed yourself down and wriggled your hips, chasing the sensation of being completely full.

“Come on then,” he breathed, “cum for me. Gonna fill you up so good.”

He reached for your clit, circling it until you saw stars. The flames and glow of the fairy lights blurred into one radiance with Max’s awe-struck face in the center. It was the last thing you saw before you came with a shout. Your eyes clamped shut. As he continued to thrust, you fell forward to brace yourself on his stomach. You clawed at his skin, leaving thin red welts. Max groaned, then whined your name before his body shuddered. His release spilled into you, warming your already-flushed body from the inside out. The cum that spilled out around his length mixed with the mess already spread across his lap.

Dazed, you didn’t realize he hadn’t pulled out until you were laying on your side and he was lifting your leg over his thigh. “Max-“

“Hmm?”

“What – what are you doing?”

“Well, you blew me till I came. I made you cum. Then we each came again. That leaves four more.”

“Four?” You whimpered as he slowly rolled his hips. “What? Did you think we were done?” He kissed the end of your nose before burying his head into the crook of your neck and sucking a mark on your pulse point. “Nuh-uh. Have to get to eight. One for each candle and night of the miracle. Not letting you go. Not yet.”

***

Masterlist

***

Other MJF Fics:

A Tease of the Worst Kind (S, Ficlet)

Finish Me (S, Ficlet)

Power Struggle (Whump)

STFU (S, Summer Song-Fic Playlist)

***

Other Wrestling Holiday Fics:

Snow Kisses (F) - Jack Gallagher

Happy to Help (Male!Reader, AR, F, implied S, M|M) - Ricochet

Warm Me Up (AR, S, Virgin Reader) - Elias Samson

Rain Check (F, A, Book/Coffee Shop AU) - Ceasaro/Claudio Castignoli

[jungshookz]

y/n is some rich badass boss of some huuuugge corporation and bts is working under her (reception, assistants, janitors, errand boys)......valet!tae and valet!jin are DOWN BAD and one day y/n pulls in and one of them makes a sly comment about y/n stepping on them OR about ruining/ripping her clothes

➺ wordcount; 1.2k

➺ currently spinning on the record player; i know this is such a short little drabble but it’s really giving be mean by DNCE 

»»————- ⚡ ————-««

“i desperately need coffee,” jin’s mouth opens in an obnoxious yawn as he turns his head so that taehyung doesn’t have to look into the depths of his giant mouth, “how are you never tired in the morning? our shift starts at six and i’ve never seen you yawn, ever. it’s actually kind of concerning.” he exhales slowly, blowing out his lips as he tries to shake the sleepiness out of his system 

“maybe i’m just more suited for this job than you are,” taehyung whistles, dancing along to the music crackling out of the little radio sitting on the podium (taylor swift’s new album just came out and even he has to admit some of the songs on there are a vibe), “but also i chugged, like, two redbulls before the start of our shift, so there’s that, too-"

“okay, well, that’s just cheating and it doesn’t mean you’re more qualified for the job, it just means you’re more insane and you treat your body like a dumpyard-" jin snorts, standing with his hands behind his back as he looks up at the early morning sky, the soft shade of blue nice and easy on his sleepy eyes, “what time do you think the boss’ll be here? i’m wondering if i have enough time to run in and get a coffee for myself before she gets here…”

“well, you’re more than welcome to go and get a coffee while i help y/n with her car,” taehyung flashes jin a boyish grin, “i hope she comes in her mclaren today. i love driving the mclaren.” 

“hey, you got to drive the mclaren last time, it’s my turn if she comes in it today!” jin frowns, eyebrows furrowing before he shakes his head, “her new BMW is nice, too. it’s the new electric one. i drove it the other day and it rides like a dream… but the mclaren, i haven’t tested out yet. it’s only fair that i get a turn!”

“why don’t you just stick to the cute little mini cooper she has? you can’t handle the mclaren,” taehyung scoffs, reaching up to adjust his tie, “besides, it’s my sexy little car and she only responds to daddy-" 

“okay, that-“ seokjin immediately makes a face and rolls his eyes, “jesus, keep it in your pants-" 

the sound of an engine purring smoothly and bright headlights rounding the corner makes the both of them stand up straight immediately because it’s seven o’clock on the dot and you always come on time, taehyung elbowing jin excitedly when he sees that you decided that it was mclaren day today and he has to stop himself from bouncing up and down on his heels excitedly like a little boy on christmas because it’s mclaren day today

“i know exactly what you’re going to do and i already told you it’s my turn-“ seokjin says through gritted teeth while keeping the smile on his face, already walking closer to the edge of the sidewalk so that he can get to your door before taehyung can, “you got to park it last time, it’s my turn-" 

“you can literally suck my dick, i’m not passing up the opportunity to get my hands on my mclaren- good morning, boss!” taehyung chirps, shoving seokjin out of the way to open the door up for you, ��mclaren monday, hey?”

seokjin resists the urge to tackle taehyung from behind as he shakes his head subtly, taking a few steps back and maintaining his professional composure

whatever

but next time the mclaren is definitely going to be his  

“your favourite day, i know,”  you laugh lightly, “morning, you two-“ you swing both legs out of the car and seokjin feels his nose twitch slightly at the pleasant scent of what he’s pretty sure is a mixture of vanilla and sandalwood emanating from your hair (you always smell so insanely sexy and it drives him crazy) 

“good morning, y/n-“ seokjin bows his head politely, “new shoes?”

“how very observant of you, seokjin!” you toss your keys up in the air behind you with a jingle and taehyung catches them in one swift swoop, wriggling his eyebrows at seokjin teasingly because ha-ha, he got the mclaren, “you like them?” you pause, lifting the back of your leg for a second to flash the sexy red bottoms before raising a shoulder with a laugh, “i don’t usually gravitate towards platforms, but i do love a bratz doll moment-"

“oh, i-“ seokjin chokes for a second before letting out a laugh, “no, i love them- they’re- they look great, boss. they make you look- tall. very tall.” 

“mm.” 

seokjin’s eyes widen a little when you take a step towards him, reaching over to adjust the collar of his shirt and smoothing it out before patting his chest, “there you go. still a little sleepy this morning, aren’t you? collar wasn’t sitting right.”

“i guess so, yes.” seokjin smiles sheepishly, hands clenched like crazy behind his back because he just got a full whiff of your perfume and you just smell so damn good

you twist around on your heels to look at taehyung, tilting your head with a teasing smile, “you gonna take care of my baby, taehyung?” 

“oh, i’ll take care of you, baby,” taehyung purrs, his cheeks heating up when he realises that that wasn’t just an intrusive thought and he actually said it out loud, “i mean-" he laughs, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, “i’ll take care of your baby.” 

“alright, baby, i’ll see you two when i go out for lunch later-" you turn back around and head towards the large revolving doors where namjoon is waiting patiently for you with his iPad tucked under his armpit and an iced coffee in one hand and a paper bag with a random pastry in the other hand (he likes to surprise you every day with something new), “be good while i’m gone!” 

“…i want her to step on me.” seokjin blurts out as soon as you’re out of earshot, his jaw hanging open slightly as he reaches up to smooth out his own collar, “like i- my god, she could do anything to me and i’d thank her for it.” 

“tell me about it,” taehyung murmurs, body slumped over the open car door as he takes his bottom lip in between his teeth, “she called me baby. the crimes i would commit to get her to call me other names…” he stands up straight again when he sees you turn to glance at the two of them over your shoulder, flashing them another one of your signature smiles and a flirty little wave 

…god, he loves this job. 

🎙️ tell jin to close his mouth or tell taehyung to get out of the mclaren (talk to my characters!) 

📚 why not explore the rest of the library while you're here? (full fics!) 

💫 or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles and mini series!)

🌟 or something even shorter? (teeny tidbits like this!) 

[yanderedrabbles]

Christine - A Yandere Short Story

Based on Christine by Stephen King After your boyfriend's death, you're eager to sell his vintage Mustang. The car reminds you far too much of him and worse than that, it feels oddly alive. The only problem? Your dead boyfriend isn't ready to let go. Tags: Male Yanderes x Fem Reader, Horror, Character Death, 12k words Taglist: @mel-vaz

When your boyfriend died, you and Christine were the only witnesses.

All through his funeral, you kept thinking of ways to get rid of her. You were being paranoid and you knew it - she couldn't speak even if she wanted to. But having her around put you on edge, made you grit your teeth until your jaw ached.

After the wake, you approached your boyfriend's parents and asked if you could have her. They were pale and shaken, reeling from the suddeness of death just as much as from grief. His father nodded like a sleep walker, his voice older than his years.

"He would have wanted you to have her. She's yours."

His mother squeezed your shoulder. "I can't imagine what you're going through, dear. Whatever his faults, my boy loved you. I know that."

You managed a smile, managed to thank them through the tears that were suddenly falling. But your mind was on Christine. Always on Christine.

You were the last to leave the funeral parlour. You tried to tell yourself it was a coincidence, but deep down you knew the truth. You were scared. Scared of Christine, scared of your too quiet townhouse, scared of the dreams that would come when you closed your eyes.

It was early evening and the streetlights were coming on in the narrow tree lined avenue outside the funeral parlour. When you stepped out, goosebumps crawled across your arms.

She was waiting for you.

Christine. Your boyfriend's 1969 Mustang, cherry red and entirely rebuilt.

She was directly under a streetlight and her paint gleamed. The light reflected off her windshield so you couldn't see inside, but for a second it seemed like someone was already sitting behind the wheel.

You squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, the shadow driver was gone.

Christine. For most of your relationship, you loved her just as much as your boyfriend did. She was a labour of love and you felt it every time you sat in her passenger seat.

But things were different now.

You walked towards her cautiously. It was ridiculous to be scared of a car, but you were.

When you opened the driver side door, you almost expected to see your boyfriend. Despite the funeral, the wake, the late morning call to please come and identify a body down at the morgue, you still expected to see him. Light green eyes looking up at you, half smile that was half teasing and half lecherous.

The seats were empty.

You slid behind the wheel, your breathing shaky. You almost never drove Christine. Not that your boyfriend didn't offer. It was just that you liked riding passenger - liked looking over and seeing your man with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, liked seeing the muscles flex in his forearm when he steered.

The car still smelled like him. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite being impounded for a week while the cops did forensics, despite the valet scrubbing and steaming the seats to get the blood out, it still smelled like him.

You rested your head against the steering wheel, closed your eyes and sobbed for the first time since the night you killed your boyfriend.

When you put Christine up for sale, the calls started coming in almost immediately. It wasn't surprising - she was in incredible shape, she ran like a dream, and her white leather upholstery was original.

At first, you thought you'd be able to sell her before the month was up. The buyers would look under the hood and whistle in admiration.

But something always changed when they took her for a test drive. You couldn't understand it - she would drive perfectly but by the time you got home, the buyers were almost always frowning at you, or worse - not looking at you at all.

No matter how fanatic they were at first, no one wanted Christine.

You dropped the price and then dropped it again, but still no takers. The car spent all winter in the garage. You'd turn her on to idle every few days, clean off any dust and check that the mice weren't nibbling at the wiring, but you never stuck around for long.

It hurt to leave her locked away - your boyfriend poured so much of himself into her - but it hurt even worse to drive her. Whenever you were behind the wheel, you could feel the gaping emptiness of the passenger seat, could still see the bloodstains.

It was on the first warm day of spring when someone finally bought her.

Colt Guilder called you when you were just about ready to give up on selling her. You were literally about to take down the ad when your phone rang. The voice on the other end was deep, with a slight southern drawl that immediately reminded you of your boyfriend.

"Can I come and take a look today? I wouldn't want to impose ma'am, but I'm in a hurry to see her before anyone else gets a chance to buy her."

Her. Even the older buyers didn't really call cars 'her' anymore.

"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."

You were sitting on the porch steps when he pulled up, a jug of iced tea and your novel abandoned next to you. He stepped out of his Jeep, a tall man in blue jeans and boots, and you felt your heart lurch. Something deep inside you told you that this was the man who would finally take her off your hands.

He smiled at you as he approached and for a second you wanted to warn him away. Wanted to tell him the truth about Christine.

"Howdy ma'am. I'm real happy you agreed to meet me so last minute."

You smiled at him and shook his hand and bit back the truth. Oh, how you would come to hate that decision.

When he pulled up, Colt wasn't expecting the Mustang's owner to be a pretty little thing in a sundress. He was a gentleman, his mama raised him right, but even he had trouble keeping his eyes on your face and not letting them wander lower.

His hand swallowed yours when he shook it and it was hard not to notice the softness of your skin. Whoever rebuilt the Mustang, it wasn't you. You had the hands of a lady, not a mechanic.

"The car is out back. Keys are waiting for you. She's been serviced pretty regularly and my... my boyfriend built her up himself."

You started for the garage and he fell into step behind you. You were so much shorter than him - it was kind of cute to see your head bobbing in front of him. Like a pixie in a sundress.

"How come your man ain't the one to sell it?"

He wasn't surprised you had a boyfriend. Hell, he'd have tried his luck if he could. No doubt other men had the same idea.

"He... he passed away a few moths ago."

He cringed. Nice going, Colt. Bringing up painful memories only three sentences into conversation. Must be a world record.

"I'm so sorry ma'am. I had no idea."

You shrugged. "It's fine."

He was about to say something else when Christine came into view. Her grille was a newly buffed silver and her deep red paint caught the spring sun.

He gave a low whistle. "Pictures don't do her justice."

You smiled at that, but edged out of the car's direct line of sight. Neither of you consciously noticed it, but you approached the car like you would an animal. Slightly from the side so it couldn't charge at you.

"Mind if I take a look under the hood?"

"Be my guest."

He popped the hood and let out another low whistle. Without even looking past the surface level stuff, it was clear your boyfriend knew how to build an engine. The Mustang looked almost new.

"How long did this take?"

You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.

"A long time. He bought her a few months after we started dating. She was gonna be scrapped - looked like a total rust bucket."

He raised his eyebrows. If that was true, the body restoration alone must have cost a fortune. Did you realise how valuable a vintage ride like this was worth?

"Y'know, just from looking under the hood, I can tell you could get at least three times as much as you're asking."

If his uncle heard him sabotaging himself like that, he'd have given Colt a whack on the head. Truth was, he wanted the car. Wanted her so bad he would have taken out three separate loans to afford her.

But he wasn't a monster. It wasn't fair to buy something so fine from a girl who might not understand its true worth.

You raised your brows, more surprised at his honesty than at his statement.

"I know she's worth more. But I'm in a hurry to get rid of her. And well..."

You looked away. "People find the car a bit strange."

It was his turn to be surprised. He couldn't see any red flags in her upkeep or her paintwork. Maybe it was a deeper issue.

You pushed yourself away from the wall and nodded at the door.

"Keys are waiting for you. Take her for a drive and decide for yourself."

The interior was just as well taken care of as he expected - a tough job when the upholstery was mostly white. The keys had a tag attached with a name engraved in metal.

"Christine?"

"It's what we call her. It was a joke at first but the name sort of stuck."

You slid into the passenger seat and tugged your seat belt across your chest. He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and -

'Silly thing, doesn't she know better than to get into a car with a stranger twice her size?'

He shook his head, like that could dislodge the idea. He wasn't that sort of man, wasn't some kind predator with a mind full of filth.

'It would be so easy. You're so much bigger than her, so much stronger. You want her. Why not just take what you want?'

Where the hell was this coming from? He might have a guilty thought every once in a while, but he was always quick to squash it down. It wasn't like him to think something so...forceful about a girl.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. And it really was a roar. V8 engine growling so loud he could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.

Oh baby, he was sold on her right then and there. The devil himself couldn't have outbid him. What little boy didn't dream of a car like this? Didn't spend his childhood looking through magazines and brawling over matchbox versions?

The clutch was smooth as butter as he cruised down your driveway and turned onto the main road.

God, he wanted to gun it. Floor the gas and find out for himself just how powerful old school muscle was.

He looked over at you, about to ask if you knew exactly what your boyfriend did to the engine. You were looking out at the passing trees, your hair stirring in the slight breeze from his open window.

'She looks like she belongs here, with you.'

It was another foreign thought, something he wouldn't expect of himself. But it was true. The Mustang would have felt empty without you - in your sundress and white sneakers, you completed the picture. Your boyfriend must have rebuilt the car just for you, as a way to keep you next to him. Colt wasn't sure why he thought that, but somehow he knew it was true. Whoever your man was, he put so much of himself into this car that Colt almost felt like he was right next to the guy.

You turned to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

"What do you think?"

"She runs sweet as apple pie."

You felt your heart stutter. Your boyfriend used to say the exact same thing.

"You alright there sweetheart? You look a little pale."

"Sorry. Just a little car sick."

Car sick was right - you were sick to hell of this damn car and the way it played with your emotions.

"C'mon, I know a diner just off the highway. We can stop for some fresh air and a bite to eat. You'll feel better in no time."

You didn't have time to protest before he switched lanes and turned onto the highway.

The diner he took you to really was just off the highway, a retro looking spot railed off from a steep cliff.

"How did you know about this place?"

He shrugged. "I must have heard about it from someone."

Strange. Colt didn't think he'd ever seen the place before, much less heard about it. But when you looked at him with that slight hint of panic, that sudden fear, somehow he knew this was the place to bring you.

He climbed out and opened your door for you before you had a chance to do it yourself.

"You know this place?" he asked.

If anything, you looked even paler than before. "Yeah. My boyfriend and I used to come up here pretty often."

He frowned, annoyed at himself for somehow making this even worse. "We can go somewhere else if you want."

"No!" You took a deep breath. "No, this is fine. I just need a moment away from the car, that's all."

He led you to a picnic table near the edge of the cliff. Far below you, the main road clung to the cliffside and disappeared into the trees.

"You just sit pretty and I'll grab us some chow."

You smiled up at him. "Thanks Colt. Really. I know this is probably eating into your day."

He waved it away. "Trust me, this is a much better way to spend the weekend than what I had planned."

It was true. He'd wanted to see the car and somehow that turned into lunch with a pretty girl at a table with one hell of a view. Maybe Christine had some good luck about her. Maybe all of this was just meant to be.

When he stepped into the diner, he was greeted by jukebox country music and the smell of good, strong coffee. He didn't bother to look at the menu. Somehow, he knew exactly what to order.

"I'll have a banana spilt, some fries and a toasted sandwich." He smiled at the elderly waitress. "Please and thank you Agnes."

"Sure thing sugar."

He frowned. How the hell did he know the waitress's name?

Must have seen her name tag, right? That made sense. Must have been a half second, subconscious glance.

When she handed him his change, he dropped his eyes to her lapel. No name tag. No label. Not even a necklace with her initials on it.

It was a warm spring day but he still shivered. Something strange was going on.

No, don't be ridiculous. Agnes was a common name, a vintage diner kind of name. That was probably why he said it. His mind must have just made a lucky guess. There's no way he could know her name when he didn't even know about the diner until he pulled up.

Unless... it wasn't him that knew her name. Maybe it was someone else, something else speaking through him.

"C'mon Colt, don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself.

"You say something sugar?"

He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching. Just the waitress, just Agnes, looking at him with raised brows.

"No ma'am. Just thinking out loud."

"Alrighty then. Here's your order. Be careful not to spill the chocolate sauce. It's hell to clean up."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Have a good day."

He was stupidly happy to step out of the restaurant. The place must have been getting to him. Why else was he suddenly so superstitious?

"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.

He grinned at you. "Just dandy sweetheart. I got you a banana split and some French fries."

"Oh! That's perfect, thank you."

See? Nothing strange at all. He had a sweet ride and a sweeter girl waiting for him. Why worry about some weird diner?

He sat down across from you and unwrapped his sandwich. Behind you, Christine looked at him with a shining chrome smile.

"Listen, you can get a whole lot more for a car that fine. But if you're willing to let her go for the price in the ad, I'll buy her today," he said.

You froze, a fry halfway to your mouth. He really wanted her? He wasn't coming up with some lame excuse or hurrying off with a mumbled apology?

"Done," you said, a bit too quickly.

You were finally getting rid of Christine. No more nightmares, no more tip toeing around the garage like you were scared she might notice you, no more unwanted memories every time you laid eyes on her.

You were burying your past like it should have been buried on the day of your boyfriend's funeral.

He offered you his hand and you shook it, a genuine smile on your face.

"She's all yours." And thank God for that.

Colt drove you home and followed you into the house to collect the car registration papers.

You frowned at your empty desk drawer. You could have sworn you left the documents right here...

You popped your head into the living room where Colt was waiting.

"Give me a second. I think I left them upstairs."

"Sure. I'm in no hurry."

He wandered around your living room while you were gone, too keyed up to sit still. It was a neat, modern room with art on the walls. The big bay windows opened onto the front yard and the driveway where Christine sat waiting for him.

Part of him still couldn't believe it. She really was his dream car. The sort of ride all his work buddies would be green with envy over.

He leaned against the windowsil and then quickly looked down when his hand brushed something metallic.

Picture frames, the small kind that usually sat on a desk. He picked one up, the frame cool against his skin. It was a picture of you and someone he guessed to be your boyfriend. Both of you were in formal wear - you in a deep red evening gown and him in a tailored tux. Christine was parked in the background, her red a compliment to your dress.

Your boyfriend was handsome in a rough cut sort of way, his hair swept back and a tattoo just peeking out of his shirt. He was looking directly at the camera while you looked up at him, his arm curled tightly around your waist.

Colt frowned. There was something about the man's expression... a kind of possessive meanness. He seemed the type of guy to start a fight and then finish it no matter what, a real tough customer.

And the way he held you... some might call it loving but Colt found it more proprietary than anything else.

'Mine. My girl, no matter what. Try and take her from me and I'll show you a world of hurt.'

Colt put the picture down with a frown and scanned the others. Out hiking on the mountains, at the beach, holding a huge bouquet while he kissed you. A perfect couple except... except for the way he looked at you. Sweet, yes. But somehow dangerous, in the way rattlesnakes and cougars were. Fine if they weren't disturbed, but tread on their territory and there'd be hell to pay.

He moved away when he heard you coming down the stairs. You were a little flushed, a little out of breath, but you grinned at him and waved a stack of papers.

"Finally found them! Just need to sign the change of ownership forms and she's all yours."

He watched you as you searched for a pen, your sundress swishing 'round your thighs. He didn't like your boyfriend - dead or not, he seemed like one mean bastard - but seeing you so happy, so flushed with life and hope and joy, Colt found he could almost understand the other man. If you were his girl, he'd hold you just as tight.

You finally found a pen and he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Well, seems like you're the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang. Congratulations."

He carefully took the papers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "Real good doing business with you sweetheart."

You lead him out to the car, going through the list of things he'd need to do to properly register the car as his. Real cute of you, to think he didn't know it all already.

He slid into the driver's seat and when he touched the wheel, he felt that same sense of power. And under it, a strange feeling of being not quiet alone in the car.

You stood outside his window, running through a catalogue of spares and repairs that he might want to check out. If he had to guess, you seemed nervous.

He leaned back and smiled at you. "It's alright y/n. I ain't changing my mind. Deals done, remember?"

It was the first time using your name and it sent a small bolt of electricity jolting through him.

'Her name is mighty sweet, ain't it? Meant to be said oh so softly, meant to be savoured.'

You looked at him like you felt it too, your cheeks just a little warmer than before.

Oh Lord, what sort of bastard was he? Feeling this way about you when your boyfriend was in the ground for scarcely half a year? You were probably still mourning, still nursing your broken heart. He should be a gentleman and leave you alone, shouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability. He should be a good man.

'You'd be an idiot to let her go.'

The thought streaked through his mind. It almost didn't feel like his own idea. Wherever the thought came from, it wasn't wrong. He really would be an idiot to not ask you out when he had a chance. He got lucky with the car - prize piece like this would have been snatched up in a matter of hours. If he didn't ask you out, if he didn't push his luck for the second time, the same thing might happen with you.

"How 'bout I take you out to dinner later this week? As a thank you."

You looked unsure, your eyes jumping down to the car keys like you were expecting an objection.

"Please? I know Christine must mean a lot to you. I'd feel a whole lot better taking her off your hands if I could thank you properly."

You bit your lower lip and he found his eyes drawn to the sight of it. Please say yes please say-

"Yes, I think I'd like that. But no later than eight, okay?"

YES! He rubbed a palm across his jaw to hide his smile.

"I'll bring you home early, promise."

"I'll hold you to that, cowboy."

Oh god, he wanted to melt when you called him that. It was so silly - big guy like him getting butterflies over a sort-of kind-of date.

'Atta boy. You ain't gonna regret it.'

He was too distracted watching you walk away to realise the thought wasn't his own.

That night, you slept without dreaming. For the first time since your boyfriend's death, you didn't see his face when you closed your eyes.

You woke up the next morning expecting to be relieved. Christine was gone, wasn't that exactly what you wanted?

Yes, but...but what happens next? You weren't an idiot nor were you unduly superstitious, but Christine didn't feel like a normal car. Maybe that's what happens after a violent death - things change, the blood seeps through the fabric and poisons the aura, or the energy, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

You made yourself breakfast but couldn't eat more than a few bites.

Okay, try and be logical. It was probably just your guilt playing tricks on you. You loved Christine and you loved your boyfriend, so it was only natural that you'd feel terrible about selling her. That's all. Blood and death can't change the nature of an inanimate object, no matter how violent or grisly it might have been.

Right. Just your guilty conscience. No need to work yourself up.

Across town, Colt slept through his alarm. He was dreaming, a sweet little fantasy of cruising down the highway on a brilliant summer day. You were next to him, your sundress even shorter than before, smiling at him and running your hand up his thigh.

You were his girl. His and his alone. He could feel the certainty of it in every part of him. You loved him, you stood by him, you did everything you could to support him, you were his.

Christine purred through her gears and he pushed the gas a little more, eager to get home. He would show you exactly how much he appreciated you - inch by inch and kiss by kiss.

"I love you darlin'. I need you to know that," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was raspier, with an edge of meanness that not even love could soften.

You looked at him, smiling all soft and sweet. "I know. I've always known."

Colt jerked awake, smiling and shivering at the same time. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, disoriented and feeling like a stranger in his own body.

"One hell of a dream," he muttered.

'Not a dream cowboy. A memory from someone long dead.'

He ignored the thought, his mind already focused on the day ahead. He'd driven Christine home yesterday, but left his Jeep parked outside your house. He could either get one of his buddies pick it up or take a taxi over and get it himself.

Was it even a choice? He wanted to see you again. If he had to pay an ungodly amount for an Uber, he would.

Should he call you before showing up at your door? What would be a good time to see you? He didn't want to show up too late and catch you in a rush to leave.

'She'll be awake by now. But she'll only leave for work after twelve.'

How did he know that? Did you mention it yesterday?

He climbed out of bed and half stumbled to the bathroom. As the steam clouded up the mirror, he thought of his dream. And what might have happened if he'd stayed asleep longer. Maybe your hand would wander further up his thigh, and then...

He lathered up his fist and took hold of himself. He was already hard from just the thought of you. Your sundress looked so damn flimsy. He could probably yank it off you with just one hand.

He groaned, his forehead pressed against the tile. Picturing your hand dwarfed by his when you shook on the sale; how soft your skin was, how good it would feel if you touched him just like this.

'Fucking yourself like a dog at the thought of her.'

He agreed. You really were turning him into a dog.

You were sitting in your living room, trying and failing to read your novel, when he knocked on your front window. You struggled to smooth down your hair while you scrambled for the door.

"Hi Colt! Came to pick up your Jeep?"

He was wearing blue jeans again today, with a tight wife beater that showed off arms thick with muscle.

"Yes ma'am. Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."

That made you smile. How often does someone go out of their way to check up on a stranger?

"I don't think so. But I've got some fresh orange juice and donuts, if you'd like to come in."

He smiled at you and for a second his gaze dipped down past your chin. "There's nothing I'd like better."

He took up a lot of space at your kitchen table, but you found it comforting. The room felt too big without your boyfriend to fill it.

You flipped open the box of donuts and he picked out the mint chocolate one.

"Never really liked the mint ones," he told you, "But I've got an awful craving for one right now."

"Oh I never liked them much either. It was my boyfriend who was the die-hard mint fan."

He looked away from you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It must be hard for you. Losing him so suddenly."

"It was. It is. Everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, but it hasn't. Up until last night, I dreamt about him everynight."

"Dreamt of him?" he asked you suddenly, his eyes intense.

"Yep. Every single night. It was like I was reliving my memories again and again."

He looked a bit perturbed at your statement, but you put it down to him feeling awkward about the conversation. Death is never a fun or casual topic.

"So how's Christine treating you?"

"Like a dream. I was thinking of taking her down the coast next weekend. All open road and sea air." He paused, seeming to weigh something up in his mind. "Why don't you join me? The morning after I take you out to dinner. We can pack a picnic and have lunch at the cape."

"That sounds incredible." You looked down at your hands, slightly uneasy but not sure why. Your boyfriend spoke about doing that once. A mini road trip with the windows down and the sea breeze in your hair.

It's not that strange that Colt had the same idea, right? Everyone knew the coast road was a long, quiet stretch. Perfect for putting Christine to the test.

"You're gonna love it," he said. "I'll even make my world famous tiramisu."

You raised a brow. "You know how to make tiramisu?" Big guy like him didn't really seem the patisserie type. Did he have a cute apron with bows on it too?

He pointed his donut at you, blue eyes twinkling. "Not just any tiramisu. World famous."

You snorted out a laugh and for the first time in months, you kitchen felt like a happy place.

He dreamt about you again that night. Christine was parked in a dark corner on the edge of a cliffside hiking trail. He could hear waves crashing far below. It was nighttime, with the full moon outlining your face in silver and shadow.

He was in the driver's seat and you were straddling his lap. You were wearing a sweater and a cute pleated skirt that seemed oh so short with the way you leaned over him.

"You've been ignoring me," you accused him. You were pouting in an adorably petulant way. He looked at your lips - red and slightly swollen - and knew that he'd just been kissing you.

"I haven't been ignorin' you sugar. I've just been busy."

He spoke with that same raspy voice that somehow wasn't his.

"Too busy to say hello or drop by for dinner?"

You shifted in his lap and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Oh, you damn tease.

"I'm filthy and tired after work sweetheart. You wouldn't want me."

You frowned, going from slightly annoyed to full blown angry.

"I always want you, you idiot. I'm not scared of a few stains. I like it when you come home smelling like the workshop. I like it when you're dirty from work." You tugged at his collar. "I like you. Why don't you get that?"

'Because you're too good for me.' He almost said it. It was on the tip of his tongue and it was only some dull instinct that kept him quiet. How couldn't you see it? You were everything he wasn't. You were educated and kind and selfless. He was just some bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wanted to impress you. He wanted to be worthy of you. Fixing up the Mustang was just the start of it. He didn't care that it took him all summer and pretty much all of his pay cheque to do. He wanted a ride that he would be proud to pick you up in.

And it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough.

He looked away from you and stayed silent.

You sighed and brought your palms up to his cheeks, gently turned his face back to yours. "I like you. I'm dating you. I want to spend time with you, no matter how grouchy you are. Okay?"

He should be a gentleman and let you go, shouldn't take advantage of your kindness. He should be a good man.

"Okay," he said and leaned forward to kiss you.

He wasn't a good man. He wasn't a gentleman. He was going to hold onto you for as long as he could.

Colt woke up with a snarl, slamming his fist on his alarm so hard the clock face cracked.

"I didn't want it to end, goddammit."

He rubbed his hand over his face. The dream felt so real. He could feel the late fall chill, could smell your shampoo and taste your cherry lip gloss. He wanted to go right back to sleep and fall back into that wonderful fantasy.

He scowled and threw the covers off. Dreams could wait, work couldn't.

All through the day he was snappish and irritable. One of the apprentices messed up an order and he snarled at them to stop being so fucking useless and fix it. His coworkers shot each other looks behind his back. He was behaving entirely out of character but both him and his buddies were helpless to stop it. It was only when he got home at the end of his shift that he realised why.

He wanted to dream about you again.

There wasn't any guarantee that he would. Dreams weren't exactly scheduled network programming. But somehow he knew it would happen.

He ended up going to bed before eight, a world record for someone who usually only considered sleeping when it was well past midnight.

He was right. He did dream of you.

You were in a bikini this time, lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard. You had sunglasses on and there was a slight sheen of baby oil on your skin. Your phone was on shuffle and pop music was blaring from the speakers.

You weren't expecting him and he kept his steps real quiet as he approached you. He kept expecting you to hear him and shoot up, and he was slightly annoyed when you didn't. What if he was a serial killer or some sick pervert, sneaking up on you while you were so vulnerable? Did you have no spatial awareness?

He made it all the way to the back of your chair and you were still totally oblivious. There was a magazine and a glass of ice tea on a small table next to you. You were softly humming along to the music.

He took a minute to just admire you. Your body stretched out and entirely at his mercy. His girl, his gorgeous girl.

He leaned down until his lips were right next to your ear.

"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"

You shot up with a shriek, your sunglasses flying. You whirled on him, grabbing your magazine like thirty pages of glossy Cosmo was going to help you fight off an attacker.

Your eyes narrowed when you recognised him and you smacked his chest, hard.

"You asshole! You gave me a heart attack!"

He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you so riled up.

"You're lucky it was me and not someone else. Not everyone has such noble intentions."

"Yeah right. Was it your noble intention to scare the living daylights out of me?"

He held up his palms in a placating gesture. "Just teachin' you a lesson sweetheart. I was standing there for a good few minutes and you didn't notice a damn thing."

He cast a critical eye across your backyard. "I reckon some high wooden fencing would do the trick. 'Bout seven feet high, sunken flowerbeds on either side like trenches to make it even harder to get a leg up."

"I don't want a fence."

He ignored you, already mentally calculating how much lumber he'd need. "A nice light coloured wood. Pine maybe. Will match your house much better."

You sat back down, the fight draining out of you as your adrenaline dissipated. "What are you doing here? Did you get off work early?"

He narrowed his eyes but you didn't seem to notice. "Why? Don't want me around?"

That shocked you enough that you twisted around in your chair to look at him.

"Of course I want you around! Don't ever imply otherwise. This is a lovely surprise." You paused. "Near heart attack aside of course."

It was funny how easily you could calm him down. One sentence was all it took to get him smiling again. He leaned forward and hooked one finger under the strap of your bikini top.

"I haven't seen this one before. New?"

You blushed and looked down. "Mm-hmm."

"It's cute. But..."

You glanced up at him, suddenly self conscious. "But what?"

He grinned wolfishly. "But...you would look so much better without it."

He tugged at the bow holding your top up. The strings unravelled and fell down your back. The bra cups started to slip down too, and his eyes were glued to their steady fall.

He was going to teach you a whole 'nother lesson about wearing such a skimpy outfit where anyone could see you. Show you exactly what sick, twisted bastards would do to your body. Teach you a lesson you won't forget, so maybe, just maybe... you'd learn to be more cautious around men like him.

Colt woke up with a hunger like death. His cock so hard it was actually throbbing. He didn't feel well rested, despite having slept more than he had in two weeks.

It played over and over again in his mind. The strings unravelling, your bikini top sliding off... Always stopping right at the good part, the part he most wanted to see.

He got ready for the day with a savage efficiency. Bolting back his protein shake without even tasting it. He didn't realise it, but he'd started counting down the days until he could see you again. Just two more days. Two more nights of dreams and then you'd be there in the flesh and he could finally - finally what? He shook his head to clear away the dirty thoughts that were crowding him.

He was being a real bastard. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, when he had no right to. You hadn't shown any romantic or physical interest in him. You were clearly still grieving your man. He needed to get himself under control - what you needed in your life was a friend, not another man to obsess over you.

He forced himself to take a cold shower. Forced himself to avoid thinking about you. And to especially avoid thinking about the you from his dream.

'Good luck with that buddy. I used to be so tired I was falling asleep on my feet and I still couldn't get her out of my head.'

Work was thankfully busy that day and he threw himself into it with every feverish ounce of energy he had. Whenever his thoughts wandered towards you, he would find something else to do. He didn't eat anything at all and he didn't even notice getting hungry. He took on an extra shift and finished long after the sun went down, his muscles a hurting mess and his head not much better.

Christine was the last car left in the parking lot, sitting under a streetlight like she was waiting for him. He found his steps unintentionally getting slower the closer he came to her.

In the dark and lonely emptiness of the parking lot, she didn't feel like a normal car. If anything, she seemed to be watching him. Her headlights like eyes and her grille a silvery gash of a smile.

If he had to guess, he'd say the car was almost unhappy with him.

"Because I'm thinking about her?" He asked as he climbed behind the wheel. Immediately, he felt stupid and superstitious for talking out loud.

'Because you aren't thinking about her.'

He'd driven Christine to work the last few days despite not wanting to cause unnecessary wear and tear. Being in the car, driving it, was still a thrill.

Not tonight though.

He felt on edge, wanting to get out as soon as possible. She purred to life with the same thrumming power as always but his throat was tight with a nervousness he couldn't explain.

The inside of the car was suffocatingly quiet. He turned on the radio and old school rock 'n roll poured out.

'Just the sort of thing her boyfriend used to listen to,' he thought to himself. And then he laughed a stuttering, barking sort of laugh because there was no logical way he could have known that.

'Take it easy big guy. You and I are just gonna cruise. That's all.'

A nice cruise. Yeah, that sounded good. Calm his nerves, get rid of the nameless dread that was building all day. He relaxed into his seat, the streetlights crawling past in a hypnotic line of bright and dark.

He didn't notice when the radio dial moved on its own and the station changed from rock 'n roll to country. The singer sounded awfully familiar. His voice a kind of husky rasp. He was singing about his girl, his pretty woman, and he was singing about the grave and he was singing about the dark that waited.

'Oh,' he thought to himself dully, 'That's the voice I keep hearing in my dreams.'

When he finally reached home, it was two in the morning and the petrol gauge showed an empty tank. He'd somehow driven enough to eat through a full tank of gas. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took five hours.

He got out of the car on legs that felt numb and cold. He couldn't remember driving. He couldn't remember the strange music or the even stranger passenger that rode with him. In his mind, there existed the clear cut memory of leaving work and climbing into Christine. Then there was nothing but a long, grey blankness that was tinged with a muted terror.

He collapsed into bed still in his work clothes. By morning, his mind would have stitched over all those things too terrible to contemplate. He would wake up feeling groggy and confused, and probably put it down to the strain of a long day.

Colt slept after driving with the dead and didn't dream.

On the day before your date, he found an engagement ring under the passenger side carpet.

He had no reason to look there, no reason to pull the carpet up by its seams. But he did it anyway and his reward was a silver and diamond band with blood dried in the crevices. There was an engraving on the inside and he had to take it out into the sun to try and read it.

'Mine. Forever and always.'

He shivered despite standing in the bright midmorming sun. Most rings would say 'yours' instead of 'mine.' He had no doubt that the change was entirely intentional. Your boyfriend was staking his claim on you - not just with the ring but with the intention behind it.

He looked at the brownish red stains and knew in his heart they were blood. Your boyfriend's blood.

Colt didn't know how the man died, but looking at the ring, he felt sure that it was bloody and far from natural. How would a blood stained ring end up in Christine? If the guy had been in accident sure. But the car was in perfect condition. The ring shouldn't have been there.

Unless he was murdered. Soaked in blood and tossed around during the struggle, the ring probably got pushed under the seam of the carpet. It was a sealed off spot and even a forensics team might miss something that small.

It was an outlandish and macabre theory to be basing entirely off one mysterious engagement ring. If he stopped to think about it, he would no doubt be able to poke a dozen separate holes into his theory.

Somehow, he knew it was true. The same way he suddenly knew Christine wasn't just an ordinary car and that his dreams about you were far from natural.

He felt a queer prickling all across his nape. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but this... This frightened him. He didn't feel alone anymore. He felt like if he looked up at the rear view mirror, he'd see someone in the back seat. No, not just someone. He'd see the dead man who owned the car before him.

He'd see the man who wanted to marry you.

He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. He wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't let fancies of ghosts and ghouls affect him. But even he couldn't deny the way he felt. His gut was telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He climbed out of Christine like a man scared of waking a sleeping bear. He didn't even bother to grab the keys.

He couldn't explain any of it. Not the dreams, not the thoughts that felt like someone else, not the prickling certainty that a man died right where he'd been sitting.

He got into his his Jeep and pulled out of the driveway, his eyes on Christine the entire time. Like she'd somehow roar to life and slam into him.

He didn't know where he was driving to until he parked. A bar across town, a real rough spot that on most days even he wouldn't want to stop at. But today wasn't like most days.

The place was dark and the folk sitting around weren't exactly the friendly sort. He settled at the bar and ordered a tequila without really thinking about it.

Funny. He used to hate tequila.

It went down like fire, and he shuddered. He wanted to laugh. What else was a mam supposed to drink when the world didn't make a lick of sense anymore?

"Give me another one." His voice was raspier somehow. Even though that never happened when he drank vodka or whiskey.

There were mirrored shelves opposite him and he caught sight of his eyes. A pale green. He tossed back his second shot and tried to tell himself it was just a trick of the light.

He wasn't sure who to talk to. Not the Sheriff's Office. Yeah officer, there was a man murdered in my car and now I can't stop dreaming about his girlfriend didn't exactly scream unimpeachable sobriety.

And not the pastor either. Father, I'm being haunted by filthy thoughts and I'm not sure if they're my own. He doubted the old man at his mother's church was qualified to deal with that sort of thing.

But he couldn't keep quiet either. He had to tell someone about it. If they called him crazy at least it was an acknowledgement. At least it was better than being dead drunk and being scared of his own eyes in the mirror.

Who could possibly know anything about it? Oh. Of course.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and almost threw it across the room when it wouldn't turn on. He charged it every night, goddammit.

"There a pay phone somewhere 'round here?" he asked the bartender.

The man jerked his face at the side door that lead to the back parking lot. Colt stumbled out - swaying on his feet far worse than two drinks should warrant.

It was late afternoon. He shaded his eyes and tried looked at the sun like it was deliberately lying to him. He arrived at midday and he couldn't have been in there for more than twenty minutes. How the hell was it this late?

'Time moves differently when you're dead cowboy. You should know that by now.'

The payphone was in the shadow of the bar and he shivered when he stepped out of the sun. Wrong. It was all wrong and he didn't know how to fix it. Why was the voice still in his head when Christine was all the way across town? Why did he still feel life he wasn't quiet alone?

It was only when he had the receiver up against his ear that he realised he didn't know your number. Shit.

He leaned his forearm against the payphone and rested his forehead against it. Could he maybe get a taxi and show up at your house? He scoffed. Yeah, that would go well. Showing up dead drunk just to say he knew you liked short skirts in fall and that he dreamed of pulling off your bikini top. He'd be lucky if you only mildly tazed him.

Fuck. Okay. Home again. Sleep it off. Charge his phone. Call you in the morning and try not to sound too crazy. He could manage that.

He called the taxi company listed in the phone book. Half wondering if they were still in operation. When it finally connected, the call was thick with static.

"Yeah?" The man's voice was raspy and standoffish.

"Can I get a cab at Ronnie's on Westside?"

The man laughed. "Oh you must be a real tough customer to be drinking there. Didn't think you'd have the balls cowboy."

Colt wanted to cuss him out. What kind of fucker answers the phone and insults you less than two sentences in? He squeezed the receiver until he felt he could control his voice.

"Yeah. I'm a real mean guy. So can I get my cab or not?"

"Oh, I'll send you a ride alright." There was a mocking tilt to his voice. "Best fucking ride you'll ever take. Just sit pretty. You'll know when it's for you."

The skin on the back of his neck crawled. He hung up without another word.

The streetlights were coming on and the gold of sunset was giving way to the awful in-between greyness of twilight. He waited for his ride.

You came home to find flowers on your doorstep. A bouquet of white roses. You froze. There was only one man who sent you flowers and he was cold and dead for the better part of a year.

You picked the card up by the edge and flicked it open.

Hope you didn't forget our date. See you soon dollface.

-Colt

Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.

Dinner tomorrow night with the cowboy. You took the roses inside and hunted around for a vase. Was it actually a date? He'd said it was a thank you dinner, but it wouldn't hurt to dress up a little. Do your makeup a bit fancy, maybe wear your new heels. It'd been months since you'd gone out, had a nice dinner with a friend. This could be good for you. Just one more step back into normalcy.

The clouds were starting to gather and as evening came on, they broke with a shudder of thunder.

You curled up on your couch, all the lights on. It was going to be a bad storm. The first really awful one in almost half a year. You tried not to, but it got you thinking about that night. The night your boyfriend proposed to you. The night you killed him.

You closed your eyes and tried not to see it, but the memories followed you even past the darkness. You couldn't run from them for long.

It was cold outside, rain drumming on Christine's roof. Sharp, constant. Your boyfriend was in the driver's seat, buckling his belt. A lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.

You liked it when he looked at you like that. Satisfied. Mellow. It never lasted long, but in the few minutes after fucking you, he would agree to just about anything.

"I'm drunk on you baby," he'd said once. "Heads all woozy. Would do anything for you. Fucking anything."

Christine's windows were all fogged up, and you traced little hearts on the glass. To be honest, you felt a little drunk on him too. Heart still pounding, head reeling. Cunt still fluttering and full. He was so good at reading you, at fucking you just how you needed it. No man before him could make you come so hard, or do it so easy.

"I got something to ask you, baby."

You turned to him, hand reaching out for his and pulling it into your lap.

"Yes?"

He rubbed a thumb across your knuckles. He wasn't looking at your face, just down at your interlinked hands.

"You're my girl, yeah?"

"Obviously. I love you."

"And you ain't going to leave me?"

"Never."

He sighed. Managed to raise his eyes to meet yours. You weren't used to seeing him nervous. Usually he'd just bull doze his way through a conversation, not stopping until he got what he wanted. This was...new. It made a whole new crop of butterflies start up in your stomach.

"Will you marry me?"

You froze. What? Where was this coming from? You loved him. You cared about him. But marriage? That was such a big step. Such a grown up thing.

"I've got money put away. And Christine. I can put a deposit down on a house by the end of the month. Can pay for a nice wedding too. All white and frilly, like you want."

"I..."

"You don't got to worry 'bout your student loans neither. We can pay 'em off a whole lot faster if we're together. You can even go back to school if you want. Get that second degree you're always talking about."

"I...can't."

You pulled your hands away from his. Looked away from him.

"I love you. I really do. But it's too...much. We're too young. I... I just don't want to rush into things and make a mistake."

He was quiet. Awfully, dangerously quiet. His hand was still in your lap and you could feel when he clenched it into a fist.

"Is there another man?"

"What?"

You whirled to face him, suddenly angry. How could he even suggest...

"I haven't touched another man since the day you asked me out."

He wasn't smiling anymore. His green eyes were narrowed, mean.

"Who are you fucking? Which bastard is it? Huh?"

"No one! There's no one else. I just don't want to get married and make a -"

"Mistake? You think I'm a fucking mistake?"

You flinched. His voice was even louder in the closeness of the car. It made your ears throb.

His fist uncurled and he grabbed your hand, hard. Yanked you towards him so your upper body was sprawled across the gear shift.

"Was it a mistake to fuck me? A mistake to say you loved me?"

"No! That's not what I-"

He cut you off with a hand around your throat.

"You want to leave me. That it? You're going to fucking leave me?"

You pulled at his fingers with your free hand but it was useless. His grip was getting tighter the angrier he got. Your head felt all swollen, your nose and throat burning.

"Please just -"

"No! No fucking please. No changing your mind at the last minute. You ain't gonna be my girl? Ain't gonna be my wife?"

He pulled you towards his face, his lips barely brushing yours.

"If you won't be mine, then you'll just have to fucking die. It's me or no one else, baby. I told you that, all those months ago."

You scrambled for some way to get loose, but you were in an awkward position and he had all the leverage.

"I fucking warned you. I told you that if you dated me you couldn't ever leave. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. Hell, I was half in love before you even said hello. I tried. But you just didn't listen, did you?"

Your hand brushed something cold and metallic in the centre console. His switch blade. He usually kept it in his back pocket to help with work. Oh, and he kept it sharp. You grabbed it, more on instinct than anything else.

Your head was pounding and your heartbeat was pulsing in your ears. But the rain was somehow worse. Falling so loud you thought you'd never get the sound out of your head.

You tried to plead with him again, reason, beg, whatever it took. But when you tried to speak he just closed his fist even tighter and your words died in your throat with a shudder.

Oh god, he was really going to do it. He's eyes were wild, mad with something beyond reason. He'd seen reason in the rearview mirror about a hundred miles ago and now he was headed straight down the highway of fucking insanity.

How? How could the man you loved be choking the breath out of you?

Because he loves you. Because he'd rather see you dead than lose you. Because you were too damn blind with love to notice how dangerous he is.

White starbursts bloomed across your vision. Little fireworks to celebrate your brain dying.

You stabbed him.

You didn't fully mean to. You were half mad with fear, half dead in his grip. Not sure what you were doing until you felt the blood.

The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.

You didn't even pull it out. Just left it there and scrambled back when his grip on you loosened, your chest heaving. You throat and eyes and nose all felt swollen. Your lungs burned like fire.

He reached up and touched his neck. Looked down at his fingers like he couldn't believe the blood was his.

You might have tried to save him then. Might have come to your senses and called the ambulance, might have stripped off your shirt and tried to stop the bleeding.

But a knife in his throat apparently wasn't enough to stop him. He looked at you and there wasn't anything rational left in him. He reached for you again, hands curled like claws. He was dying and all he wanted to do was take you with him.

You screamed. So loud that it made your own ears ring.

You grabbed the knife and pulled. You didn't realise it was acting like a stopper until his blood splashed on you. Hot, stinking of metal. It sprayed across your face, got into your mouth and nose, soaked the whole front of your shirt.

You scrambled for the door handle and fell backwards out of the Mustang. Landed on your ass and pushed yourself away.

He was halfway over the passenger seat by then, hands still reaching, mouth pulled into an ugly snarl.

You kicked the door shut.

It slammed with a bang and mercifully blocked him from view. Your turned onto your knees, pushed yourself to your feet and ran.

The rain was coming down so fast that it stung your skin. You didn't rightly know where you were going. Only that it was away.

You still don't know how you made it home. You were a twenty minute drive away and it was too dark to see more than three feet in front of you. Must have been luck. Must have been fate.

When you got home, you were shaking so hard you couldn't even open the door for a good five minutes.

You stripped off your clothes right there on the doorstep and threw them in the trash. Switch blade too. You don't know how you managed to hold onto it during that wild, reckless run.

You took a long shower. Sat under the hot water with your knees curled to your chest. Too scared to cry.

At some point, the better part of your brain must have taken over. You vaguely remember burning the bloodstained clothes. Remember taking a drive and throwing the bleached switchblade out the window.

And when the call came a few days later, to please come down and identify a body, you were calm enough to not give yourself away.

If it was anyone else, maybe the cops would have tried harder. But your boyfriend was a rough man from the rough side of town. They gave you looks of sympathy but shook their heads behind your back.

Guy like him had it coming.

When it was all said and done, you and Christine were the only ones who knew the truth.

Colt waited all evening for a cab that never came. And when the storm started, he was annoyed enough to consider driving home on his own. He'd only had two shots. And that was a few hours ago. He'd be fine. Folk got away with worse all the time.

He left the bar with his jacket over his head and his eyes darting down the road. The rain was sheeting and he had to scramble to make it to his Jeep without getting totally soaked.

Wet and hungry and still a little drunk, Christine didn't seem like quite so big an issue. He was just jumping at ghosts. Tequila got his thoughts all twisted up, that's all.

Driving was miserable. Even with his headlights on bright and his wipers cranked all the way up, he was having real trouble seeing the road. The yellow line was the only thing he could properly rely on.

When the headlights showed up behind him, it took him a while to notice them getting closer.

"Guy's got a death wish, driving so fast in this weather."

The driver behind him was gaining quickly. Colt expected them to try and overtake, but they didn't. Just got closer and closer. A car's length away. And then half. And then almost kissing his bumper.

"Why is this dude so up my ass?"

He hit the gas, but the guy behind him didn't care. Just picked up and kept coming. Revved it a little and Colt could hear the engine even through the rain. Some kind of muscle car. A loud, growling thing.

Almost like a...Mustang.

His whole back suddenly felt icy. It couldn't be. Christine was back home, keys still in the ignition. Even if someone did steal her, why the fuck would they track him down? Must be another muscle car, with some ego tripping asshole behind the wheel.

He told himself all that and more, but his foot pressed harder on the gas.

And still the Mustang kept coming.

The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

Too fast for the narrow roads, and sure as hell too fast for a rainy night like this one.

A curve was coming up soon, the road ringed off with guard rails. He could see the reflectors glinting orange at him. Shit.

He took it wide, drifting into the opposite lane. He could feel his tires slipping a little and he hit the breaks just enough to steady the Jeep.

The Mustang didn't have any trouble with the curve. Stayed in its lane and gained a little more speed, so that when they were straight again, its hood was in line with his trunk.

Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.

He couldn't see the car clearly. The headlights were bouncing right off his side mirrors. He couldn't even make out the silhouette of the driver.

Screech.

The Mustang's hood scraped against the side of his Jeep. The whole car lurched to the side, tires slipping.

"Fuck!"

Colt gunned it again, trying to out race the mad man. But whoever was behind him had no intention of letting that happen. They kept pace with him, blocking him from getting back in his lane.

Lightning flashed and Colt looked in the mirror just in time to see the car properly.

The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.

The car trying to run him off the road was none other than the 1969 cherry red Mustang that should have been sitting in his yard. Maybe he could have accepted it as a coincidence. Someone else had the exact same car as him and just happened to be driving like an asshole. Maybe he could have accepted that.

But the car didn't have a driver.

He saw it clear as day. The lightning glared straight through all the windows and there wasn't a single person in that car.

Impossible. This can't be real. There's no fucking way.

He could almost hear the laugh.

'Do I got you scared cowboy?'

Colt didn't have time to answer. The road was merging into the cliffside, and the wall of rock kept him trapped. There were lights coming straight at him, the blaring of a horn as whoever it was tried to warn him.

He slammed hard on the brakes. Christine shot ahead and at the last second he managed to edge back into his lane. The headlights roared past, the huge semi exhaling a spray of water and smoke.

It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.

Christine's tail lights were a pair of glaring red eyes in the rain, until suddenly they weren't. Gone.

Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.

The rain was drumming on the roof and his hands were shaking. He got out of the car, water soaking through his shirt almost immediately.

The paint on the back door was scratched off in huge swathes. The metal was dented.

He climbed back behind the wheel, mind teetering on the edge of something past sanity. The world wasn't sane anymore. Nothing was.

He heard the growl of the Mustang through the rain. No headlights this time, just the whine of tires on slick tar.

Where?! Where was she?!

Christine slammed into the Jeep head on. All Colt saw was her red face and silver smile in the glare of his headlights before his whole world was filled with the grinding of steel on steel. His head slammed backwards, the whole car shuddering.

The airbags came on, blinding him.

Christine didn't stop after hitting him. He yanked the hand break up but she kept pushing forward, edging his car closer and closer to the edge. He felt it when the guard rail scratched against his bumper.

An ugly scream of metal, but the rails held. Christine didn't seem to like that. She pulled back, her tires shrieking as she got ready to slam forward again.

Colt jumped just before she hit the Jeep. His seat belt was almost the death of him. It wouldn't release and he couldn't see the catch in the dark. He must have had at least one lucky star though, because the door wasn't too mangled and he managed to kick it open just in time.

He landed hard, on his hands and knees.

Metal shrieked. Christine slammed into the Jeep hard enough to send it through the rails. He turned just in time to see his car go tilting off the road and down into the dark.

For a second, he thought he might have made it. Maybe she didn't notice him. Maybe it was all over.

Christine pulled back and her headlights washed over him, still on his hands and knees. One of the lights was hanging loose from the crash, making her look lopsided. The rain was still coming down hard and the droplets were gold in the light between them.

She revved.

Colt scrambled to his feet and ran straight for the guard rail. He jumped.

It wasn't a sheer drop. It was instead a steep slope, thick with shale and slippery with water. His knees buckled under him and he ended up on his back, half rolling and half sliding down the embankment. His palms were bleeding and as he fell, the gravel lodged itself in his open skin.

He couldn't see where he was headed. Could only try and and protect his head and brace for impact.

His slide ended with a boulder. He slammed into it his ribs first. Heard a crack before all the air was knocked straight out of him.

He could see the headlights way up above him, cutting through the rain.

At least she can't follow me down here.

True. Christine couldn't follow him.

But that's when Colt saw him. The driver. Coming to stand in front of the headlights, the silhouette of a man.

The silhouette stepped through the gash in the railing left by the Jeep and dropped out of the light.

Colt knew he should run. He could hear the shale slipping as the other man came down. Controlled. Measured. Nothing like his own tumble.

But he couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing sent sharp spikes of pain all across his chest.

"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."

The voice was low and raspy, mean. He knew that voice. Had been hearing it in his head and in his dreams and was fool enough to think it was his own.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. He could just about see the stranger. Tall, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There was dirt thick on his boots, in the folds of his clothes. Not the black shale of the slope, but a reddish clay.

Kind of like in the cemetery.

No, he realised as the stranger squated down in front of him. Exactly like the cemetery. It was grave dirt he was seeing.

He was looking at a dead man.

The stranger might have been handsome once, but now one cheek was filled with holes. Ugly, clustered together things that showed his teeth. His other cheek was a mass of white. Worms, tiny little worms wriggling in and out of his face.

Colt wanted to scream. And vomit. And then scream some more.

There was a dark hole in the stranger's neck and when he moved it oozed a sticky, thick kind of blood.

"You know why I'm here?"

Colt didn't really notice it at first, but his voice was different. Thicker somehow. Like his vocal cords were packed full of dirt and blood.

Colt coughed and his whole chest hurt so bad he thought he was dying. Something was definitely broken. He'd be lucky if there wasn't internal bleeding too.

"Let me guess. Came to punish me for my sins?"

The dead man laughed.

"Not yours, no. Don't give much of a damn about you. I'm here to get what's mine."

The pieces were clicking together in his head.

"Your girl."

"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.

He reached for him, the nails on his hand either blue or totally ripped off. His skin filled with holes that showed pale white tendons and ugly pink flesh.

That was when the adrenaline really kicked in. Colt shoved at the man with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. It was like touching a carcass at the butcher. Cold. Limp. Just a piece of meat. No human should ever have to feel a body in that state.

He made it to his knees before the bastard hit back. Your boyfriend kicked straight at his jaw and Colt's head flew backward, smashed into the rock behind him. He dropped back down like a stone.

"Why you gotta be so fucking difficult, hmm?"

Colt was too out of it to pull away. The man reached for him and the skin of his hand was crawling with bugs. He grabbed his collar and dragged him up.

"Just gonna go to sleep for a little while cowboy. Maybe you'll wake up. Maybe you won't. Either way, I've waited too fucking long to let this chance go."

The corpse kissed him. Or more accurately, pressed his open lips against his and breathed.

His lips were cold and stiff and utterly beyond human. The taste was rancid. Worse than the worst thing he'd ever had. Metallic like blood, sweet like rotted meat.

Colt fainted.

The rain drummed down. Christine sat on the roadside and waited, her hood and paintwork back to normal. In bed, you tossed and turned in the hands of a nightmare.

The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.

It was your phone that woke you up. Your ringtone blasting even through your dreams.

You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.

"Hello?"

The call was thick with static. Still, you recognised the voice. Would know it even from beyond the grave.

"Hey beautiful. Did ya miss me?" 

[beliscary]

[nick sayre voice] that's why you should come with me to corvere. put off that fear of the future

[httpsserene]

𝟏-𝟖𝟎𝟎-𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏-𝐌𝐄-𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 - 𝐜𝐥. 𝟏𝟔

summary: fans notice that charles’ cars are suddenly being parked perfectly. come to find out, his (secret) girlfriend has been parking his ferrari like butter.

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!poc!reader

smau (ignore dates on tweets pls). fluff & humor. explicit language. two or three uses of "y/n." charles’ canonically questionable parking. reader goes undercover on f1twt. charles gets cyberbullied /jk? secret agent roleplay? (don't ask, it'll make sense, maybe). big thx to the girlies on twt who had threads of charles' bad parking photos ;p

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚ this is like mid-level charles leclerc stan knowledge. bro put all of his skill points into racepace and forgot about parking his daily cars 😭 enjoy reading, my loves xxx

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instagram • f1fanpagemonaco

liked by arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, joris__trouche, and 34,785 others

f1fanpagemonaco the planets must be in alignment because charles leclerc has perfectly parked his ferrari this afternoon 😱

tagged charles_leclerc

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user1 i-i can't believe my eyes 😧

user2 it's only taken him a decade to learn how to parallel park LOL

user3 monaco native here! can confirm- his cars have decreased cosplaying as road obstructions for about three months :)

user4 THREE MONTHS ??!!? how is this the first time i'm hearing about this ???

user5 i don't believe this. did anybody SEE him park the car 🤨🤨🤨

user6 we're going to find out this photo was ai generated in a couple weeks haha

user7 take this down !!! we're supposed to keep this on the dl to avoid jinxing ourselves 🤬

user8 fr, i thought every monegasque was in agreement about staying hushed :(

user9 after almost flying over the hood of his cars TWICE on my bicycle- i'm glad that he's improving his parking skills ☺️

user9 HIS BROTHERS AND FRIENDS IN THE LIKES IS EVEN CRAZIER??! CHARLES STAND UP FOR YOURSELF ⁉️⁉️

user8 didn't you just say that you almost crashed into his (badly) parked car in the comment above ? user9 i fail to see how that's relevant rn

user10 charles woke up saying "i understand it now" and performed the best parallel parking known to man

user11 y'all are getting ahead of yourselves. there's a very high chance that it was valet parking 🙄

user5 this is what i'm saying!!! user12 lol what if he decided to hire a private driver 🤣 user13 charles would neverrrrr—remember how he acted on the start-stop challenge we Carlos 👀 user14 he DOES NOT serve passenger princess ☠️

twitter

imessage • charles -> yn

twitter • @ cl16sleftnipple -> yn's undercover fan acct

imessage • yn -> charles

igstory • charles_leclerc has uploaded !

[caption; she accepts watching sunsets on a yacht as a form of payment 😉]

this story is unavailable. get notifications when charles_leclerc shares a story.

igstory • yninstagram has uploaded to their close friends story !

[caption; if anyone is looking for a chauffeur call me at 1-800-HELP-ME-PARK 😅]

franciscacgomes u have to take me on a joyride the next time i'm in monaco !!!

yninstagram yes! we'll ditch the boys for the day and collect some speeding tickets with the stradale ;p

yourfriend do you do weddings 👀

yninstagram weddings, birthdays, bachelor & bachelorette parties, etc. yourfriend how much do you charge? yninstagram 4 cheeseburger

charles_leclerc i thought i hired you for your exclusivity 😑

yninstagram shh mon amour you'll always be my favorite client xoxo

olliebearman if i get him for secret santa next year, i'm gifting him parking lessons 😆

yninstagram you'd be my favorite child if you did 🛐 olliebearman :DDD

instagram • f1fanpagemonaco

liked by arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, joris__trouche, and 34,785 others

f1fanpagemonaco charles leclerc posts and deletes a photo of an unknown woman to his instagram story in the midst of a rampant discussion of his suddenly improved parking! it's captioned: "she accepts watching sunsets on a yacht as a form of payment." was this an accidental post of the rumored chauffeur that's behind the perfect parking of his vehicles?

tagged charles_leclerc

view comments

user17 the winky face emoji is making me think she's more than just his chauffeur 👀👀👀

user18 we really do need to open the schools :/

user19 bc how do you read the caption and not see that it's blatant confirmation that he's hired a driver?

user20 i don't even have to see behind that champagne flute to know that she's a baddie 😮‍💨

user21 now that i think about it, i think i saw a woman with this exact outfit walking a dachshund that could’ve been leo!!! wish we could see more of her face to confirm ☹️

user22 does anybody else think that this was just meant to distract us from the original issue of charles being unable to park a car???

user23 talk about it!!! user24 i mean it doesn't really matter if he can park anymore now that he's paying somebody to do it for him 🤷‍♀️

twitter • @ cl16sleftnipple -> yn's undercover fan acct

imessage • yn -> charles

instagram • f1fanpagemonaco

liked by arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, joris__trouche, and 34,785 others

f1fanpagemonaco the plot thickens 😱 the woman rumored to be charles leclerc's chauffer was caught parking his car and taking a photo afterward! this confirms her chauffeur status AND leads many to think that she's also the woman behind @/cl16sleftnipple on twitter. our discord members have hunted down what may be her instagram account too 🧐

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user25 why do i feel so violated!!! his chauffeur has been a double agent the entire time 🤯

user26 tbh charles better be paying her beautifully !!!

user27 iktr bc i would not try to convince everybody on the internet that he can park when it's really me doing all the work!

user28 i think i'm in love with her

user29 who is this diva 💜

user30 next thing you know we're gonna find out she has a tumblr for f1 ff's 😭😭😭

user31 i think somebody is leaking the plot to the next trending netflix original movie 👄

user32 lwk i think i could convince her to drive me around in my prius 🤥

user33 you forget how to speak around hot women and only have $12.32 in your checking acct—you couldn't even convince her to breathe the same air as you bestie 😘 user32 i know you like to think that calling me bestie after reading me to filth will make up for it, but it just makes me want to strangle you even more :)

instagram • charles_leclerc

liked by arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, joris__trouche, and 34,785 others

charles_leclerc if you're going to reveal who cl16sleftnipple is, at least get her job title correct 😠 she's not my chauffeur, she's my girlfriend and parking princess 👸🏾🤗😘🥰🤭🤤😚

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yninstagram can you believe that he doesn't like when i drive but he BEGS me to park ??? make it make sense 😅

charles_leclerc ma chérie you REFUSE to use the break pedal!!! yninstagram break pedals are 4 losers (i am speed 🏎)

user35 GIRLFRIEND???!!! 😵‍💫😵👻

user36 when you say girlfriend, do you mean that she's a friend who happens to be a girl orrrrrrrrrr?

charles_leclerc orrrrr girlfriend meaning l'amour de ma vie 🥰🥰🥰

user37 two pretty people in a happy relationship? 2025 isn't so bad 😌

user36 maybe the world is healing 🥹 user37 maybe charles leclerc wdc 2025 🫣 yninstagram pls don't jinx it 😩 go knock on wood rn 🫵🏾

user38 why did she go with "cl16sleftnipple" as her username???

yninstagram because it's my favorite one obv 😇 charles_leclerc what's wrong with my right nipple :(((( yninstagram idk it just looks at me weird sometimes... user38 how does a body part look at you weirdly 😀

user39 oh, this baddie is weird? say less, i'm sending her my credit card information rn

user40 charles leclerc core LMFAOOO

user41 waiiiiitttt does this mean she's not gonna use her fan acct anymore :(

user42 aw man i didn't even think about that; i was constantly on twt just to see what funny shit she was saying lol yninstagram if the people want more of cl16sleftnipple who am i to deny them 😌👐🏾

instagram • yninstagram

liked by arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, joris__trouche, and 34,785 others

yninstagram AITA for saving the citizens of monaco by parking my (25 F) boyfriend's (27 M) cars for him because he's incapable of fitting within two lines without being a road hazard?

comments on this post have been limited

yourfriend TLDR: she lost the plot by starting a fan twt to try and save her bf's reputation (who's notoriously known for his shit parking) it backfired bc everybody thought she was his chauffeur

yourfriend (cont.) now charles has to suffer with the world knowing that he has his gf position his cars AND that he still can't park charles_leclerc this wasn't necessary 😒 yourfriend is that what you said when it was time to learn how to parallel park ☠️

lilymhe reminds me of the time charles blocked traffic picking you up from brunch last year 😆

franciscacgomes i remember when the honks started and yn was like "oh, that probably means charles is here!" lilyzneimer first brunch i went to with the wags and i left with tinnitus from the sound of car horns blaring 🥲 yninstagram sorry little lily! next meet up will be honk free :) yninstagram ...was v embarrassing to get into the car that's blocking traffic 🫠

oscarpiastri NTA 👍🏻

oscarpiastri is now a good time to say that charles almost backed his car into me before padel yesterday? charles_leclerc NO IT WILL NEVER BE A GOOD TIME TO SAY THAT yninstagram mb the electric scooter wasn't such a bad idea…

maxverstappen1 NTA 😹😹😹

lando thinking about how much money charles loses to parking fines 🤣

olliebearman not to pray on his downfall but

olliebearman when his license gets suspended can i get the spider 🥺 arthurleclerc NUH UH 🙅🏻‍♂️ i get the spider and you get the sf90 oscarpiastri i'll take the daytona then 👍🏻 pierregasly i think i can make room for the roma 😌 charles_leclerc yeah this isn't praying, it's PLANNING on my downfall 😒😒😒

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© httpsserene — do not reupload. photos used in header and throughout are from pinterest.

[atomicami]

while my heart heals…

ceo!sevika x fem!reader

- summary: you’re in a whirlwind when you and your boss catch your boyfriend with her fiancée in the act together. the heartbreak starts to affect your performance at work, and as a result, you decide to take a leave of absence so you can heal properly. but when your boss catches you handing the letter onto her desk, she ends up giving you some unexpected comfort—followed by a proper farewell.

- content: smut MDNI, modern au, corporate setting, NYC living (for now), reader works in sales, reader is dating jayce (only in the beginning), mel and sevika are engaged, age gap (reader is early-mid 20s, sevika is early-mid 40s), secret love affairs, infidelity/cheating followed by breaking up, hurt/comfort, porn with plot, fingering (r!receiving), semi-public sex (they do it in the office!), sevika being a tease and talking you through it, cockblocking, and also everyone is filthy rich in this

- author’s note: can’t stop thinking about getting with rich ceo sevika so i decided to write this out. i hope y’all like it!

“sometimes i don’t even know where i’m going but i’ll never forget where i come from i know who i am and who i will be and that’s why i have faith in myself”

(this fic is crossposted on ao3)

The rain hasn’t let up all day.

Thick, gray clouds spread across the sky, the city being consumed by the downpour. You barely notice it, though—your mind is still at the office, stuck between unfinished paperwork and the weight of another long day.

You’d expect to be home after your shift, and you did…only to end up getting ready to leave the house again later that evening.

It was for some corporate event. A birthday celebration for an executive, or was it a fundraiser? You hadn’t paid much attention to it when it was brought up in last week’s meeting. Frankly, it was the last thing you’d want to be doing after a long workday like this.

And yet, here you are—back home, standing in front of the mirror, completely unaware of what the night has in store.

You’ve lost count of the outfit changes you’ve given yourself in the past hour. No one really specified what the dress code was for the event—so in the end, you simply resorted to a crimson piece that hung in your closet, blended in with the rest of your outfits.

The dress hugs your figure beautifully. It was sleek and elegant, but you barely feel like yourself in it. It’s not like you don’t like dressing up—on the contrary, you actually enjoy it, especially given that your clothes have now taken up space on your boyfriend’s side of the closet as well. But with the weight of today and this entire week overall, the exhaustion consuming you was making it harder to pretend that you want to be at this party at all.

Your phone buzzes beside you, the text message from Jayce lighting up the screen indicating that he was here.

You exhale through your nose, finishing the touches on your makeup before smoothing down the fabric of your dress. It’s not that anything’s wrong. Jayce has been nothing but kind and thoughtful to you. He’s said all the right things and treated you like royalty for the past two years of your relationship with him. But lately, there’s been something…off. Something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You shake the thought of it away, grabbing your coat and clutch before heading out the door. It’s just one night, right?

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It was only a ten minute ride to the hotel, but for some reason you felt like the ride dragged out longer. Maybe it was because of the downpour of rain, or the evening traffic, as it always is in New York—or maybe it was just your lingering anxieties about showing up to an event like this. As the top saleswoman in Hexcorp, and now the girlfriend to one of the CEOs, you can’t help but feel the pressure of having to make the best impression all the time.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the valet opens the car door for you, and Jayce steps out first, immediately offering you his hand as if he’s effortlessly playing the part of a perfect gentleman. You force a small smile and take his hand, stepping carefully onto the slick pavement as the two of you walk through the revolving door.

The inside of the hotel is a stark contrast to the gloom outside. It was elegant, with warm golden lights, crystal chandeliers, and the soft hum of music on the piano surrounding you the moment you entered. The air is thick with chatter and laughter as well dressed attendees mingle around with cocktails in hand. 

Jayce keeps a steady hand on the small of your back as you both make your way deeper into the crowd, guiding you toward familiar faces. His touch is warm, but something about it feels…off. Too careful. Too practiced.

“Should we grab a drink?” he asks, yet he is already steering you towards the bar. You nod at his offer anyway, but your eyes wander.

And then you see her—your other boss.

Sevika.

Tall, broad, and impossible to miss, even in a room full of elites. She’s right across the bar, her suit tailored to perfection—coincidentally, it also was crimson, the same shade as your dress. The deep red fabric molds to her muscular frame, sharp lines hugging her body in all the right places. The top button of her shirt is undone, just enough to tease what lies underneath, and her posture is relaxed as ever, radiating effortless control. Her prosthetic arm gleams under the soft light, the intricate metal plating a sharp contrast to the rich fabric of her suit.

But she’s not alone.

Standing beside her is her fiancée, Mel Medarda.

But she doesn’t just stand there—she owns the space around her. A beautiful vision draped in a sleek, skin tight white gown that hugs her curves as if it were painted on. Gold jewelry glitters around her neck, and her perfectly manicured fingers rest lightly on Sevika’s arm in primal possession. And she sure doesn’t fail to show off the ring—a massive, dazzling marquise cut diamond perched proudly on her ring finger, glistening under the lights. Her skin glows alongside it, her rich brown complexion flawless, and her signature smirk tugs at the corners of her lips as if she knows every single person in the room is looking at her. As if she knows you’re looking at her.

That’s Mel Medarda for you. International supermodel. A walking fantasy who managed to get engaged with Sevika.

Your stomach twists, and you force yourself to look away before either of them can catch you staring. But your eyes betray you.

Because they find their way back to Sevika and Mel.

And Sevika?

She’s already looking at you.

You’re quick to pull your gaze away from Sevika’s, heart pounding a little harder than it should be. You’re not sure how long you’ve been staring, but the tension lingers in the air long after you look away. 

A familiar hand wraps around yours, fully pulling you out of your thoughts as you look back up to see Jayce nudging a glass of champagne into your hand. “Come on, let’s make the rounds.” he urges gently.

You nod with a distracted smile as you take the glass of champagne and follow alongside him, but the memory of Sevika’s striking gray eyes on you stays in the back of your mind.

An hour passes, but you feel like you’ve been here for an eternity already. You’re forcing yourself to smile as one of your coworkers goes on about the latest sales report. You’ve been hearing about it for the past hour, but you’re barely listening. Your mind keeps drifting back to when you first saw Sevika and Mel at the bar. Something about the way Sevika’s eyes lingered on you still makes your heart race.

“Great numbers this quarter,” your coworker continues, pulling you back to reality. “You’ve really outdone yourself with the new client investment. They’re already asking about you by name.”

You nod absently, pretending to care as your eyes scan the around room for any sign of Jayce. He’d been glued to your side all evening, but now you can’t seem to find him at all.

“Thank you,” you say, shaking them off politely. “I’ll follow up with the clients about it tomorrow.”

They simply smile back before walking off to engage with another coworker. You take another sip of your champagne as your eyes continue to search the room. Your attention shifts as you overhear another conversation between two other coworkers near the bar, talking about next quarter’s sales targets. As the company’s top saleswoman, you’re used to these conversations being centered around you. They look over at you with admiration, always taking mental notes on your strategies and approach.

“She really knows how to close a deal.” one of them says. “She’s a shark.”

The compliment barely registers in your head. All you could do was smile, too distracted by the fact that Jayce was nowhere to be seen.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, sliding past them as you start to brush through the crowd.

The search feels longer than it actually is. You weave through the crowd, giving polite smiles and dodging conversations as you slip through groups of colleagues and executives. The music and laughter fill the air, but none of it gets to you. Your mind is fixated on one thing—finding where the hell your boyfriend is.

You try to be in denial about it, telling yourself that you’re just overreacting. Maybe Jayce just stepped outside to take a call or grabbed another drink at the bar. But deep down, that unsettling feeling refuses to leave your system. You finally reach the bar, but there’s no sign of him there.

“Have you seen Jayce?” you ask over to the coworker who sat there.

They blink, looking around before shaking their head. “Uh, no…not for a while. Maybe he stepped out?”

You give them a quick nod, muttering a quiet thanks before moving on, the knot in your stomach tightening even more. Your heels click faster against the marble floor as you move toward the quieter area of the venue, the noise and chatter slowly fading away with each step you take. Down the hall, a row of private rooms stretches ahead, each of them closed except for the very last one at the end of the hallway. You walk slower now, feeling the air get thicker with each step. You shouldn’t be anxious about this.

And yet…you are.

Your fingers brush against the smooth surface of the champagne glass in your hand, your grip tightening instinctively around the flute. You tell yourself to relax, but the words do nothing to alleviate you from the uneasiness that was settling into your bones.

And that’s when you hear it—muffled voices in a low and urgent tone. At first, you think it’s just another couple hidden away in the room for privacy. But something about these voices feels…familiar. Too familiar.

You take another step forward, your pulse pounding louder in your ears with each beat. Your stomach twists once more when you see the familiar head of jet black hair in your eyeline. The door is slightly ajar, and a warm light spills into the hallway. You hesitate, your grip getting tighter on the glass as you listen.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jayce mutters, his voice rough and raw. His head moves slightly, just enough for you to see a glimpse of her—a glimpse of Mel.

“And yet…” Mel replies, her voice soft and sultry as she pauses. “You keep coming back.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him, followed by his hand shifting through the open slit on Mel’s dress as he moves closer to her. “I can’t help myself,” Jayce murmurs, his voice lower now, filled with a kind of desire you’ve never heard from him. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Is that so?” Mel muses back, her voice laced with pure seduction. “Then why do you keep wasting time?”

Your heart sinks down to your stomach, body going rigid as the pieces fall into place. The way Jayce had been acting around you, all those ‘late nights’ he’d spend in the office—it all made sense now.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Jayce’s confession lingers in the air, his voice filled with desperation. “Even when I’m with her…all I think about is you.”

Your eyes widen in shock, your heart shattering as the champagne class trembles in your hand. It wasn’t just what Jayce had said, it was how he said it—straightforward, no hesitation whatsoever. There was no guilt. Just raw, unfiltered honesty, spoken so easily it feels like the knife was plunging deeper into your chest.

Like he never even cared.

You feel your fingers going numb on the glass as the wave of realization crashes over you. The love, the trust, the loyalty—it makes you wonder if it had meant anything to him.

Or were you just convenient?

The thought burns in your brain, leaving an ache so deep that it makes it hard to breathe.

And yet, he doesn’t even notice.

“Jayce…we really shouldn’t…” Mel reminds him, her voice softer now.

He simply scoffs at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “Come on, Mel…you want this just as bad as I do.” he breathes out, and you hear the rustle of fabric between them—their clothes shifting as their bodies press closer.

And then—the kiss hits between them. It was slow, deep and desperate. Your vision blurs at the corners of your eyes, and you don’t even register the champagne flute slipping from your fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud shatter that echoes throughout the hallway. Tiny shards of glass surround your stiletto-covered feet, but you’re too frozen, too numb to even notice.

However, the shatter startles them both, causing them to freeze instantly, their lips pulling apart as the sharp echo rang through the room. Their bodies go rigid as they slowly turn their heads toward the doorway. Mel’s eyes widen, a panicked expression crossing her face. Jayce’s breathing quickens, his heart rate rising once he sees you. His hands, which had been all over Mel just moments ago, twitch slightly at his sides as he steps back, his eyes still not taking off of you.

“Jayce?” 

Your voice was soft and shaky as his name escaped your lips, but it was enough to make them freeze as the realization hit them. His lips part, but no words come out at first. Mel’s eyes flicker between the two of you, her body shifting towards Jayce in hopes of hiding away.

“It’s…it’s not what it looks like,” he finally breathes out, his voice barely above a whisper, panic and guilt filling his tone. The words hang in the air, completely meaningless to you—but you don’t respond, you just can’t. 

Because even as he said it—you know he’s clearly lying.

Mel hasn’t said a word. She’s too busy avoiding your gaze, her lips slightly parted as if she’s trying to think of something to say, but nothing comes out. For a woman who’s career relies on confidence, she’s sure failing to show it at this exact moment. 

You don’t move. Don’t blink. In fact, your mind doesn’t register anything else besides the scene that had unfolded in front of you. You don’t even notice the door now fully swung open beside you, or the sudden warmth that lingered right behind you. But you do see the shift in their faces—especially Mel’s—as the panic flashes deeper in her eyes.

“Mel?”

The name cuts through the air like a blade, and your stomach drops. That voice—deep, low, and now laced with pure fury—comes from behind you. Slowly, you turn around.

Sevika stands in the doorway now, her broad frame blocking out most of the light coming from the hall. Her expression is unreadable at first, but you can see how tightly her jaw is clenched as she tries, but fails to stay calm.

“Sevika…” Mel’s voice trembles, almost at the same level as Jayce.

But Sevika doesn’t respond. Not at first. Her eyes don’t leave Mel, dark with rage—as if she were a storm on the verge of breaking. Her presence looms behind you, grounding you in the chaos swarming around.

“What the fuck is this?” Sevika growls, her voice low and cold. Her eyes flicker between Mel and Jayce, taking in the way their bodies are still too close to each other. The way Mel’s hand lingered on Jayce’s chest before dropping down only heated the anger inside her even more.

It was her fiancée and her colleague—together, behind her back.

The room suddenly feels smaller to you now, almost suffocating. Your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curling into fists as an emotional mix of heartbreak and rage bubbles inside you. But your eyes stay locked on Jayce.

“How long?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it was loud enough to cut through the tension. Jayce’s jaw clenches anxiously. His eyes are widened in a mix of desperation and cowardice, pleading silently for your mercy. “Babe…” he murmurs softly, as if that name could fix what was already beyond repair.

“How long, Jayce?” you repeat. Your voice is louder the second time, more stern and forceful. Jayce’s mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. He hesitates, his eyes flickering over to Mel for a split second. Big mistake.

You see it, and so did Sevika.

“Answer her fucking question, Jayce.” Sevika growls behind you, her tone low, almost threatening. “Don’t make her ask again.”

Jayce stiffens, swallowing hard, and finally looks back at you, letting out an exhale of defeat before responding. “A…a year.”

Your stomach drops.

You force out a breath, still in shock and disbelief over what you had just heard. “A year?” you shake your head, letting out a humorless laugh. “You’ve been sneaking around with her for a year, and you have the fucking nerve to tell me that it’s not what it looks like?”

The tears start to build in your eyes, and Jayce steps forward, but you take a quick step back. “Don’t.” you snap, your hands shaking. “I don’t want to fucking hear it.” 

Sevika exhales sharply beside you, her arms crossed, trying to hold herself back. “This is fucking unbelievable,” she mutters, her eyes not leaving Jayce. “You’ve been lying to her for a year? And you…” her gaze snaps over to Mel. “What do you even have to say for yourself?”

Mel’s lips part, but no words come out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sevika lets out a laugh that was just as cold as yours. “I put a damn ring on your finger.”

Mel takes a step closer to her, a weak attempt in trying to redeem herself. “I-I had wanted to tell you—”

“Oh yeah?” Sevika scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. “And when exactly were you going to tell me? After we got married?”

Mel’s lips part again, but the only sound that comes out is a shaky breath.

“What a fucking joke,” she mutters her gaze shifting between the two. “You’re both pathetic.”

Another shaky breath slips from Mel’s lips. “Sevika, darling please—”

“Save it.”

Sevika takes another step forward, her presence commanding the room. But this time, she doesn’t stop. Mel instinctively moves back, accidentally bumping into Jayce’s chest. His hands instinctively grab her shoulders to steady her, giving her a look of reassurance to make sure she was okay.

And that was the final straw for you.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head as the realization crashes down harder. This was never just a mistake.

You glance at Sevika, and when your eyes meet with hers, there’s a newfound connection between you both. Without another word, you turn on your heel, your chest still tight as you pass by the three of them and leave the room. Sevika follows right after, her heavy footsteps matching yours as you step over the shattered glass and out of the room, leaving them both in the mess of their own betrayal.

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The days that followed from the incident felt like a blur.

You throw yourself into work, burying yourself in reports, emails, and endless meetings. You figured it’d be easier that way—keeping busy. If your mind is constantly occupied, then there wouldn’t be any time to think about him, right?

But regardless, it was impossible to ignore. 

Jayce keeps his distance from you, both inside and outside of work. He’s been staying somewhere else in the meantime, you’re not sure if it’s with Mel, or back in his large family estate, but frankly, you couldn’t care less about his whereabouts. As for the office, he doesn’t try to talk to you. No apologies. No explanations. Just…silence.

You didn’t want to admit it, but that alone hurts more than if he had tried.

Of course, you’ve still maintained your position in Hexcorp as top saleswoman, but even that feels empty to you now. Your numbers are still flawless, but the passion, the drive that used to push you forward in your career—it was gone. It honestly even makes you question why you’re still here in this building, or even New York as a whole. Deep down, it makes you wish that you could find yourself an escape from this.

And that sign was given to you just a couple of days ago.

You had broken the news to your parents over the phone. It was quite the shock to them—they’d mostly see you together with Jayce on holidays, but given how he always carried himself and the way he treated you, this was the last thing they ever expected.

But what hurt them the most was hearing just how broken you sounded when you told them.

“I just…I don’t get it,” your voice cracked, and you blinked back tears as your grip tightened on your phone. “How could he do this to me?”

“Oh, mija…I’m so sorry.” your mom’s voice had been soft when you told her, but it had the kind of heaviness that only came from a mother hearing her child in pain. You tried to keep your words to a minimum, tried to hold yourself together, but the more you tried to speak, the harder it was to keep you from breaking.

Your dad was silent for a moment before his voice came through the phone, steady but laced with a subtle hint of anger. “You know, I never liked that Talis boy to begin with.”

You can hear the soft tsk your mom gives to your dad, but you can hear the frustration in her voice too.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he grumbled, his tone softening after a second. “You deserve better, kid. So much better.”

There’s a quick pause before your mother speaks again. “Why don’t you go stay over at the beach house for a while?” your mom suggested gently, her voice warm and comforting. “Spend some time in Miami, clear your head. “Your relatives are close by if you need anything, and I’m sure your abuela would love to see you too.”

You pause for a moment to think over your mother’s suggestion. The beach house was your childhood escape—sitting along the Miami shore where the sun was always warmer and the waves would effortlessly wash your worries away. It was nothing like New York, where the chilly, heavy atmosphere was harder to breathe in. 

However, you couldn’t risk the chances of losing your job for being gone for so long. But deep down, maybe this was what you really needed—a sweet escape, a place where you can truly heal your heart and ground yourself back to your roots.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

You take a deep breath, nodding to yourself as your grip now relaxes on your phone. “You’re right,” you murmur softly, the words leaving your lips before you even realize it. “I could really use something like that right now.”

Your mother’s relieved sigh comes through the line, and your father’s quiet agreement follows right after. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she says gently. “You deserve a break from this, mija.”

“Hey, get some rest, alright?” your dad chimes. “And call us as soon as you get there.”

“I will,” you promise, voice barely above a whisper now.

The call ends with quiet goodbyes, leaving you now sitting in the dim, quiet space of the house you once shared with Jayce. The silence feels heavier here—every room still holds traces of the life you built together, yet it all feels so distant now.

You take a deep breath, reaching over for your laptop before bringing it onto your lap, and without a second thought, you book yourself a one-way ticket to Miami—far away from the chaos that was suffocating you in New York.

And once that’s done, there’s only one thing left to do—write out your leave of absence letter and leave it on Sevika’s desk first thing tomorrow morning.

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The next morning, the familiar buzz of the office surrounds you, but it all feels like background noise. You’re at your desk, staring blankly at your computer screen as you zone out into the unfinished spreadsheet on the screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Sevika step out of their shared office and head toward the conference room down the hall. You couldn’t help but keep your gaze on Sevika for a little longer. She looks composed on the outside, but you can see it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the quiet exhaustion in her eyes—she’s holding it together just like you. You look away before she notices you, swallowing down the ache in your chest as they leave.

Once you made sure they were gone, you clutch the letter into your hand as you push back your chair and stand. Your footsteps are quiet as you pass by your busy coworkers and make your way toward their shared office, the door left slightly ajar enough for you to slip inside. Your eyes land on Sevika’s side of the office, the dark wood of her desk reflecting the soft light filtering in through the windows. You take a step toward it, unfolding the letter in front of you to place it on her desk. However, you couldn’t help but notice the soft, navy velvet box quietly sitting on the surface. Your heart skips a beat, knowing exactly what it is without even having to open it.

The engagement ring.

Mel had already given it back.

The box is closed, yet the weight of what it holds feels heavy in the air. Your mind flashes back to that night, to the look on Sevika’s face when she saw Mel with Jayce together. The devastation in her eyes, masked by fury—seeing her hurt you more than when you had seen them. You let out a shaky breath, fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the edge of your letter, but before you can set it down—

“Leaving something for me?”

The deep, unmistakable voice sends a chill down your spine. You freeze, eyes widening as your body goes rigid. Your heart pounds in your chest as panic starts to settle into your bones.

Slowly, you turn around. Sevika stands in the doorway, her tall frame effortlessly filling the space around her. Her expression is unreadable, but her sharp eyes are locked on the letter in your hand.

“Sevika, I-I was just—”

Her brow arches slightly as she shuts the door and steps further into the office, her gaze not leaving yours.

“What’s that?”

Her voice is calm, but you couldn’t ignore the tension behind it. The panic continues to fill up inside you as you instinctively pull the letter closer to your chest, as if that was going to shield it away from her. “It’s…it’s nothing,” you murmur, but the crack in your voice betrays you. Her eyes narrow down to the paper in your hand, and before you can move her hand reaches out, flesh fingers brushing over yours as she gently but firmly takes the letter from your grip.

“Sevika, wait—”

But it’s too late. Her eyes scan the words on the page, her brows furrowing deeper with each passing second as she reads through the letter. You see her jaw tighten, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. “Leave of absence?” she asks, slowly setting the letter down and bringing her gaze back up to you. “You’re…you’re leaving?”

Your throat tightens, unsure of what else to say. “I was going to tell you,” you murmur softly, looking down at your feet, unable to meet her gaze. “I just…I need some time.”

“Why?”

You can hear the concern in her voice—a hint of vulnerability that you’ve never heard from her before. You finally look up, your eyes meeting hers. “Because I can’t do this anymore.”

Her eyes darken with uncertainty. “Do what?”

You swallow, heart painfully thrumming against your ribs. “Be here. Pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you don’t notice Sevika’s gaze softening when you look over to Jayce’s side of the office. “Jayce and I...We built a life together. And now, it’s gone.” Your voice cracks, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay as you look back at her. “Every corner of this place reminds me of what I just lost. I just…I need to get away. To breathe. To heal.”

Her jaw clenches, her eyes flickering away from yours for a moment. “It’s just…” She hesitates, running a hand down her face before exhaling a breath that sounds heavier than it should. “You’re my best saleswoman.” Her voice is quieter now, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

But it was never about the numbers. Not when it came to you. You know there’s more to it—something deeper. You can feel it in the way her gaze lingers on you, in the way her body gets just a little too tense, as if she’s holding something back.

“I’m not…” Your voice trails off to a sigh as you shake your head. “I’m not quitting, Sevika. I just need some time. Please.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you is heavy, the silence in the room stretching longer than it should.

“How long?” she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your blouse. “But I…I need this.”

Sevika doesn’t speak right away. Her expression is unreadable as she looks at you, but before you can process it—before you can say anything else—she moves toward you. Strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into a firm but careful embrace.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sevika has never been the type of person to do gestures like this. She’s never been the comforting, reassuring presence in someone’s life—at least, not in this way. But right now, she holds you close to her like she’s afraid to let you go, like she knows how much you need this more than you do. Your eyes squeeze shut as you clutch the fabric of her suit jacket, your fingers curling into the cotton tightly to keep you grounded.

“I get it,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “Believe me, I do.”

Her words send another shiver down your spine, because she does get it.

Mel. The woman she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with.

You exhale shakily, pressing your forehead against her shoulder. “Then you of all people should know why I have to go.”

Sevika’s arms tighten around you just for a second before she finally releases you, stepping back just enough to meet your gaze. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her jaw tight as she watches you carefully. “I know.”

But that doesn’t mean that she wants you to go. Her eyes still linger on yours, and something shifts between you. Sevika looks at you like she’s fighting a battle within herself—like she’s trying to hold herself back from doing something that she may—or may not regret.

“Sevika…” you whisper, your voice quiet enough to break the silence between you.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But her eyes—they tell you everything. You feel it before you see it—the way she leans in, her body instinctively drawn to yours like a magnet. It’s slow, almost hesitant, as if she's giving you an open chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Instead, your hand drifts up, brushing lightly over her jaw. She tilts her head towards your palm, melting into your touch. Her eyes flutter shut for a brief movement before they open again—darker, filled with something you can’t describe. 

And then, the distance between you two disappears. Her lips meet yours, and the world seems to fall away. The kiss is tentative at first, making you both afraid to take too much from each other. But the tension is quick to snap, and suddenly, the kiss deepens. Her flesh hand slides around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as she pulls you closer. The cool metal of her prosthetic rests against your waist, grounding you in the moment. Your body presses into hers, and you feel like this should be wrong, but it doesn’t. On the contrary, it feels…right. Like this is where you’re meant to be instead. It’s nothing compared to how you’ve felt with Jayce. You absolutely lose yourself in her—her touch, her taste, the way she holds you like you’re something precious. Like you’re exactly where she wants to be."

She finally pulls back, breathless and dazed, her forehead resting gently against yours. “I really don’t want you to go…” Sevika murmurs, the desperation in her voice tugging at your heart. Your thumb brushes along her jaw again, a bittersweet smile spread on your lips. “I know,” you whisper, eyes searching hers. “But I have to.”

“Well, in that case…” Sevika replies, her thumb lightly brushing over your bottom lip as her eyes darken with intent. Her lips curl into a sly smirk, her gaze burning into yours. “Let me give you a proper goodbye.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can even think, her lips crash into yours again. Unlike the last one, this kiss is more desperate, filled with everything the both of you have been holding back for far too long. Her flesh hand grips your waist firmly, pulling you flush against her, while the hard press of her prosthetic along your hip sends a shiver through you. Her lips move with a hunger that makes your knees weak. But you couldn’t give in like this.

“Sevika…” you manage to breathe out her name between heated kisses, your lips barely parting from hers. But she hears it.

And as much as it kills you, you pull back. Your eyes meet hers—her pupils dilated with desire, but there’s hesitation filling in yours. “We…we can’t.” Your voice is shaky and uncertain. “Jayce and Mel…it isn’t right…”

Sevika doesn’t respond right away. Her forehead simply rests against yours, her breath warm against your skin. “No…” she murmurs softly, her voice low but firm. “They’re the ones who threw it all away. It’s their loss, not ours.”

Your eyes widen slightly as her words sink in, but she doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. Her gaze is more intense now, searching yours for any sense of doubt. But there’s something else in her eyes—something raw, vulnerable, and aching for you just as much as you ache for her. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, but there’s so much behind her words.

And in that moment, you know she’s right. The weight of the heartbreak, betrayal, and confusion still lingers, but now it all fades away with you being in her arms. Her lips claim yours once more, and the heat inside you ignites all over again. Her hands slide down your back, guiding you as she walks you backward across the room. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you don’t stop her. Not this time.

The edge of the desk presses against the backs of your thighs, and her hands are already pushing everything aside, sending papers and pens scattering to the floor. Sevika lifts you up effortlessly in one smooth motion, placing you on the desk as her lips refuse to leave yours. 

However, neither of you realize where you’ve really ended up—Jayce’s desk.

But at this moment, with Sevika’s hands all over you and her lips claiming yours…none of it matters.

Sevika presses her body against yours, pinning you to the desk as she stands between your parted legs. You can feel every hard inch of her muscular frame, the heat of her skin radiating through her suit. Sevika pulls back slightly, her lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. You tilt your head back to give her better access, and a soft moan slips from your mouth once she nips at your pulse point, her teeth grazing your soft skin before she soothes the sting with her tongue.

You’re barely able to keep your balance on the desk, your breath shallow as her touch stirs something deep inside you. Your eyes dart to the closed blinds, the faint silhouettes of your coworkers just outside, completely unaware of what’s happening behind them. Your heart starts to race—not from desire, but from the undeniable risk of it all. It feels like you’re playing with fire, and yet…you can’t help but take the heat.

“S-Sevika,” you murmur, trying to steady your breathing. “We—someone could see—”

Sevika cuts your sentence off instantly with a hushed, teasing whisper. “Shh…” she breathes, her voice low. “If you stay quiet…then no one will know.”

She leans in, kissing you hard while her hand works quickly to unbutton your slacks, pushing them down to your ankles. “You need this, baby, I know you do.” Her voice is a low rasp, sending shivers down your spine that makes her see right through you. "Stop overthinking, and just let me take care of you.” 

To emphasize her point, her flesh hand shifts from your slacks to underneath your blouse, her warm fingertips brushing over your stomach as it moves up north. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin lace of your bra. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching into her touch. Sevika takes advantage of this and trails kisses down your chest, pushing your blouse up as she goes. She tugs your bra down, freeing your breasts to the cool air of the office. Then, in an instant, she leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking and biting at the sensitive bud, eliciting a whine from your lips over the sensation. Her hand slides back down your stomach, fingers now toying with the waistband of your underwear. She looks up at you, waiting for your permission to continue, to which you nod in approval.

With that, she hooks her fingers and shifts your underwear to the side, exposing your pussy to her. She leans back, using two fingers to part open your puffy folds only to be taken aback by how wet you were. “God, baby…you’re this wet for me already?” she mutters, gently sliding her fingers through your wet slit. You reply to her with a whiny nod, gently rutting your hips against the pads of her fingers for more. She simply chuckles at your desperate pleas, gently inserting a finger into your hole but only to be surprised when she sees how you resist her single finger. “Fuck, you’re so tight…” she pants out, carefully trying to push more of her finger in. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the truth weighs heavier than the silence between you. “Too long…” you finally breathe, your voice barely a whisper. Your eyes trail away from her, a flash of frustration and sadness crossing your face. “Jayce…he hasn’t—” your words falter with a sudden gasp when Sevika pushes her finger farther inside you. She brings her metal hand up to your jaw, the smooth yet unyielding grip making you face her. “His loss,” she mutters, lips brushing against yours again. “How about you let me remind you how it’s supposed to feel, yeah?"

Sevika doesn't falter just yet, she starts to work her finger in and out of your tight cunt, slowly at first but gradually increasing force once you become used to the resistance. Her thumb meets with your clit, rubbing firm circles around the sensitive nub as she continues to pump her finger in and out of your pussy. You whine and begin to squirm and shake at the sensation, but Sevika is quick to slide her prosthetic hand on your waist, keeping you grounded onto the desk as the cool wooden surface presses against your skin. She then adds another finger in, scissoring them inside you as her thumb continues its assault on your clit. You whine at the stretch, unable to take it, but your body starts to betray you by giving the opposite response—sucking Sevika’s fingers further inside rather than resisting. The wet squelching sounds of her fingers plunging into your soaked cunt fill the office, mixing with your restrained whines and the harsh pants of her own breathing. 

“S-Sevika,” you whine, trying to wriggle yourself away. “I-I can’t…t-too much…”

“Too much?” Sevika chuckles against your skin, her fingers still working into your cunt. “Then why’s your greedy little cunt begging me for more?” Her gaze drops down to your pussy, admiring at how your desperate hole continues to suck her fingers in while your arousal drips around them. “Needy girl, taking in my fingers like this,” her gaze flickers back up to you. “I’m gonna need these back, you know. Can’t keep them forever, sweetheart.”

All you can do is whine and whimper, your chest and stomach tightening as you try to keep yourself quiet so as to not startle your coworkers outside. But Sevika doesn’t make it any easier for you once she speeds up the pace, the desk shifting slightly beneath you as if it was imitating the consequences of what you’re doing. The thought of Jayce sitting here tomorrow, completely unaware of what happened on his desk today, makes a dangerous thrill pulse through your veins. Jayce might have carried your past, but Sevika was putting herself into your present, claiming you as hers with every deep curl of her fingers, making sure your body never forgets the feeling of her. 

She looks back up at you, her eyes darkening as she watches your face twist in pleasure. Your cunt begins to clench tighter around her fingers, along with the coil that's been winding deep in your stomach, you were getting close, and Sevika could tell. Her fingers never stop their relentless pace, pumping in and out of your clenching heat, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. She glances back up at you just to admire the drunk look on your face. “Look at you, so desperate to cum already, yeah?” she muses, her prosthetic shifting from your waist to push down on your lower stomach, only making it worse for you to restrain yourself. “Go on, sweetheart, cum for me. But remember…” she trails off, jerking her head over to the closed blinds. “They don’t need to know what’s going on.”

Her words are filthy, but they only serve to turn you on more, pushing you closer to your impending release. Your hand grips tightly onto the edge of the desk while the other claws at Sevika’s forearm in desperation, which does nothing but spur her on with her words. At this point, she’s practically begging for you to cum now, just so she can see you fall apart for her. “That’s it, baby—don’t hold back. Let me feel it. Come for me, sweetheart.”

Her words, combined with the relentless pace of her fingers, finally push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt clamps down around her fingers like a vice. Your mouth parts open, body giving in as you’re tempted to scream her name, but Sevika is quick to lean in and attach her lips back to yours, muffling your cries of pleasure as your release gushes into her fingers and onto the desk. But she doesn’t let up just yet, working you through your orgasm with her fingers until you’re a shaking, mewling mess beneath her. 

Once the aftershocks start to subside, she finally slows down, gently withdrawing her flesh fingers out of your sensitive cunt. She brings her hand up to her lips, making a show of licking your juices from her fingers, her eyes closing in bliss as she savors your taste. “Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,” she murmurs, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face. “I should’ve used my mouth on you instead if I knew you were going to taste this sweet.”

You chuckle lazily, looking up at her with heavy eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Well, you can go for seconds if you’d like, Sev.” you tease, kicking off your heels and bunched up slacks from your feet before spreading your legs farther out to her, leaving your fucked out cunt on full display to her gaze. Sevika’s eyes darken at your newfound position, getting nothing but more turned on at the sight of you spread out on her colleague’s desk. She glances down to your cunt, her smirk spreading wider as she sees your release pooling underneath you, darkening the wood of the desk. “You’ve sure made a mess, pretty girl,” she says, her voice almost accusatory as if she wasn’t the one who made you cum like that. “Luckily, I’m willing to clean that up for you.”

In an instant, Sevika drops to her knees in front of you, hooking her flesh arm beneath your thigh while her prosthetic grips the other, pulling you closer. Your breath hitches as Sevika lowers herself in front of you, her hold firm—one soft and warm, the other cold and unrelenting. Her lips tease their way back up to your pussy, ready to satisfy you once more, until—

“Where’s Sevika?”

Jayce’s words echo faintly from the hallway, distant but close enough to send a jolt of panic through your veins. Sevika freezes for just a second before quickly getting back up on her feet. The two of you scramble around—adjusting clothes, fixing hair, cleaning down the surface and scattering papers in your desperate attempt to make it look like nothing happened on this desk.

But Sevika already moves before you can think of a backup plan. With full precision, she snatches up the paperwork she was originally looking for, strides across the office, and yanks the door open right before Jayce can.

“You were supposed to wait in the conference room,” she growls, her tone now back to cold as she shoves the paperwork into his chest.

Jayce blinks, caught off guard by her appearance. “I—I was just—”

“Don’t.” Her jaw clenches, eyes narrowing down at him. “Go. Now.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. As Jayce turns, footsteps retreating down the hall, Sevika lingers for just a second before glancing back inside—her eyes meeting yours. The heat from moments ago still lingers between you, but with one last knowing smirk, she follows after Jayce before closing the door shut, as if nothing had happened.

And you?

You’re still gripping the edge of his desk, breath unsteady, pulse still racing. Even as you slip your clothes back on, even as you straighten up Jayce’s desk—you can still feel the heat from Sevika on your body. Your lips are still slightly swollen from her kisses, your skin tingling in places that haven’t felt alive in…well, longer than you’d care to admit. You swallow hard, your mind replaying every breathless second. Your cheeks flush again, and your hands tremble slightly as you reposition Jayce’s things—only to realize it’s still out of place.

Get it together.

Your hands work quickly, smoothing out the papers, straightening the chair, making sure there’s no trace of what just happened. The last thing you need is Jayce walking in and sensing something.

No one can know.

Your fingers graze your pulse point, still feeling the phantom pressure of her lips there. You swallow down the feeling, force your hands to stay busy—tidying the last of the evidence, pressing a shaky hand to your chest, forcing a deep breath—before you finally slip out of the office, your head spinning.

And yet, as you settle back at your desk, pretending like nothing happened, you can still feel her on you.

But what’s even worse than feeling her…is wanting it to happen a second time.

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The sun barely peeks through your curtains when your alarm blasts through the silence. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding as you fumble to shut it off. You squint over at the time on your phone, only for your eyes to quickly widen in panic. You were supposed to be up an hour ago.

In an instant, you throw off the covers, the chill of the morning air making your skin prickle with goosebumps as you rush to get ready. As you take a quick shower and get dressed, your mind is still foggy from everything that happened yesterday—leaving the office, Sevika, the kiss, and the overwhelming decision to leave. But there’s no time to think about that now.

Your suitcase is already half-packed from last night, so you grab the last of your things and shove them into your bag without thinking twice. You barely glance in the mirror before you’re out the door, heart pounding in your ears. The taxi sits on the curb, waiting for God knows how long—and you rush into it, not even bothering to comfortably put your suitcase in the trunk and squeezing it alongside you instead. The city itself is still waking up as you slide into the backseat. 

“Kennedy Airport,” you mumble, barely able to catch your breath as the driver nods and pulls into traffic.

Rain taps lightly against the window as you stare outside, the familiar skyline of New York blurred by streaks of water. This is it. You were getting away from the city that had been your home for years—where you built a career and nurtured a relationship, only to watch it all fall apart in the blink of an eye. You lean back against the seat, your eyes drifting shut for just a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. But her face still flashes in your mind.

Sevika.

The memory of her kiss, her touch—heated, desperate, and impossible to forget—continues to linger in your mind. But nonetheless you shake your head, forcing the thought away as you tell yourself that it’s not what you need right now.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it’s nothing but chaos. You navigate through the sea of travelers, heart pounding as you sprint toward your gate. Your boarding pass feels like it’s burning in your hand as you rush through security, your pulse racing with every step.

Until you finally make it to Gate 17, departing to Miami.

You make it just as they begin the final boarding call, breathless and slightly disoriented. The agent barely glances up as they scan your ticket, giving you a quick nod to proceed. Your pace is calmer now as you walk through the ramp, the relief extending into peace the moment you enter the plane. As you set your carry-on into the overhead compartment and settle into your window seat, a shaky exhale slips from your mouth as your body finally relaxes. Your pulse slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you finally let yourself breathe.

You’re even blessed to have an empty seat beside you, thank God.

You close your eyes, head resting lightly against the head cushion of the seat. The distant hum of the engines vibrates through you, lulling your body into a sense of calm. A sense of peace. You don’t even register the measured footsteps approaching, growing heavier until they stop beside you. You don’t open your eyes right away, too caught up in the quiet you were finally starting to enjoy. But then—

Your name is called. And the familiar voice makes your heart stop. Your eyes flutter back open, head tilting to your left only for the calm in your body to be replaced by an element of surprise and shock once you see the familiar broad frame that stood in the narrow space alongside you.

“Sevika?”

Her name leaves your lips barely above a breath, but it’s enough to make her eyes darken. Her expression is unreadable, but the subtle flicker of surprise in her gaze says enough.

She didn’t know. You didn’t tell her where you were going.

And yet… she’s here.

And in that moment, as she finally lowers herself into the seat beside you, you know—

This changes everything.

But maybe, just maybe…some change is exactly what you needed.

- a/n: i need to stop making my fics so damn long omg 😭 i’m not sure if y’all fw ceo sevika like i do, but i could try to write out a part 2 if it catches any interest, we’ll see…

2025 © atomicami | all rights reserved. do not copy, modify, or translate any of my works.

[bananayuyu]

Lust is in the Air

Pairing: Hongjoong x f reader

Genre: smut

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: Your best friend drags you along to a family wedding, wanting to add some fun to your all too serious life. Turns out her uncle is the one who really provides the distraction.

Warnings: smut, MDNI, age gap (Hongjoong is 40 reader is 23), some talk during sex about the age gap so really don't read this if you don't like that, some dom/sub dynamics, throat fucking, degradation and praise, bratty y/n, use of pet names (baby, doll), ass eating, anal, unprotected sex

A/n: Sometimes I see a random video of him and I'm reminded all over again how hot I think a very mature Hongjoong would be. Especially if he was mocking me and making me feel pathetic. Yeah this was pure horny, quite filthy for me. This isn't as proofread as my normal stuff so apologies for any mistakes

Read it on ao3

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Well, maybe it was a good idea. You had been staying in every weekend since the breakup, and maybe being forced out of the house would be good for you. Force you to interact with a few people, to actually put some effort into your appearance. Maybe put on a little makeup, or actually brush your hair.

"Please don't say no," Beatrice says through the phone. "My family would love it if you came, and I'd love it if you came. And we haven't had a chance to spend a weekend like this in forever. There will be free food and free booze!"

"I know you're worried about me, Bea," you respond, sighing.

"I'm not inviting you out of pity," she says.

"I know, I know. Just, give me some time to think it over. I've got an assignment I need to finish for one of my classes, I think it's due this Sunday night. So if I can't finish it this week I'll need to do it this weekend," you reply.

"Okay, just text me. I'm not gonna invite anyone else as my plus one, if you don't end up coming. So no rush, take your time," she says.

"Thank you. You know I appreciate you so much," you say, sighing into the cushion of your couch.

"You know I feel the same," she says, sighing too. You'd both been through breakups recently. It seemed like your hardships always occurred on nearly the same timeline, making you both able to rely on each other for understanding. And she knew getting you out of the house, especially for a weekend wedding, would be good for you. Her cousin's family was rich and hadn't held back in their planning, booking the fanciest hotel in town for everyone. They were paying for everything; the food and drinks of course, and everyone's hotel expenses. You'd knew you'd go. You'd try to finish the assignment beforehand. But even if you didn't, you'd still go.

Driving up to the front of the hotel together felt surreal. Beatrice had asked to take your car, as it wasn't the bright purple color that her's was. This place was fancy, and though neither of your cars were deluxe, at least your's was black.

"Miss McArthur?" the valet asked once you rolled your window down.

"Yeah, that's me," Beatrice said from the passenger seat, reaching over you to hand him her ID. "This is my plus one, y/n. She should be on the list."

After a brief look at his clipboard the man gave you both a satisfied nod. "Do you ladies have any bags we can carry up for you?" he asked.

"Yes, in the trunk," Beatrice answered for you, which you were grateful for. You'd never interacted with a valet before, never been in such a fancy situation in your life. You stumbled out of the car a bit awkwardly, your jean shorts and t-shirt looking ridiculous next to the suit and tie of the man in front of you. He held out his hand to you and for a moment you paused, wondering if he was offering to take your hand. But then you realized he was actually offering to take your keys. Duh.

"Thank you," you said quickly, heading around the car to meet Bea as you walked behind the man carrying your bags.

On the sixth floor you entered your shared room, a spacious and beautifully decorated space with a huge window covering the far wall. It was a sliding glass door, that led out to a balcony overlooking the river below. In the afternoon sun the water glittered, but you knew the view at night would be the real show, absolutely magical.

"Everyone is meeting in the restaurant at 7," Bea tells you, glancing at her family's group chat.

"Well then I've got a little over two hours to make myself look at least a little bit nice. Like maybe I actually belong here," you laugh, opening your bag to grab the casual dress you'd packed.

"Oh dinner tonight won't be fancy, wear whatever," Bea replies, kicking off her sandals.

"Okay but, with your cousins family not fancy would still probably be a little fancy, right?" you ask.

"You don't need to worry about fitting in, dude. No one will care," Bea replies.

"I just don't want to look like an idiot," you say, eyeing her.

"Y/n, you really need to stop worrying. This weekend is about us having fun. I'm not even that close with my cousin Amana, to be honest. We'll probably barely interact with her family. But we get to attend this fancy wedding, all expenses paid. Just wear whatever you feel like, do whatever you want to. Just promise me you'll have some fun," she says.

"Okay, fine," you respond, rolling your eyes jokingly. "I guess I'll try to enjoy this super nice luxury hotel for the weekend."

Bea laughs in relief, at hearing you joke around. It was what you both needed more of; you both had serious work and school lives already to contend with. And seriously disappointing dating lives, too.

As seven approaches you both make your way to the elevator, pausing at you exit the door to inspect the slight amount of makeup you'd put on. You hadn't worn any in weeks and it made you feel really pretty, along with the flowly sundress and sandals you'd decided to wear. You weren't always one for such feminine clothing but today it felt right, and you both bounced down the hall, spirits high. Bea led the way through the lobby to a long hallway, past what looked like a bar and some other room that had a bouncer, to the large restaurant at the end. Immediately you saw the long tables lined up, clearly set up for the wedding party. This wasn't the dress rehearsal, just the welcome dinner. It was only Friday, and the wedding wasn't until Sunday. Immediately you spotted the wine and appetizers filling the table, scanning the tables to try to find your seats.

"I can't find us Bea," you laugh, awkwardly walking past family members you'd never met before.

"Y/n, you're at our table," you hear a familiar female voice say, and turn to see Bea's mom.

"Oh, hi! Thank you!" you say as you walk over to her, giving her a quick hug.

"So glad you could join us sweetie," she says, gesturing to your seats. "See, you and Beatrice are near the end there, across from Nathan. Oh and have you met Beatrice's uncle Hongjoong before?" she asks, gesturing down the table.

You look down to see Beatrice sitting, pulling her chair under her and smiling wide. Across from her, in a casual but fitted grey t-shirt, a man smiles back, handing her a glass of wine he's just poured. He is striking, with jet black hair and tattoos, piercings donning his right ear. His jaw is sharp, his teeth perfect when he smiles. He looks maybe 27, 28. He's wearing an expensive watch, or at least a watch that looks expensive to your eyes, and a small simple chain necklace. His hair is cropped short at the sides; he looks so put together, so professional. So mature. So fucking attractive.

"That's Bea's uncle?" you ask her. It's not just his age that makes you ask. It's the fact that he's basically your dream come true. You see the muscles in his arm flex as he pours Nathan a glass too, and it makes your eyes cross for a moment.

"Well technically I think he's a second cousin, once removed, or something like that. He's a part of Wooyoung's family." Wooyoung was her husband, Bea's dad. You'd met her parents, and her brother Nathan, but never anyone else in her extended family. And you struggled to recall ever hearing about a Hongjoong before. You stared at him a moment before he moved his eyes over to you, catching you off guard. His look was mischievous, like he wants to play or mess with you. It made it hard to believe this was someone Bea called 'uncle.'

"Do you want to sit?" Bea's mom asked you.

"Yeah, sorry," you smiled at her, making you way down.

"Y/n! This is my uncle Hongjoong, and Hongjoong, this is y/n," Beatrice says as you pull out your seat next to her.

"Very nice to meet you," he says with an outstretched hand, his handshake strong and confident in a way that makes your body tingle.

"You as well," you reply, with a bashful smile. Immediately Bea asks you a question and you respond on auto-pilot, not even really hearing. Because your head is swimming in water just from being in this man's presence, and you can't focus. You don't even notice the glass of wine he'd poured you until he sets it down by your appetizer plate, gently bumping the stem on the rim of the plate to make a gentle clink. The sound makes your eyes snap up, and for some reason he looks amused.

"Oh, thank you," you say to him, bowing your head slightly. That mischievous smirk is back on his face when you lock eyes again, like he's trying to tell you something, but you can't be sure what it is. You certainly hope he's thinking what you're thinking. God, he's fucking stunning.

Those are the only words you speak to each other for the entirety of dinner. With so many people in attendance the restaurant is loud, louder still as everyone becomes tipsy, and then outright drunk on the unlimited wine.

"Hey, my parents want me a Nathan to go take pictures with them on the golf course nearby. They booked a photo shoot or something," Bea tells you, rolling her eyes slightly. "I'm not sure when we'll be back but feel free to like, go to the hot tub or do whatever around the hotel," she says.

"Okay, sounds good. Thank you, seriously," you say as you hug her. "I hope it's fun."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be," she laughs. "My parents and their family photos," she shakes her head, making you giggle, as she slowly makes her way to meet her brother at the front door of the restaurant.

You take stock of yourself for a moment, making sure you have your phone and your wallet in your purse, making sure your room key is still in your wallet. You take the last swig of your second glass of wine, patting yourself on the back for not overdoing it this first night when basically everyone around you did. You start sipping on your nearly empty glass of water too, knowing you don't want to wake up hungover tomorrow. The table is basically empty, with everyone slowly clearing out or making their last requests at the bar. You decide you'll go explore in a moment, go scope out the pool and hot tub situation, and maybe see if you can figure out what room is behind that bouncer. But just as you start standing up, Hongjoong approaches the table.

"I got some more waters for the table, but it looks like they've all left," he chuckles, his arms full.

"They went to do a family photo, Bea said," you reply, stuck for a moment awkwardly between sitting and standing. Hongjoong nods, like he already knew.

"Oh, were you about to leave too? Don't let me keep you," he says, the glint back in his eye again.

"I was thinking I'd go take a look at the pool and hot tub, maybe explore a bit," you say. It sort of takes you by surprise that you're sharing this with a total stranger, given your usual instinct to not share anything with people you don't know. You easily could have excused yourself, and been exploring the hotel alone. But deep down you know why you're sharing it. You hope he picks up on that reason, too.

"That's a great idea," he says, gently setting the waters down. "Mind if I join you? I was thinking of exploring the hotel some myself."

Bingo. You smile, eyes fluttering at him for a second. You truly don't even mean to do it, but the way he looks at you has you feeling shameless.

"Sure, I wouldn't mind," you reply, stepping out from your chair and gently pushing it into the table.

"Want to take a water with you?" he asks, holding one out.

"I don't think we can just take the glass with us," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Oh, who cares," he says glancing over his shoulder, seeing all of the wait staff occupied at the bar with everyone's last minute orders. "I'll carry it out, if you're that worried," he says, cocking his head slightly to the side and eyeing you with what must be mock pity.

"Fine," you roll your eyes at him, trying to fight the smile forming on your face from betraying how much his tone and facial expression are affecting you. You turn around and start strolling out of the restaurant, not even waiting for him. Once you're exiting he's already caught up, two water glasses in hand. You turn to your right, heading for the lobby.

"Wrong way, y/n," Hongjoong says lowly from behind you, making you stop in your tracks. "The pool is out those doors at the end of the hall."

"The sign in the lobby says the door to the pool is by the front desk," you reply, looking over your shoulder at him. The hallway is dimly lit, and the shadows on his face make his jaw look even sharper.

"Well that door also leads to the pool," he says, gesturing to the end of the hall. You just stare at him a moment, not sure why you feel the instinct to argue. "You don't believe me?" he asks, chuckling and looking you dead in the eye, before obviously snaking his gaze down the entirety of your body. Now that he's standing you see the fitted black pants and black dress shoes he's wearing, making his outfit look even more professional. His thighs look strong, and his stance is one of confidence, his entire demeanor cool and collected. You want to come up with a witty retort but can't think of anything, so you just start walking the way he's said to, again passing him by without slowing down to meet him. You open the doors gently but don't stop to hold them for him, brattiness taking ahold of you. Maybe it's the fancy hotel, or the wine, but you feel like a princess who deserves whatever she wants. And right now that's to piss Hongjoong off a bit, and see the pool.

"I thought nice girls hold doors open for the elderly," he says once he's exited too, sidling up to you. You stand by the long edge of the pool, taking in the lights below the surface that dance through the water. You turn to him and roll your eyes, taking the water glass he offers you immediately. "So, what do you do?" he asks.

"I'm still in school, I'm in my senior year," you say, turning back to the water. "And I work part time as an administrative assistant in the Dean's office, to help cover some of my tuition."

"College senior," he says, like he's mulling it over. "So that makes you how old?"

"Guess," you say, turning to him again, this time with your whole body.

"22," he replies. His voice low, like he's hesitant to say it.

"Close, 23," you say, not lowering your voice to meet his.

"And how old do you think I am?" he asks you, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Mmm, like, 38?" you joke, squinting your eyes as you look intently at his face. The feeling of wanting to piss him off still hadn't left you.

"How astute," he replies, nodding. "People usually think I'm younger."

"You're actually 38?" you ask, bewildered.

"Actually, 40," Hongjoong replies, making your eyebrows shoot up.

"You're lying," you say, rolling your eyes and shaking your head at him.

"Wow, second time tonight you've thought that. I don't know what I've done to make you think so poorly of me," he replies, that mischievous look again painting his face.

"Oh, shut up," you say, rolling your eyes harder this time, wanting to reach out and playfully punch him. Or maybe not so playfully. He's looking more and more perfect by the second, and his attitude, the way he's just so confident and calm, is making you hot and bothered. You know it maybe it's wrong, but now that you know his real age you find this whole scenario even hotter. If you were honest with yourself you'd always dreamed of fucking an older man, but the few you'd gone on dates with or had the chance to talk to had always been so immature, insecure, and underwhelming. Just like all the other guys you'd dated. It was a massive disappointment to learn that age didn't often give people that self-assured demeanor that you so desired. But clearly it did sometimes; the proof was standing in front of you.

"That wasn't very nice," Hongjoong replies, fixing you with a look of disapproval that makes your thighs clench involuntarily, as the two of you stare each other down merely feet apart. You hold his gaze as long as you can before you look down at your feet, his stoic demeanor feeling like a brick wall you can't break through.

"You're very pretty, y/n," he says, stepping forward to lift your face up to his.

"Really?" you ask him, eyes wide. Playing it just the way he likes.

"I know you know how pretty you are, you've been giving me those eyes all night," he says, looking like he disapproves. "You're a bit of brat, too, aren't you?" he asks, his hand moving to the side of your cheek.

"No comment," you giggle, and he grabs your hand, bringing it to his upper arm. You grab onto his bicep as he moves his hand to your waist pulling you two closer.

"Dance with me," he says, pulling you slightly into his chest.

"There isn't any music playing," you say, laughing. And it's the way that he doesn't just automatically laugh at your little comments that really gets you going.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't like me very much," he says seriously, pulling you in and starting to rock you back and forth. You dance together for a few minutes, no words being exchanged as your bodies get used to the proximity, as your mind begins to swim again, even more so now that his hands are on you. You want him to kiss you, do anything, now, but he keeps his hands where they are, still leading you around in slow circles. Fuck it, you think. You lift your hands to his face and pull him in, your lips meeting in a perfect kiss, his hand on your waist moving up your back as he holds you to him, leaning you back as he deepens it. You hold steadily onto his bicep for balance, your breathing fast as you stick your tongue in his mouth, not hiding your desperation. You don't care to, not when you've spent two months without this feeling, tortured over the idea that no one at your school would ever consider you an option after your last relationship ended the way it did.

And just when it seems like you're the only desperate one, Hongjoong moves his hands down, running them up your thighs and under your dress to find your panties. He finds none, much to his surprise, which makes his dick harden even further. He gropes your ass, deepening the kiss more, making you arch your back in neediness. And then he snakes his hand around, slowly moving to your core, before suddenly running a finger over your slit, making you gasp. You've forgotten where you are, totally engrossed in the feelings he's giving you. You buck your hips against his hand, moaning pathetically into his mouth, your legs feeling like they might give out on you. He starts circling your entrance, finally pushing one finger in maybe an inch, when you finally remember where you are.

"Wait, fuck, not out here," you say, pulling back from him. He pulls his hand away immediately, his fingers glistening in the lights of the night.

"You don't want everyone to see?" he asks, a smirk on his face.

"Not when the people paying for me to be here could see," you say. Your lips look swollen and wet from the kiss, and it makes him want to grab you again.

"You're the one who kissed me," he says, his voice low. And you know there's more he's implying, that you weren't just the one who kissed him but that you had rocked against his hand, had wanted his touch. That you'd kissed him desperately, making him unable to stop himself. The implication is inappropriate, the accusation he's laid on you not fair in the slightest. He has no way of knowing what you were trying to make him do, or what you wanted to happen. You hadn't said a word. And yet, he's totally right, making it hard for you to respond.

"That's-," you sigh, your pussy still throbbing from your proximity.

"My room is on the 7th floor," he says.

"Okay," you reply. It's all you can say. You stand completely still, stuck to the spot, waiting for him to move. Instead he puts his wet fingers in his mouth, sucking off your slick in one smooth motion, humming in satisfaction. Your mouth gapes at his lewdness, struck now by just how visible you both obviously are.

"Let's go," he says, motioning his head towards the door.

Your legs move automatically, your mind playing over and over the visual of him licking his fingers, the look of utter bliss on his face. As you walk the hallway he comes behind you, putting a hand on the small of your back, making your body melt into him slightly. It feels good but you gently remove his hand, not wanting anyone to see. You pray that neither Bea nor any of her family are in the lobby when you enter, and thankfully, your prayers are answered. Nor does anyone join you two on the elevator, which makes you willing to stand closer to Hongjoong than you would any other stranger. But still, you don't touch him. As you both exit you walk behind him, almost enough space between you that you could believably look like two total strangers, walking to separate rooms. Until he unlocks his door, holding it open as you slip inside, like you're really not supposed to be in here.

As soon as he closes the door he's pulled you to him, his back slamming into the wall as you nearly crash together, the air between you thick with lust.

"I'm almost twice as old as you, y/n," he whispers in your ear, feeling your pussy clench against his thigh that you're straddling, your mouth on his neck. "You like that," he states, not even asking you anymore. "You like that I'm way too old for you. Too old to be touching you like this."

It's wrong, so wrong and you know it, but the further he pushes it the more you're surrendering to what's happening, to what your body truly craves.

"You've never been fucked right by those stupid boys at your college, have you? You need me to fuck you right, to show you how good you can feel. That's why you were bratty with me, you wanted me to be riled up. Want me to fuck you hard, like I'm mad. Like I'm punishing you," he growls, his breathing heavy as you bite down on his neck, sending sparks of pain and pleasure through his head. "Fuck, you really want me mad, don't you?" he asks and you whine in response, your whole body tingly with anticipation.

"Get on your knees," he says, pulling you back from him, your hair already a mess from his hands, the straps of your dress falling down your shoulders and nearly making your tits spill out. "Open your mouth," he commands, and you follow immediately, your wide eyes looking up at him in desire, his thumb running over your bottom lip. "I like when you do what I say," he says, pinching your cheek and making you blush, the praise making your insides turn to jelly. He unzips his pants smoothly, undoing the button and swiftly pulling out his hard cock, the tip a slight shade of red and already leaking slightly.

"Look what you did to me," he says, palming himself, your tongue nearly falling out of your mouth as you salivate over his beautiful cock. "I thought for a moment I'd have to come up here and deal with this all on my own, after you eye-fucked me all dinner," he continues, slowly stroking his length, moving closer to your open and waiting lips. "I should have known you weren't wearing any panties from the way you were acting," he says, gently running his tip along your outstretched tongue, spreading your spit around your face with it and making a mess of you. "No bra, no panties. You wanted to be fucked tonight." Slowly he enters your mouth, gently holding your head as he pushes further in, gently tapping the back of your throat and making you gag. You moan, your pussy clenching around nothing, wanting him to fill all of your holes at once. "That feels good, doesn't it. Gagging on my cock," he smirks, your eyes fluttering closed as he pushes in again, this time a little harder. "Eyes on me baby, don't look away," he says, slowly beginning to fuck your throat, gently enough not to choke you but deep enough to make you repeatedly gag, your spit covering his cock and running down your chin, your face a complete mess. "Fuck, your mouth feels good," he groans, his face scrunching up in pleasure for a moment, before he looks down to meet your eyes again, which are now glued to him, glued to every change in his expression, every flick of his tongue across his bottom lip. "I'm gonna go harder baby, I know you can take it," he warns you before picking up his pace, his cock nearly bottoming out in your mouth as he holds your head in place, repeatedly fucking into your throat. You're automatically swallowing around him, your body's reflexive actions taking over. "Fuck, so good," Hongjoong sighs, your head feeling light from the lack of oxygen and your body swimming in pleasure. You could let him use your throat all night if he wanted to, especially if he keeps talking to you like that. Like you're dumb and you don't even know what you want. Like he has to tell you or you'll never figure it out.

Finally you choke hard, your body instinctively pulling you back, and he pulls out of your mouth letting you catch you breath, stroking a hand through your hair. You run a hand across your mouth, trying in vain to clean yourself up a bit, wiping the saliva on your dress and staring up at him open mouthed, your entire body covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Hey, don't ruin this," he says pulling at your dress, moving behind you to help take it off. He slowly undoes the zipper, gently pulling the straps down and off your arms before helping you stand to step out of it. Completely bare, you stand in front of him, his hand coming up to spank you, grabbing your ass hungrily in his hand. You yelp at the impact, like you weren't expecting it. Like you hadn't been sticking your ass out ever so slightly, arching your back to add to the affect. "Don't write checks you can't cash, doll," he says, making you giggle and turn your head to face him, a look of utter delight on your face. "It really makes you happy when I scold you, doesn't it," he says, staring you down.

"Why are you so clothed?" you ask, finding your words.

"You want to see me naked?" he teases.

"Just seems like you're hiding something. Maybe under all that nice clothing you're really not that built," you laugh, knowing it would strike a nerve. It wasn't hard to tell that he cared about his figure.

"Go sit on your hands on the bed," he retorts, his eyes narrowing, as he starts taking off his watch, undoing the clasp on his chain. He sets both down on the table gently, pulling his shirt over his head next, revealing that most of his abdomen is also covered in tattoos, his broad shoulders and broad chest. Slowly he sits on the side of the bed to untie his shoes, periodically looking up at you to make sure you haven't moved, moving almost comically slow. You wriggle in anticipation, watching him slowly reveal himself, his muscular thighs finally on display to you as he pulls down his pants and boxers, his cock hard and a deeper shade of red now, still glistening from your spit.

"Lay on your stomach," he says, moving over you when you oblige, raking the hair out of your face so he can see you. "This is what you get for sticking your ass out," he says, swiftly moving down to lick over your hole, making you gasp at the coldness of his tongue. Immediately the feeling runs to your clit, your entire crotch alive with pleasure, your back arching instinctively to meet his movements. He spreads your cheeks to get better access, moving his tongue in quick circles around your tight entrance, your body slowly relaxing from the pleasure he's providing.

And suddenly he's off of you, reaching into his bedside drawer and pulling out a bottle, swiftly lubing the fingers of his right hand and moving them to your waiting hole, gently pushing one in. You groan, the tight muscles stretching already, your body arching even further to give him the perfect angle as he gently starts pumping in and out of you.

"You like getting your ass eaten, I knew you would. So dirty," he says, making you whine in agreement, your brows scrunched together in pleasure. Soon he adds another finger, the stretch again making you groan, your body instinctively tightening up at the intrusion. "I know you can take it," he says, not even attempting to comfort you. "Don't brats like getting their asses fucked?" he asks, his words making your clit ache, your body finally releasing again as he works you open with two fingers, taking the opportunity to quickly add another. "I knew it," he says, satisfied with how quickly he's stretched you open, how pliant your body is in his hands, how he's getting exactly what he wants from you. Still fucking you with his fingers, he opens the lube bottle again with his other hand, generously dousing his achingly hard cock. Gently he pulls his fingers out of you, frozen for a moment staring at the way your hole has opened up, nearly drooling from the visual.

"Spread you legs," he says, pushing your knees apart himself, pulling you ass up towards him, just where he wants you. Lining himself up, he slowly pushes in, the stretch even more severe this time, making you whine in pain, your breaths short and stifled with your head now shoved into his pillows. "What, you can't take it? Is it too big?" he asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "My little brat can't take my cock in her ass?"

Tears start forming in your eyes from how turned on you are, the pain a secondary feeling as it all starts to feel just right, as it starts morphing into only pleasure as your muscles finally relent. You feel like you're being split open, like you're opened up more than ever before, like he's gutting you from the inside. Finally he bottoms out, reaching into you further than you thought you could feel, your clit throbbing painfully with need.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans from above you, brushing a hand along your cheek in an almost sweet gesture, seeing the single tear stain on your cheek. He waits a moment, waiting to feel if your body is ready, and suddenly your hips are moving into his like your body is begging him to move. He slowly pulls out, almost all the way, then thrusts back in, making you gasp at the intense pleasure, your breath nearly getting caught in your throat. Grabbing your hips he starts forcefully thrusting, chasing his own pleasure as he's sucked into your ass, the tight muscles threatening to make him come in an instant. Desperate for some relief you move your hand to your clit, desperately trying to circle it as he rocks you hard with the force of his thrusts. His eyes are glued to your ass, glued to the way his cock looks buried inside you, and your face, the way your mouth hangs permanently open as you moan in earnest, clearly not controlling a single sound that is coming out. The raw sounds make him fuck into you even harder, the way you sound so pathetically fucked out, like you can't believe this feels so good. Eventually his eyes roam down again and spot your hand, swatting it away in an instant, his anger boiling up again.

"Is my cock not enough?" he scolds, his voice gravelly from breathing so raggedly, the air in the room stiflingly hot. In this position it's hard, but quickly he finds a good angle and lands a sharp smack on your clit, the pain lancing through your core like lightning, and suddenly your whole body is shaking, your nerves completely on fire. "Even with my cock buried in your ass you want to piss me off, don't you?" His voice is raised, nearly to the point of losing control, but still very calculated. He lands another sharp slap on your clit, this time not as hard, but in an instant your orgasm washes over you, your whole body shaking hard as you squeeze down around his cock making it hard for him to keep moving.

"Fuck, baby, shit," Hongjoong curses, his climax hitting him by surprise, his cock milked by your tight walls squeezing down on him, your body taught with just how hard you came. His orgasm crashes over him fast and hard, his body going limp just after yours does, as you both collapse in a pile on the bed, his cum coating the walls of your ass in silky wetness. Your legs are still shaking, tucked up underneath you, his cock still buried deep inside. The position is awkward but you don't even feel it, the pleasure still rippling through you as you breath hard into the soft pillow. Hongjoong crashes onto your back, his arms instinctively wrapping around you, his chest and stomach rapidly rising and falling from his heavy breathing. His skin feels sticky and hot against yours, his hot breath fanning over your cheek as he plants a kiss there, intently watching your face as you come down.

"I'm gonna pull out now, okay?" he asks, eliciting a hum of agreement from you. Slowly he pulls backwards, his cum spilling out of you the moment he's pulled out entirely, spilling down your ass cheek onto the bedsheets. Hongjoong makes his way to the bathroom, quickly cleaning himself up before grabbing a washcloth for you, dousing it in luke warm water. Coming back to the bed he gently moves you onto your back, to the side of the pool of cum. He gently wipes you down, making you moan when he brushes over your clit, making himself chuckle.

Glancing over at the clock beside his bed you see it's nearly 11pm, your mind spinning. Quickly you move to the ground to rummage through your purse, glancing at your phone to see a text from Beatrice reading 'I'm back now, don't stay out too late miss.'

Be back soon, you write back.

"I should be going," you say, trying to stand up, your wobbly legs making it difficult. Hongjoong is at your side in a moment, stabilizing you, helping you to sit down on the bed while he grabs your dress off the floor. You hastily pull it over your head, running your fingers through your hair and feeling the knots that have formed. Quickly you zip the back of your dress, shove your phone in your purse and stand to slip on your sandals, not wanting to keep her waiting. The sudden quietness of Hongjoong also has you feeling slightly on edge, and really your head is just spinning, from every unexpected thing that happened.

"I'm not still mad, you know," he says gently, grabbing your hand as you move to breeze past him.

"Yeah?" you ask, looking at him with confusion.

"You don't need to still be acting like a kid who is in trouble," he says, kissing your hand. "That was just, that. You can talk to me like anyone else, now."

You eye him, swallowing thickly. What does one even say, now? Could he tell how inexperienced you were with hookups?

"I'm not sure what's going on in that pretty head of yours. I hope it's happy thoughts."

You nod, a smirk playing on your lips. You're speechless, unable to think a complete thought. It all just plays in your head, his tongue on your ass, his fingers stretching you out, his cock pounding into you so hard. And the smack on your clit, the way it made you come so fast, the ghost of the feeling still present in your core.

"Not those thoughts. You're gonna jump me again," he laughs, and finally you smack him, punching his arm soon afterwards. Pushing past him you walk fast, opening his door and spinning around, your eyes piercing as you meet his.

"What, you can't take my teasing?" he asks, but suddenly his door swings shut, your face gone in a flash.

As you saunter down the hall to the elevator you feel fucking amazing, swinging your purse over your shoulder and flipping your hair to the side, your sleepy eyes boring holes into the metal doors.

Well, she did tell you to have some fun. You just hoped Beatrice wouldn't be too mad you fucked her uncle.

[wonryllis]

✶ 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝒟𝐎𝐋𝐋? RICH BOY ENHYPEN PINNING AFTER YOU.

目录──────𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌.

𝓉𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗘 ⋅ enhypen showing that you're not just one of the girls. wordcount total 2882 (approx 0.4k each) ⭑ CONTAINS— female!reader, fluff, suggestive, lots of swearing. % strongly recommend listening to ›› the respective songs while reading! jungwon's is inspired by ␥ kavin and kaning. ( THE ARCHIVE? ) PLS REBLOG ><

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚

ぃ ⏤ now playing. HELLGIRL BY ARI ABDUL

"shit. you gotta wear this one, angel," heeseung groans in satisfaction, ignorant and indifferent to the fact that all the store employees could hear him, someone who never brings over girls to places like these, going insane over one. and the fact that you were unable to wrap your head around this situation just yet.

it was surreal and it was nerve wrecking. but heeseung was adamant that he needed you.

needed you to dress so fucking gorgeous and stand by his side as his date for the night while he paraded around greeting his parents' guests. showing them that he is capable of being committed by bringing along a partner for the first time ever. that's what he tells you—

"is this really fine?" you ask again, hands dusting over the sleek satin hugging your skin in a way that it tickled. heeseung stands up and strides overs to where you stand, arms sliding around your waist to pull you against him. "it's more than fine, absolutely stunning," leaning into your neck to leave kisses, "and so hot," right infront of everyone, no one daring to say a word to him, except you.

you who has been an exception to all his rules, you who has made him want to do things he has never wanted to before. you who has swept him off his feet.

you push against his chest in an attempt to stop him,"we'll be late, should go now," he hums in a low growl, lips nipping right against your ear before he pulls away with much exasperation almost unsated. clicking his tongue in annoyance for the staff to hurry the billing once he's done admiring you. unable to stand that anyone beside him see you dressed so pretty.

"just smile and follow my lead," heeseung tells you once you arrive at the venue. giving you an encouraging look as he instructs the valet to wait until you seem calm enough to step out. that's what he tells you— heart eyes and odd actions speaking for themselves. his hands find your waist when you finally walk up the stairs, breath shaky as you pass the entrance.

"relax angel, 'm right here, we can leave whenever you want," he kisses the side of your head, lips lightly touching your styled hair. never caring about who's looking and who's thinking what. if only you knew it too.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚

ぃ ⏤ now playing. STAY BY ARI ABDUL

"look behind you, princess," the voice incoming from your phone suddenly sounds too loud, paired with faint footsteps coming to a halt. jay's lips break into a wide smile when you turn around in an instant to look at him. your eyes following his hands holding an enormous bouquet of red roses, before you notice anything else.

before you notice the want in his eyes. the want for you.

"jay? i thought you were in— " you speak into the phone, eyes locked with his, but before you can finish he hangs up the call. approaching you with quick steps and immediately pulling you into a kiss. one that's short but deep enough to convey his feelings. "berlin? yeah, but i flew back for you," he breathes out against your lips.

"why?" "you know why love," his fingers twirl the hair falling into face, tucking them away and cupping your cheek as he gives you a smile before stepping away.

he waits for you to say something, to address his feelings but like always you avoid it and like always jay lets you. alas there will come a time when you would no longer be able to deny his love, so until then he will continue to show you all ways you own his heart in. his forever princess."what about that conference you were going to attend with your dad?" you ask, accepting his bouquet.

watching him with a soft giggle as he struggles to pull out a single rose and place it behind your ear. "don't worry about it," in a reassuring tone he leads you to his car. teasing you of a surprise each time you question where you are headed.

asking you to have your eyes closed while he leads you to the rooftop of a high-rise building owned by his family, illuminated by pretty lights and flowery wreaths, and a firework show worth a million.

all just for you.

to pose a smile on your face and to be the one to put it. to be the reason of your happiness and to be the person beside you in your best memories,"happy new year, princess," jay whispers into you ear as you open your eyes to see all of it. "jay this—" you gasp in a trance, gaze hooked on the sky while his is fixated in the way the fireworks shine against your pretty orbs and the gloss on your lips,"it's all for you,"

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡

ぃ ⏤ now playing. MEDDLE ABOUT BY CHASE ATLANTIC

"you owe me. you can't keep avoiding me forever, doll," jake chuckles, noticing how you turn the other way after catching a glimpse of him. finding it adorable how you do everything you can to not cross paths with him.

leaving him no choice but to wait for you outside your university, leaning against his black lykan hypersport; attracting unwanted attention while his eyes only look for your cute panicked figure amidst the crowd.

"i told you it was a mistake—" you refute, throwing a glare at his smug face as he drives right beside you, following your every step, nonchalant about all the stares you both get as long as you agree to him taking you out. "get in the car," or the other way round, he's fine with both. frustrated and knowing you'd never be able to escape him, you decide to give in.

"you owe me lunch," jake grins as his eyes watch you get into the passenger seat just like the passenger princess you are.

his passenger princess. first and last in his beloved car.

"jake this— isn't this too—" your heart skips beats at the sight of the dock and the luxury cruise restaurant closing in, scared and nervous about how much you'd have to spend but jake just shushes you. getting out the car first and coming over to open the door for you; one hand holding yours and the other cushioning your head as you step out.

"just let me have your time and i'll let you off of staining my prada with coffee," he begs, afraid you'd walk out of here if he were to tell you the real reason. if he were to tell you that you have his heart and no matter what you do his feelings are not changing. if he were to tell you he wanted to take you out to all these places and spoil you rotten and occupy your mind like you occupy his.

if he were to tell you it was indeed not your fault for he bumped into you on purpose to find an excuse to talk to you.

"but—" jake shushes you again, fingers rubbing against your lips as he shakes his head before pulling out the chair for you and helping you sit properly,"don't think too much doll, just do as i say, please?" planning to keep you busy until the sun goes down so he can take you to for a ride on his yacht.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡

ぃ ⏤ now playing. BABYDOLL BY ARI ABDUL

"fuck baby, don't cry like that," sunghoon panics, his fingers grazing under your eyes to gently wipe the tears. afraid if he's not careful enough, he'll break you. "as much as i love the way you look so pretty like this, tears are not for someone like you," he has no idea how to soothe your frantically crying figure, slouched in the passenger seat against the expensive leather of his aston martin.

his hands fumble around in an attempt to think of ways he could just make you feel better and smile for him. those adorable crinkle of your eyes that have him whipped.

fuming each time he thinks of the moron who took that opportunity away from him by making you sad. he swears if he finds him, he'll beat the living daylights out of him. remind him not to linger anywhere around his girl.

sunghoon softly cups your cheek in his palm and leans in to kiss you, lips moving slow and sensual, "forget him, let me make you happy," he whispers into your mouth once he pulls away, foreheads touching and hands caressing your face lovingly. he makes sure your belt is secured before driving off to one of the luxury malls in the city, ones where you need to be of a certain level to enter.

a place you probably could never have the chance to enter if it weren't for him.

"my princess gotta shop her sadness out, hmm?" sunghoon coos as he stops outside the building, watching you gape in surprise, surprised himself that you are yet to realize just how much you mean to him.

"come on, i'll buy you whatever you lay your eyes on," he insists before you have the chance to deny him.

his hands rest at the back of your waist, leading you inside after handing his keys to the valet. dropping a soft kiss on your temple when you watch his vip card being inspected with a nervous breath of how elite this place has to be.

and knowing how new you must feel to all this, sunghoon pulls you closer with the intention of making it known that this is how it's gonna be from now, "get used to it, baby," you're not his yet but he's gonna treat you like you are. after all it's only a matter of time before it happens.

𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗪𝗢𝗢

ぃ ⏤ now playing. GOOD GIRL BY THOMAS LAROSA

"good girl, you did a great job," sunoo pats your head teasingly amused at the confusion adorning your features. "sunoo, what were you doing there! you don't even have marketing?" the way you close in, demanding an explanation assures him that you indeed were affect by his presence, by the eye contact he held with you the entire time you were giving your presentation.

walking into the lecture hall in the middle of it as if he owned the place and taking a seat at a spot that directly put him in your line of sight. smirking, raising his brows and pushing his tongue against his cheeks to distract and annoy you.

"would you believe me if i said i came to see you?" his hands took ahold of your wrists playing with your fingers as he waited for you to answer.

"liar," you whisper, suddenly conscious of the implication behind his words and it makes him chuckle, of course what did he expect? you're hard to get, and perhaps that's the reason he feels so attracted, almost crazy over you.

like something he has to have, someone he has to have.

he takes a step closer, his varsity hat poking against the top of your head as his eyes bore into yours just the way they did inside earlier,"see? what do you want me to say then?" he whispers back, tone suddenly changing into a serious one. "you can't just enter any class like that," your innocent claim goes through him from one ear and falls through the other. how naive you are.

"i can if it's my dad's university," he can't help but chuckle at the expression on your face when you put the pieces together and realize it. all those times you came across him in places with strict attendance, it all made sense now.

"as adorably as you scold me, you're gonna see me everywhere you go," sunoo warns, leaning in impossibly close, lips hovering over yours,"you should stop fooling yourself baby,"

his hands move from your wrists to rest against the wall behind, voice dropping an octave,"and you should stop fooling around just because you can," you bite back, pressing your palm into his chest to push him back. "i'm fooling around because i want you, and i will have you," "you—" "we have a party this weekend at our summer villa, come with me?"

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡

ぃ ⏤ now playing. SINNERS BY ARI ABDUL AND THOMAS LAROSA

"jungwon? what are you doing here? are you okay?" it makes jungwon happy to see you worrying about him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pant as he watches you walk around the counter to his figure by the door. finding his cerulean blue chevrolet corvette 2lz parked in his usual spot, and him still dressed in the armani and hermès set you saw him in an hour ago when he dropped you off at your uncle's flower shop.

"mhm, just wanted to see my pretty girl again," he grins cockily once you realize there's nothing wrong and he's just trying playing around like always.

albeit to jungwon, it's never been a play and you have never been a toy.

this has been his way of showing you that you're not just another girl he's chasing after; because yang jungwon has never chased as opposed to what you think. and to harbour such deep and honest feelings that compel him to do what he has never done, that should have given you the hint by now. perhaps he'll just have to try a tad bit harder.

"how do you wear this?" he struts inside, passing by you to the space behind the counter you previously stood at, dangling a lone apron by his pinky and raising his brows at you, waiting. "your clothes will get dirty!" your attempts to curb him fall through for jungwon's persistence to stay with you holds like a strong wall, incapable of budging.

"i don't really care," jungwon's hands loop around the strings in a way that has the apron falling off making you giggle as you give in and just step in to help him,"idiot, that's not how you do it," you mumble.

and all he can think of is how he wants to be your idiot.

"how does this look? i think it looks so pretty on you," he says, putting a messy wreath on your head. to jungwon there's always flowers blooming everywhere you go, sweet scent overtaking all his scenes believing that's how you intoxicated him.

you slap away his hands in a shy chuckle that he doesn't understand, did he say something wrong? not aware and quite literally clueless of his own effect. by the time the sun sets down, you're asleep with your head down on the counter, facing him. and jungwon admires the way you looks so pretty, prettier than any flower.

𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜

ぃ ⏤ now playing. STUCKINMYBRAIN BY CHASE ATLANTIC

"riki?" oh. you're here? riki looks up at the sound of your footsteps getting closer, halting a metre away from him, like you always do, not too close, not too far and it drives him crazy. "what are you doing here?" you ask, confused to find him waiting outside your mundane apartment building with his out of place red ferrari sf90.

"uh, you left this in the car last time," he fumbles out a dior liquid blush, clearly brand new and a shade you have never used before.

"that's not mine," giggling, you walk over to the other side, opening the passenger seat door to fish out the gloss you actually did leave and waving it in the air to show him,"this is mine richboy," the soft sounds of laughter, your teasing voice.

his favorite thing in the world as of late.

you who has him smitten with infatuation, unable to get you off his mind no matter how much he tries. you who never gives him the answer he wants but never pushes him away either. you who makes him feel like a pathetic loser, you who makes him want to try as many times as he can to win your heart.

"it's a gift," he quickly improvises, wanting you to accept it, of getting a chance to give you something. "you're gifting me a blush?" you question and it throws him off, blush?,"wait, it's not a lipgloss— i, i had no idea, i have never—" riki swears, he really had no clue,"bought makeup?" he nods and it makes you burst into a fit of laughter again. it warms his heart, leaning against his car and watching you with eyes that speak volumes of his feelings.

feelings that anyone could notice, anyone but you.

he lets you revel in his silly naivety, content to know you are not longer sad as you were a few days ago.

"now this suits you pretty little face," he says once you seem to calm down, bewildered at his sudden compliment while he walks over to you.

cupping your face and caressing your cheeks,"so pretty," mumbling under his breath, loud enought to reach your ears,"it's boring when you cry, baby," his lips hover over your own as both of your heartbeats pick up in sync, breath getting caught up at the shift in the atmosphere. "let's go on a drive, we'll get you a bunch of pretty glosses to wear for me,"

TAGLIST ( open. ) @kangseulgithegreat @s00buwu @lilyuwon @pockyyasii @nctislifue @ashtxrie @miniature-tragedy @jayujus @brachives @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly @eeunoia @nxzz-skz @shawnyle @potato0579 @enhastolemyheart @ro-diaries @aaa-sia @okwonyo @snoopypupp @enhabooks @jjunae @criminalyun

[tonycries]

Why Can't I Keep My Fingers Off You? [Part 2] - G.S. 

Synopsis. “Besides, Toru, just because it worked for you doesn’t mean it’ll work for me.” “Wanna bet?” For Satoru, convincing you to take the aphrodisiac chocolate too wasn’t the hard part - the hard part was being shoved into that bathroom stall, cock throbbing, mind spinning - trying not to beg for mercy. 

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected sex, slight femdom, overstimulation (male), lots of cum, you absolutely ruin Satoru, semi-public sex, subby! Satoru, aphrodisiac sex, multiple rounds, shutting up Gojo Satoru by making him cum in his pants, pet names (darling, my girl), swearing.

Word count. 3.7k

A/N. Can be read as a standalone, but PART 1 HERE.

Bros this was mad hard to write oml. Art by @_3aem on X.

Satoru had everything he needed to absolutely ruin you tonight.

Overpriced Cartier glasses? Check.

Jet-black Hellcat freshened up, ready with a little surprise for you inside? Check.

You, all dolled up and brows furrowed adorably at him? Holy shit, check.

“Toru, if we’ve missed our reservation because you had beef with the neighborhood cat again…”

“He was looking at you wrong! I had to defend your honor!” Dramatic protests falling on deaf ears, Satoru speeds through the darkening city streets, still grumbling under his breath about “cats these days”.

With your fiancé being absolutely swamped with missions recently, you’d been anticipating this night for weeks now.

Little did you know, Satoru had just as much - if not more.

Soon enough, the neon lights of that upscale, new restaurant you’d been absolutely dying to visit recently come into view. 

Okay, it’s time. 

“Y’know…” he begins, glancing at you with that familiar mirthful glint in his eyes. Laughter bubbling to his throat at your knowing stare, he plows on “Remember that one night where I just so happened to come across your special chocolate?”

“You mean swiped from my secret stash?”

“Semantics” he waves off. “But anyway, I was thinking…” he voice trails off mischievously as he swiftly turns to grab the mysterious black bag sitting on the backseat that you’d been eyeing suspiciously ever since you got in the car.

Oh shit, so that’s what he was onto. Eyes widening, “Toru, no.”

He whines, a pout forming on his lips. “C’monnn, no one’s gonna know except me. I want to make this night unforgettable, my girl.”

You raise a brow, “Unforgettable? Toru, your idea of unforgettable will end up with both of us arrested.”  After the madness of last time, you’d ignored his sticky note for a reason!

Letting out an exasperated sigh, you try to justify - probably to yourself just as much as Satoru, “And just because the aphrodisiac worked for you doesn’t mean it’ll work for me.”

He wiggles his eyebrows, twinkling eyes still undeterred. “Wanna bet? I’ll do the dishes for all of next month. We’ll never know till we find out, darling.” 

You narrow your eyes at the hand already snaking its way inside the bag, faded finger marks from last time still searing into your skin. Catching Satoru’s gaze - behind the amusement, something else shines darkly. 

Shit.

Goosebumps erupt down your spine. 

A beat passes. One. Two. Only the revving of the engine filling the tense air. 

“...two months.” 

It’s all Satoru can do to not jump in joy in his seat right now - knowing his girl, you’ll probably take back what you said and immediately bonk him on the head for being so ridiculous. 

“Deal.” he mutters lowly, pulling up to the driveway.

 A flash of hot pink. In the short time it takes the valet to reach your car, Satoru has already split that too-familiar chocolate, holding out the bigger part to you, eyes gleaming with excitement. “I swear this’ll be a night you won’t forget.” he grins, biting into the chocolate. 

God, he was going to be the death of you. 

The decadent flavor washes over your tongue, a slight tingling on your tastebuds. But, it’s still just chocolate, right? You scoff - at least you won’t have to do the dishes for two months.

Now, Satoru knows he won’t have to do the dishes for two months. 

Ah, how heavenly you’d be, splayed out and begging for mercy underneath him. Heels clacking against the polished tile and your hand warm in his as the maître d’hôtel ushers you both inside, dick twitching in anticipation. Shit, was the chocolate working already?

He risks a glance at how you’re faring - nope, still normal. That’s okay, he’ll be driving you crazy in no time.

---

Okay, maybe he won’t be driving you crazy in no time. 

How dare you sit there so gorgeous and unbothered, sipping slowly on your wine while he’s here mind whirling around how he’ll fuck you right here right now on this table without getting arrested for public indecency.

Fuck, it was hitting him hard.

Cock aching, heat rushing to his cheeks, eyes bleary - he sighs in frustration, resigning himself to do the dishes for two months.

Why did he even think of this? Damn his big fucking ego, he should’ve never taken that chocolate again. Maybe if he eats you out just right he could lower it to-

A feathery touch on his thigh. Too light for any sort of friction - just enough to set his skin ablaze. So deft that Satoru thinks he must’ve imagined it.

Until there it is again. Soft caress dancing delicately up his thigh. 

You.

A shiver creeps down his spine, blood rushing straight to his dick. Probably for the first time in his life, Satoru is speechless - maybe because you’ve reached underneath the table, teasingly sliding a heel along the top of his thigh.

“…darling…”

“Hmm?”

He blinks away the haze in his eyes, raising them to meet yours. “Wha-”

Oh. Oh, fuck.

What has he gotten himself into?

Eyes half-lidded, brows furrowed, and looking into his soul with a predatory glint that jolts the great Gojo Satoru right to his very core - and to his throbbing cock. He’d be lucky to make it out alive. Maybe he should just beg for his life right now.

Minutes tick by - or maybe it was seconds - Satoru is clueless. Mind only focused on the heel inching closer and closer, dangerously near to where he needed you the most. A smug smirk curls your pretty lips as his mouth drops into a soft oh.

The air crackles with an unspoken tension - his hips trying to subtly move you towards the erection furiously straining against his pants. He needed it so bad. It’s fucking pathetic, he knows. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck as your sole grazes his aching head. Pressing down. Hard.

“Fuck!”

Stomach flipping - before Satoru could fully process what the fuck was happening - he cums embarrassingly in thick spurts that pool on his pants, soaking right through the fabric, probably smearing on your new heels.

Head spinning, he bites his knuckles hard enough to draw blood, muffling the desperate moans threatening to escape his lips. 

He grinds his hips in shallow, mindless motions in a desperate attempt for more friction.

Instead, he gets the opposite.

“Behave, Toru.” you warn, swiftly resting your heel back on the floor, voice strained with something that makes his sensitive dick quiver animalistically. 

You huff out a chuckle at the almost-inaudible whimper of disappointment that rips from his throat. It’s laughable, really, he was supposed to be the one ruining you. This was so not fucking suave.

Face burning - whether due to the chocolate or embarrassment at the warm patch on his pants, he doesn’t even know - Satoru wishes the Earth would swallow him up whole. Would it be overkill to just teleport outta here?

The only thing that snaps Satoru out of his little reverie is your pretty lips forming into a tut. “Now now, Toru. It’s rude to make a mess at a restaurant. Why don’t we go to the restrooms and get you cleaned up, hm?”

Oh. Shit. 

A firm grip on his arm, his hands desperately covering his crotch. 

He was not going to make it out of this alive. 

Honestly, it wasn’t hard to bribe the waitress into letting you follow into the restroom after your fiancé - and put up an Out of Order sign promptly afterward. The actual hard part was trying not to rip off his clothes and give into your desires before you two even made it there. But you couldn’t let anyone else see him like that, of course. 

You were sure that if you had Satoru’s powers then you would’ve hollow purpled everyone here and taken him already.

You were going to ruin him.

Mind running a mile a minute, Satoru wouldn’t even be surprised if he’d just teleported to the restroom. If he was in a better state of mind he might’ve even admired the decor.

“My girl.” he breathes out, voice ragged. It’s all that is said before your lips are on his. 

It was like a fever dream - the bruising urgency of your lips, your aching pussy, and the heat of the stall as your quickened breaths mingle in a desperate dance. Your tongue intertwining with his. 

Manicured nails ripping his shirt open, you don’t have half the mind to register the designer buttons hitting the floor.

Satoru’s lips hazily chase yours as you pull away delicate strings of spit snapping just as quickly as your sanity. 

Your mouth waters at Satoru’s chest in all its chiseled glory, creamy skin peeking out from whatever remnants of the shirt were clinging to his sculpted shoulders. You wanted to ruin him.

“You dirtied my heels, Toru.” you frown, mockingly innocent. A choked-up gasp leaves his throat as you snake a hand down to firmly grip the erection straining against Satoru’s wet pants. Unmoving. “What shall we do about that, hmm?” 

“Ah! Please, my girl.”

“Please what? Use your words, Toru.”

“Please. Wanna cum so bad.”

Satoru learned the hard way that he could never turn back after uttering those words. 

Though, he already had an inkling once you immediately slam him against the stall door, fumbling with his belt, nails digging hard into his prominent v-line. “If you say so, Toru. Better not stop till you’re shooting blanks.”

The only thing that registers in his mind is the deadbolt echoing throughout the empty bathroom and his still-rock hard cock throbbing in your hands. 

“Ah- hah! Fuck.” low groans leave his throat at each jerky movement down his length. 

Head thrown back, pants bunched underneath his heavy balls, your tits pressing against his body as your hands urgently move along his veined length - up, up, up. 

Your thumb harshly teases his flushed head, spreading the precum from his leaking tip lewdly. “Oh God.”

His knees buckle, hands slamming against the top of the stall hard enough to make the walls tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. Mind spinning, he doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore.

“Toru~ Gonna let me join in on the fun?” your dangerous purr sends his cock twitching, breath hot against his ear.

Your cunt quivers, slick soaking your panties and trailing down your legs at the pornographic moans spilling from his lips as you fucked his thick cock with your fist. You wanted him so badly it was driving you insane.

Straddling a muscled thigh, your clothed core meets the fabric of his pants. It was already ruined, so what was another stain?

You grind your hips down on him, hard. Humping him like an animal in heat. 

Your slick seeping into the fabric of his leg. Harsh texture stimulating your needy cunt so painfully good. Swollen folds parting, mewls of pleasure leave your swollen lips as your clit catches on the rough fabric of his overly expensive pants. Over and over. 

Distantly, you register a strong hand tugging roughly on the thin fabric of your panties - easily ripping it and letting it fall to god-knows-where. 

Your hand doesn’t let up either, milking Satoru’s cock mercilessly the way you’d been dying to ever since you stepped foot into his restaurant. Your head spins, hips moving so animalistically on Satoru’s thigh.

A hand reaches down to sensually massage his heavy balls, squeezing and pressing hard circles - just the way you knew he liked it. 

“Oh, my girl. Always so good t’me- Ah! Hngh, gonna-” 

Satoru doesn’t get to finish his sentence before he’s pumping hot ropes of seed that decorate your pretty hands. Hips fucking up into you desperately.

You’re not far behind, juices squirting all over that expensive fabric, pooling on the tiled ground with a drip! drip! drip! that bounces off the walls of the restroom.

You two were so fucking loud. 

But right now, you wouldn’t even mind if anyone walked in to see your Satoru so debauched - as long as they see you fucking the soul out of him as well. 

It wasn’t enough.

“You said you wanted to cum, didn’t you, Toru?”

A shiver runs down his spine - all the way to his dick. “What? W-wait, darling. Fuck- Oh!” the strained words tumble out of Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips as you push down his soaked pants, kneeling to leave a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down to his twitching, thick base. 

“I won’t be merciful, Toru.”

Ah, you could do this forever.

Nipping teasingly till you’re satisfied with the bite marks decorating his pelvis, you pool the saliva in your mouth, spitting a long stream into his furiously flushed head.

Once. Twice. Mixing enticingly with his precum, trailing down his length. “Ah! Hngh- oh, darling. So sensitive-” he bucks his hips into you, moaning loudly.

“You can do it f’me, Toru.” you murmur darkly against his twitching tip. Satoru keens as you take him until his fat head hits the back of your throat, pulsing around your warm mouth.

Your fiancé’s choking on his breaths more than you as you hollow your mouth, bobbing up and down at a ruthless pace. Gagging, you shove his throbbing dick all the way in with a desperation that eclipses the need for air, till you’re nose-deep in those tufts of snowy hair. 

“Oh, darling. Jus’ like that. Losing m’mind.” he whines.

Your pussy quivers at Satoru’s slightly salty taste, making you moan around his rock-hard length. Drool and precum dribble down the corner of your mouth, mixing with the mascara running down your cheeks. It was debauched. It was messy. And it was exactly how you wanted him. 

Tonguing Satoru’s sensitive slit in a delicate dance, you feel drunk off his sinful moans as you suck on him desperately. Breathless. Craving for more. 

Looking up to see a delicate streak of tears falling down his pretty face at the overstimulation, your cunt clenches around nothing. Fuck, you could just devour him.

“Cum, Toru.”

It was too much for him- 

Tight balls twitching sensitively, he cums onto your ready tongue. Fucked out whimpers leave his lips, tears clinging to his long, white lashes as he paints your pretty mouth with his thick, white seed.

Ah, he was always your favorite taste. Tasted so good - so good that you could cum untouched. 

And you do.

Eyes rolling to the back of your head and pussy clamping down on nothing as you reach your high.

You milk his cock ruthlessly, relishing in the thick cum flowing down your throat. But it still wasn’t enough.

Removing yourself off his dick with a lewd pop! you reach a hand to grab Satoru’s flushed throat, nails placed right over his thundering pulse. With a single tug, the great Gojo Satoru is on his knees before you, in the bathroom of some fancy restaurant. 

Walls still quivering, you stand over him, connecting your sweaty forehead - and your mouth - with his. 

Kiss-bitten and smeared with your lipstick, Satoru’s lips are soft - or maybe that’s the cum coating yours. A part of you delights in his half-lidded, fucked out gaze as your eyes bore into his - does he even know what he’s doing anymore? 

Hot seed flowing down his throat, Satoru can do nothing else but kneel there and take it. He feels lightheaded, all the blood in his brain rushing to his cock as you suck on his tongue. This was driving him insane. You were insane.

And he fucking loved it.

“You d-drive me insane, my girl.” his words muffled by your hand still around his throat. His voice cracks with sensitivity in a way he would definitely be embarrassed about if he were in the right mind. 

Yet, how could he ever be with the slow, feral smile that spread across your beautiful face?

Leaning down, you whisper lowly against his ear. “I’m the same, Toru.” 

Maybe it’s your words, and the hot breath that sends shivers down his spine. Or maybe it’s the way you lift your dress so alluringly - cunt dripping on full display, slick trailing down your legs. 

All Satoru knows is, he’s surging forwards. He’s got your front pressed against the cold wall, cock twitching to life and bullying its way through your swollen folds. 

Mindlessly, a strong hand smacks against the stall as Satoru tries to keep himself steady. Too drunk off of you - off of your whimpers of his name, and the feeling of your plush walls clamping down on his throbbing erection, struggling to accommodate his size despite being so dripping wet. 

He doesn’t give a fuck. 

“Hngh- S’tight. Oh, fuck! S-sucking my cock back hah- in s-so needily” 

Ramming in and out of your hole at a merciless cadence, Satoru’s balls smack your clit so animalistically. You two feel like a pair of fucking animals. 

Shudders of overstimulation and pleasure wrack his body. Chest heaving, his blown-out eyes roll to the back of his head at the rapid, desperate thrusts inside your warm core. 

Pulling out all the way to slam back in mercilessly, Satoru could pass out at the sight of your ass jiggling as it arches to meet the rhythm of his hips. 

“God, m’girl. Gonna- gonna cum ah! Fill this pussy the way you want-” he groans raspily into the heady air of the stall, exhausted cock shooting wispy strings of cum that fill you up - some missing as he pumps into you, spilling out to paint your swollen folds white.

Before he knows it, a low hiss leaves his throat as you remove yourself off of his furiously pulsing cock - only to shove him seated on the commode. 

You take a split-second to admire your gorgeous fiancé - face flushed as much as the prettily leaking tip of his throbbing cock, eyes dazed and miles away, curtained by his sweaty white locks. A delicate trail of drool made its way down the corner of his ruby, kiss-bitten lips. Exactly how you wanted him.

What a fucking picture. Maybe you should take that chocolate more often…

“Toru~ Remember what I said? You’re not tapping out, are you?” you hum, eyes narrowing at the way his erection twitches so ferally at your dangerous tone. 

“Ah- don’t know- Can’t, please.”

You loom dangerously close, a hand reaching out to mockingly push his cheeks together, drool pooling at your fingertips. “I’ve told you before, Toru. Use your words. Please what?”

“M-mercy, please!” pathetic pleas muffled by your hand.

“Mercy?”

“Mercy!”

“No mercy for you, my darling Toru.”

The great Gojo Satoru, begging for mercy, will face none at your hands. 

You straddle his muscled legs, shivering with sensitivity. “Ah! Hah- Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god-” he whines nonstop as his quivering tip teases your swollen, messy folds. In one, fluid motion, you sheath him fully in your dripping cunt.

Ah, you feel so full. 

You relish in the way he twitches instinctively inside you. Steadying yourself using Satoru’s shoulders, you drag your cunt along his length, his prominent veins grazing that one spot inside you. Pulling out till his thick head teases your entrance, you drop down - inch by inch - over and over.

Satoru thinks he could cry right now - or maybe he already is. He doesn’t know, nor does he care - not when you’re so beautiful and fucked out, nails digging into his shoulders and heart eyes palpable in your gaze as you ride his sensitive cock into insanity.

He can’t stop the ragged moans that escape his swollen lips, head thrown back and hips bucking up exhaustedly into you to meet your every bounce. A hand is at his throat, pulling your face to his, “Don’t run away, Toru~”

He felt so raw. More a feral beast than a man as he watches his abused cock get swallowed up over and over by your wet pussy.

If he thought his dick was broken after this time then it’s really unsalvageable now.

He wanted to run away. He wanted more. He wanted you to keep looking at him with that fucking predatory gaze that made a carnal part of him twitch so good. He wanted to cum.

“I wan’- I wanna cum, please, my girl.” Satoru gasps out, teary eyes blown and looking up at you so delicately.

“Cum?”

“Yes.”

“Cum, Toru.”

Maybe it was the glint of fondness in your eyes, maybe it was the piercing of teeth as you bit down hard into the crook of his neck. Or maybe it was the way your snug cunt clamped down on him so sinfully as you cum as around him. But Satoru is immediately bucking up into your hips - reaching his climax, if you can even call it that. Poor, exhausted cock cumming dry. “Ah- Cumming- M’cumming hgnh-”

Satoru doesn’t even know if he feels his orgasm, just waves of pleasure that overwhelm him as he rides it out on your cunt. 

Ah, he thinks if heaven was a person then it would be you. 

Maybe he’s died already.

“Toru? Open your eyes, darling.”

Slowly opening the eyes that he didn’t even realize he had furiously scrunched closed, Satoru slowly blinks his vision back.

An angel?

“No, Toru, your fiancé.” you huff out a laugh. Oh shit, he said that out loud? 

Head still reeling from, well, everything - the great Gojo Satoru can do nothing else but sit there, exhausted and fucked out of his mind as you slowly remove yourself off his twitching cock. He’s never felt so vulnerable - so ruined.

Ah, someone remind him to never let you have a bite of that chocolate every again. 

A low hiss leaves him, along with a few tears that later he swears were never there. 

As you tenderly clean both yourselves up in the humid stall, Satoru thinks he’s never been handled with so much care. Ah, he loves your gentle hands. He loves you.

“I love you too, Toru.” you whisper into the intimate silence. Oh, shit, he said that out loud again?

Your beautiful laugh, “Yes, you did, Toru.” Throwing away the used tissues, you grin “Y’know they’ve probably brought out our food by now.”

Absent-mindedly, “Mhm?”

“I was thinking I wanted chocolate for dessert.”

A/N. Oh Satoru, you poor, innocent fool…

Also this turned out longer than expected. Reblogs so so appreciated!

Plagiarism not authorized.

Taglist:

@sage-ove @mo0nforme @thirtykiwis @planetzetra

[sixx-sixx-sixx]

LADY BRIDGERTON - Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader (smut)

Summary: Reader has been married to Anthony Bridgerton for too long, it feels, although it has only been a few years. In that short time, not only has he only touched her naked body once, but he comes home most nights smelling of sweat and another woman’s perfume. Lady Whistledown has caught wind of this, and the gossip sends Lady Bridgerton over the edge. Anthony takes the time to give his wife exactly what she’s asking for.

Warnings: smut; badly written smut lol; infidelity; arguments about infidelity; possibly out of character anthony; I’ve only watched season 1 of Bridgerton; breeding kink; unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it but this is a married couple); female reader/use of she/her pronouns; as always, proofread to the best of my ability

“Do you wish to make a fool of me?” Anthony leaned down to whisper in his young wife’s ear, a firm hand grabbing her elbow as he interrupted her conversation with a young man from Russia, or Hungary. He didn’t pay much mind to the boy so much as the woman who bore his last name, fully aware of the way she had been subtly flirting with many men that night. Taking count of the glasses of bubbles she had — she was nursing her fourth flute, Anthony had decided it was enough.

Don’t make a scene.

Lady Bridgerton felt an intense urge to strike her husband across his cheek, how dare he accuse her of making a fool out of him. All evening she had overheard whispers of Anthony’s name from nasty gossipers. The young Bridgertons had been the central characters in the latest edition of Lady Whistledown. Rumor has it that Lord Bridgerton had continued an affair with a certain singer, without bothering to hide it from his young wife. Even worse? Lady Bridgerton knew, as they all knew, and never seemed to let the truth affect how she presented herself to those around her.

“Would you like me to answer that truthfully, my dear husband?” She turned her gaze towards him, her eyes alight with a burning fury towards the unfaithful man she had devoted her life to. She jerked her arm away from his grip and started to lift the glass to her painted lips. Anthony grabbed the dainty piece of glass and shook his head, “I think you’ve had enough. It’s time for you to go home.”

A bitter laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it, as a few heads turned to observe the titular couple. “If that is your wish, Mr. Bridgerton.” She turned on her heel and started to make her way out to the cold air, cursing herself for leaving her coat in the carriage. She didn’t even bother to wait for her husband to catch up as she informed the valet they would be leaving.

The carriage ride to the estate wasn’t anything special. She would sit and seethe in silence during the ride, her eyes burning a hole through Anthony’s forehead as he sat across from her. The argument began once the couple was behind the safety of their bedroom door, standing in front of each other with defenses up. “We have been married for two years, Anthony! Two years and the only time you have touched me was on our wedding night. Yet every night you come home, to OUR bed, smelling like some whore’s perfume! I am left to listen to the ton gossip about MY empty bed!” She nearly hissed the words to punctuate her accusations. Anthony had never seen such an outburst from the young woman, she had never spoken to him like that before. She was standing before him, the drinks she had at the ball fueling her anger and simultaneously allowing the anger to sober her head.

“I know that I wasn’t who you wanted to marry, I understand that this was just a beneficial arrangement for you. But I expect that as the woman who now holds your family name, who will one day bear your children, that you could at the very least respect me!” She was angry that he had just stood there and watched her yell, but at the same time, she wouldn’t let him get a word in.

“You cannot expect me to be a dutiful wife and lady if you refuse to grant me at least the tiniest shred of dignity. You, sir, make a fool of yourself, I am merely seeking that same kind of attention you seek from Siena.” Her voice dripped with sickly sweet venom as she spat the woman’s name.

Anthony allowed the woman to speak her mind on his infidelity, finally admitting to himself that he had been unfair to her. He frequently came into their room in the middle of the night when he expected the woman to be asleep. In the beginning of the marriage, he had at least tried to hide the evidence, changing his clothes before he climbed under the blankets next to her. Now, she was accustomed to him laying down beside her without even taking off the shirt that was stained with Siena’s stage makeup and that reeked of her pungent perfume.

“I do not understand, Anthony. I can come to terms with a loveless marriage, but I am so exhausted by knowing you’re giving her that kind of attention, and I have remained loyal to you despite the obvious signs of your affair-“ her rant was abruptly cut short when Anthony floated over to her, his hands gripping her cheeks with fervor as he crashed his lips to hers. Taking only a moment to stand in shock, she pressed her lips back against his, her hand reaching to grip onto the front of his overcoat. Desperately reaching for more, trying to edge him closer to their bed but ultimately allowing him full control over her mind, body and soul. She let out a disappointed whimper when his lips parted from hers, his face inches from her own.

“What is it that you want from me, woman? You wish for me to touch you the way I touch her? Or do you believe my hands to be too stained?” She hated how close his lips were, desperately trying to reach forward as he spoke his mind. She didn’t really care how improper the words sounded as they came from his mouth, because she DID want him to touch her- not just touch, she wanted him to fuck her the way he fucked his mistress.

She took a moment to find her words, not expecting her confrontation to lead to this moment. “Anthony, I am your wife. All I want is for you to- to fuck me the way a husband fucks his wife.”

Understanding that he had a year’s worth of missing passion to make up for, and seeing that deep down he had no other choice than to obey the woman before him, he easily obliged. In this moment, Siena didn’t exist to him. He was purely focused on making sure his duties as a husband were thoroughly taken care of. Tonight, he would go to sleep smelling of his wife’s soft scent, making sure to cover the woman in marks of his affection.

Little time was wasted in getting their clothes off. A mess of hands clashing together to try and undo buttons and layers and loops, the couple grasping at each other as though they were desperate for the other as a life source.

Anthony paused for a moment to admire his lady’s body in the soft candlelight, letting his hands first run over the delectable curve of her hips, trailing up her sides before settling on her supple breasts.

“I’m sorry that I have spent so long torturing you, making you only imagine my hands touching you like this. I promise, my lady, I will do a much better job at attending to whatever it is you wish from me.” Anthony promised as his eyes stayed locked with hers. Her pupils were blown wide, and he realized he didn’t even know what color her irises were meant to be. He told himself he’d be a better husband to her after this, wanting to ensure her place in society as his wife. He’d fuck her full of his seed tonight, and every night after that, to make sure that Lady Whistledown could never accuse him of neglecting his wife’s desires again.

“Please, my lord, please--“ Lady Bridgerton sounded deliciously desperate, and it excited Anthony in a way that he had never experienced in his years-long affairs with Siena. It spurred him to plunge his cock deeper into his wife, his hand pushing her thigh down to her shoulder as he positioned her to angle himself deeper. She would probably think about the pressure against her cervix for the rest of her life, praying to God that she’d be able to experience this side of her husband for the rest of their lives together.

“What is it that you want, Lady Bridgerton? Tell me with words, my love, I want to hear you say it.” In this close position he could make sure she could look into his eyes to see he was genuine in this moment.

She was surprised at his stamina and determination tonight, focused more on her body than chasing his own release. A complete contrast to their wedding night, she felt like he treated the consummation as a chore. This was a much, much better experience. She had lost count of the times he had made her cum tonight, and the ways he had coaxed her orgasms from her.

“Anthony- Christ! Please don’t stop, want you to fuck me full til i’m round with your child-“ her voice was ragged and on the verge of giving out after not holding back a single sound. She didn’t care how pathetic she sounded begging for what seemed like the bare minimum from her husband.

Anthony leaned down to capture her lips in a messy kiss, reaching down to grab her hand that was tangled in the sheets beneath her. He caught any noises that escaped her, the sounds muffled against his own mouth, moving to hold her hand above her head. She clutched at his hand and whimpered his name as his hips stilled after a few sloppy thrusts, thick ropes coating her walls.

Anthony stayed put for a moment so as to not waste a drop, pulling his lips from hers before ghosting them over the hammering pulse in her neck. He gently maneuvered her pliable body into a resting position, slowly pulling himself from her and getting up from the bed.

After he had gently cleaned up the mess he had made of the woman, Anthony peppered soft kisses over her stomach as he made his way up to lay down next to her. She instantly curled into his chest and closed her eyes, taking her time in coming down from the cloud she was on. She could feel his fingers gently combing through her mussed hair, the sensation slowly bringing her back to earth.

“Are you alright, Lady Bridgerton?” Anthony spoke softly to not spook her, his arms locked safely around her keeping her pressed to his body. Her lips quirked into a smile and he took notice of the way her cheek dimpled, his thumb moving to stroke over the small impression.

“I am absolutely content, Lord Bridgerton.” She opened her eyes to look up at her husband’s face. Anthony smiled as he kissed her again, a kiss so tender that nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“I may not be the perfect husband, but I vow to do better by you. I will end things with Siena and tend to the parts of you that I’ve been neglectful of.” Anthony made a promise to her after he had pulled away. His wife reached up to grab his hand in hers, moving it to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles before she spoke.

“You can use all of the sweet words that you want, you’ll still have to prove yourself with actions.” She squeezed his hand gently, “But I think this has been good start.”

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Job Transfer

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You're Representative Bucky Barnes' personal assistant. However, after a certain turn of events, you may need to start looking for a new job.

WARNING: THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!

You walk beside Bucky, hand resting in the crook of his arm. Your floor length dress swishing around your ankles with every step.

You feel a little out of place being here, especially considering that Bucky is trying to get evidence on Valentina to get her impeached.

You, technically didn’t have to be there. As Bucky’s assistant, it wasn’t required of you to be there, but Bucky needed extra eyes and ears.

Bucky leans in and murmurs, “You’ll be fine,” he clears his throat, “Don’t think too hard about it. Just see if you catch anything, if not, at least enjoy yourself.” As a server passes, he grabs a flute of champagne and offers it to you.

“Thank you,” you give him a small, grateful smile. You sip the champagne and try not to feel a little out of place.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” Bucky says, “Well, you always look beautiful, but even more beautiful now.”

“Thank you,” you run a hand down the dress to smooth it out as the both of you walk around the venue. A fluttering sensation settles in your chest, a feeling you’ve become familiar with any time Bucky compliments you or looks at you a second too long.

You interrupt the comforting silence between you, “Shall I leave you to the wolves?”

He sighs, “If you must,” he lets you slip out of his arm and wander off. He keeps a careful eye on you until he spots Valentina.

____________________

Congressman Jones was droning on and on about where he was during the alien invasion of 2012, when Bucky approaches you, “Pardon me, Senator Jones, I need to speak with my assistant for a moment.”

“Of course! You two enjoy the rest of your night,” the older gentleman heads in another direction while Bucky tugs on your hand.

“Something wrong?”

“No. I just spoke with Valentina’s assistant. Her loyalty is waning, so I think we have a good chance with her.”

“Did you give her your card?”

“I did. Good thinking on making me carry those.”

You snort, “Well I’m not always with you, so it’s best to carry some of your own.” You playfully nudge him and he chuckles.

“Oh, Congressman’s Gary is coming this way,” you murmur, nodding in the other direction.

You stand to the side as Bucky pulls the congressman into the alcove and they discuss the next steps of taking down Valentina.

“Packets?” Bucky confusedly looks at Congressman Gary, then at you.

You sigh, “I set them on your desk yesterday.” You give him a stern look because Bucky has a habit of not reading documents as soon as they’re given to him.

“Read the packets, Bucky,” Congressman Gary murmurs before departing.

When the congressman is gone, Bucky runs his metal hand through his hair, “Wanna grab something to eat?”

“Yes, please.” You follow him out of the venue and to the valet. He helps you into the passenger seat and then hops into the driver seat.

—————————————

“You’re resigning?” You look at Bucky with surprise written all over your face, “Wh-Why?”

“I thought I could make a difference through politics, be able to change the system, but…” he shakes his head, “I can’t just sit by and wait for the evidence to come to me. I’m going to catch Valentina and get her impeached one way or another.”

“So I should probably start looking for a new job?”

“I-not necessarily. I mean, I could always use your help for other things. Wait, that didn’t sound right. I-“

You chuckle, “Bucky, it’s fine,” you place a hand on his chest, “Relax.” You see his eyes soften at you and you pull away with a clear of your throat, “If you still want me as your personal assistant, I’d be happy to continue working with you. If not, it’s okay.”

“I want you with me, but…maybe not as my assistant?”

“What’re you saying?”

He steps closer to you and places his hands on your hips, “I’m saying maybe after I get this done, you’ll go on a date with me?”

“As long as you come back in one piece, then yes.”

Bucky smiles brightly at you, “Great.”

—————————————

“You resign from Congress and become an Avenger a few days later? What on Earth happened while you were away?” You ask as Bucky enters your home, bouquet in hand.

“…so much. But I’ll tell you at dinner,” he hands you the bouquet with a soft smile.

You accept the flowers and give him a smirk, “Better be a good story, Barnes, or I might cut our date short!”

“Trust me, sweetheart, it’s definitely an interesting story.”

[deepdisireslonging]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

The Reader had to film a promo outside. When she comes back into the arena, she teases Wardlow with her cold hands.

Pairing: Wardlow x Reader

Warnings/Promises: snowy weather, Fluff, food mention, SMUT, p-in-v, aftercare

Word Count: 2700

Note: I’ve also been missing Wardlow lately. Hopefully he’s healing up well after his injury. This fic is another installment into the trope I like to call “The bigger and scarier the wrestler, the more marshmallowy they are on the inside.” Let me know what you think with comments and reblogs plz. And happy reading <3

It had been Renee’s idea. Doing the promo turned-stand-off outside in the snow was a change of scenery for the backstage segments. It was well intended. She was bundled up in a pretty coat with faux fur on the hood. JD Vance was in a long, solid black wool coat. And you had packed a jacket, having misread the weather report for the week. It took all your focus not to let your teeth chatter. The thin pockets weren’t much protection for your hands either. If Vance noticed you weren’t talking with your hands as usual, he didn’t bring it up. But he did, childishly, hit you with a snowball after he stomped off. The snowball hit you square in the back, catching Renee with the debris. Both of you threw one back, sending the man into an angry sprint.

One wintry promo against JD Vance over, you eagerly grabbed the bags from the car and dropped them off in the dressing room. You moved quickly, trying not to warm yourself up too soon. It took a few minutes to find your boyfriend and “client,” but when you did, you planned to sneak up on him. He was leaning against a wall, more intent on his phone than the bustle going around him. And, the big adorable jerk, he was able to walk around backstage in just his sweats and a tank top. You paused. The plan to get your hands under the bottom hem of his shirt to trail your cold fingers up his spine ran through your mind. You moved in. But he turned at the last second, nearly stepping on you.

“Ah!” Wardlow’s eyes went wide as your hands slid around his waist under his shirt. “You’re frozen. How long were you out there?”

“About ten minutes. The jerk hit me with a snowball. And then I brought in the bags and-“

He frowned. “He what? Wait. No. You – you were supposed to wait for me. I was going to help.”

You pressed your nose to his bicep, giggling as he huffed and squirmed away from it. “And by help you mean… grab all the heavy bags before I can get to them and bring them in yourself.” As he looked sheepishly away, you hummed. “I thought so. No. You’re the wrestler. You can’t get sick.”

“Neither can you.” He removed your hands from his waist, holding them in his large hands. “Where would I be without my valet?”

“Probably still working for Adam Cole.”

He nodded. “And that was going so well for me.” He tried to drop your hands, turning away from you. But you wrapped your arms around him from behind, returning your cold touch to his bare stomach. “Woman! Easy, geeze.” You giggled, splaying your hands wide across his abs as they flexed. He playfully glared down at you. “I thought you were also from Ohio?”

“So? As if being from the Midwest gives me super-heating powers?” You whimpered as he removed your touch. “Please?” You snuggled into his chest, making him wrap his arms around you. “You’re so warm.”

With a sigh, he gave you what you wanted. With your hands pressed over his pecs (but over the fabric) and his arms around you, the cold slowly seeped away from your body. You hummed and did your best to maneuver closer, if that was possible. He began to sway.

“We have a show to do,” you said.

“Mhmm.”

“We should really get going.”

“Mhmm.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “Are you gonna give me an answer more than grunting?”

“Nuh-nnn.” Just as he was kissing the top of your head, JD Vance walked by. Wardlow’s grip tightened.

Vance smirked. “Aren’t you two cute. Weren’t you just telling me how he could take the heat, Y/N? What does that say about you if you can’t take the cold?” He raised his hands in surrender as Wardlow growled. “Down boy. Easy. Just an observation.” He tried to step closer but Wardlow flexed suddenly, making him take a step back. “Let me know if he doesn’t warm you up well enough, Y/N. I’m a helpful kind of guy.” He smiled, waiting for Wardlow to make an angry retort. But his smile fell as the retort didn’t come. “What? Nothing to say, War Dog?”

Your client shook his head. “Not worth the breath. I’ve worked with guys a lot more irritating than you. I’ll let my fists do the talking in the ring.” He arched an eyebrow. “Unless you’d like to surrender now?”

With a snarl, Vance stomped away.

Wardlow chuckled. “Don’t think I could have moved even if I wanted to. I think your icicle hands have frozen to my shirt.”

“No they haven’t.” You lifted them off his chest to look at your palms. Blowing across your fingertips, you didn’t see Wardlow’s plotting gaze. He had you up in the air and over his shoulder before you could screech. “Hey! Where are we going?”

“To catering. Gotta get my girl some hot chocolate.”

***

The match went great. Of course, Wardlow won. There hadn’t been an inch of doubt except for right at the end. Vance’s allies swarmed out of the audience while he had the referee distracted. But Wardlow was used to watching his own back. He easily dispatched one, and nodded at you once you tripped up the other. Thwarted, Vance senselessly ran at Wardlow’s back. The blows he landed there did nothing but irritate the War Dog. The match ended a few seconds later.

There would be problems with Vance and his allies in the future for sure. But that was what long car rides were for: talking through every angle and opportunity to watch out for surprises. You were still talking through all the details when you two made it to your hotel room.

“If he tries to goad us into a handicap match with his buddies, I think we can accept. Tonight proves it. Between the two of us I think-”

“How high do you want me to turn up the heat?”

“I think we can watch your back. Huh?” You started to change into your pjs. “Oh. Not to high.” Tugging your shirt over your head, you frowned to hear the little beep continue as Wardlow upped the thermostat. “Hey. Not too high!”

Wardlow shrugged. “Why not? You’re still cold from earlier.”

“But you’ll melt.”

“I’m not a snowman.”

“No.” You stepped into his space and lightly poked his chest. “But you’re a large, muscled man who runs hot.”

“So?” He caught your hands before you could let them fly as you talk. His eyes glinted. And he kissed at the pulse point on your wrists.

You squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Mhmm.” Your breath hitched as his large, warm hands began to smooth up and down your arms. As much as you enjoyed the massage, you were still wary. You were hyper aware of your lack of a shirt, giving him a broad view of your bra and decolletage. And you were hyper aware of his gaze watching your chest rise and fall as your breath stuttered. “You are planning something, Mr. Wardlow, and that’s supposed to be my job.”

After returning you to your position from earlier that afternoon (your hands on his chest with his arms around your waist), he nuzzled his nose against your forehead. “That’s your job in the arena. We’re not in an arena.” He didn’t kiss you yet. But his lips repeated the path across your forehead. “Any objections so far?”

“No,” you whispered. “But you should be getting ready for bed.”

He chuckled. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“I mean you should be getting ready to sleep.”

“I’ll get there.” He finally pressed a kiss to the edge of your hairline. Tightening his grip around your waist, you arched into his chest. “But I’ve still got a bit of energy left over from the match. Think you can help me out, Ms. Valet?”

You smiled into his chest. How many times had he used that as an excuse? How many times had you fallen for it? Tilting back your head, you accepted his drifting kisses down your cheek and under your jaw. “I suppose. If it’s really what you need.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’re still grunting.”

“Mhmm.” Wardlow wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips so he could carry you towards the bed. “Words are your thing. I’m the one who lets his hands do the talking.”

You liked the sound of that. Especially when he began to “talk” by gently dropping you onto the bed and running his hands up and down your thighs. He kneaded your flesh, further relaxing you into the sheets. Your eyes closed under his touch. And you hummed as his kisses traveled from your lips to under your jaw, back up again, and then down to the valley of your breasts. Blissfully distracted by his lips, you forgot about his hands until he had you bare before him. He kissed your eyelids open. It was unfair how you were unclothed while he was still in his sweats. Though you did appreciate that he had lost his shirt at some point. You shivered under his heated gaze and let your own gaze drift over the strong curves of his shoulders and chest. “I need to let you do the talking more often.”

Wardlow grinned. “I’ll remember that.” His thumbs spun little circles into the meat of your hips. For being such a large guy, his stillness was usually calming. At the same time, with the way his eyes kept flicking back and forth over his favorite features of you, you also felt like a meal. As his tongue wet his bottom lip, you squirmed. His head tilted to one side. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing. Just… you stopped… talking.” Reaching for him, you managed to catch his hand and place it on your breast. “What’s going on in your head?”

“Honestly,” he followed your lead and squeezed your breast, making you gasp, “I’m not sure. Can’t seem to pin anything down. I’ve got too many ideas of what I want to do to you.”

Snagging his other hand, you brought it to your other breast. “Then don’t think.”

The room was warm. In another circumstance, it would have been stifling, even for you. But then Wardlow loomed over you. He laved his tongue over your nipples, and then blew cool air over them. You shivered, keening for him to do it again. Smirking, he did as you asked, though after tugging on the peaks with his teeth. He hissed against your skin as your nails raked down his back. His hard length was still trapped in his sweats. Wardlow ground it into the heated need between your thighs, groaning as you desperately rolled your hips to meet him.

“Michael, please-”

He shushed you with a deep kiss. Deep in his chest, he rumbled a groan. Between the vibrations from him, his kiss, and his hand still kneading your breast, you were overwhelmed. So when his fingers curled through your slick, you whined into his mouth. He was pressed too close for you to escape. The same hands that had kept you warm all evening were strong and calloused from years of training for the ring. He knew exactly how to use them to curl and scissor your sex till you were breathless. And how to flick across that spot deep inside you that made you cry out his name. It wasn’t long before your thighs were shaking. You whimpered as he added another thick finger to his ministrations. He chuckled as your eyes rolled.

“Getting close, Baby?” He ran his free hand up your thigh. “You’re all sweaty. Maybe I should turn the heat down.”

You scrambled to grab the waistband of his sweats. “Don’t stop.”

Still, he pulled away. You leaned up on your elbows to protest, but stopped when he was back again in a second. With his sweats gone, his length pressed hot and hard against the apex of your thighs. Wardlow filled your mouth with a kiss. His fingers returned to their work. Your vision began to fade at the edges. He stopped again.

“Breathe.”

You shuddered a breath. And another. Slowly, he guided his length into your sex. He fell forward, bracing his arm over your shoulder. His own eyes were closed as he focused on maintaining his control. When he was fully within you, Wardlow nuzzled a kiss under your jaw. You returned a kiss in kind while your walls fluttered around him.

“Move,” you breathed.

Pressing his forehead to yours, he gave you what you wanted. Those first few slow, exploratory thrusts were your favorite. The way his breath hitched against your skin always made your heart jump. It was like he was trying not to lose control in those first moments. Control managed, he could finally give and take what he wanted. Hands fisting the sheets, his eyes closed as he began to thrust harder. Your body rocked with the collision. Every curve and soft place on you bounced with it. Once he picked up speed, Wardlow liked to open his eyes to watch your body move and react to his actions. His sea-green eyes could never get enough of watching you.

He hissed as your hands dug into his lower back. And he had to repress a laugh. Your fingertips weren’t cold now. He hummed as such against the curve of your neck.

You couldn’t form a reply.

The slow drag and sudden fill of him had severed the connection from your tongue to your brain. All you could manage were small sounds, sudden gasps, and the occasional whimper of his name. Your vision was quickly growing fuzzy at the edges. And with it, your sex slicked and contracted around his cock. Your whole body was desperate for release. Your hips hurried to meet his thrusts. Breathless, blind, and soaring, you begged Wardlow for more.

“Let go. I’ve got you. Let go.”

His arms collapsed, pressing his body further into yours. With a shout muffled by his shoulder, your body seized. Wardlow froze. He groaned, shivering with the sensation of you cumming on his cock. Just when you thought you’d caught your breath, he rolled his hips. You jolted. He waited until your shivering abated before beginning again. You keened as he built his way back up to a thunderous pace. Close and panting with the effort, he ran his thumb through your wetness and spread it up to your clit. Your walls once again fluttered around him. Wardlow roared into the sheets over your shoulder. With a hurried series of thrusts, he filled you. Crushed as you were underneath him, you did your best to meet his last lunges.

Satisfied, Wardlow rolled onto his back, taking you with him. You ended up on his chest with a squeak. He grinned as you trembled with the shift of his length in your sex.

“Warm now?”

You glared at him. “Finally relaxed after your match?”

His reply was to sit up, keeping you in his lap. Distracting you with a kiss, he slid his hands behind and under your thighs. When he stood, he kept you on his cock despite your protest. “Can’t make a mess. Well, not another one.” He kissed under your jaw.

Under the hot running water in the shower, he took his time cleaning you up and easing you down from your high. He toweled you both dry, careful of your sensitivity and tutting over the little half-moons your nails had left on his skin. He only lightly teased your drowsiness. Your pjs stayed in your suitcase. Instead, Wardlow tucked you into the sheets before sliding into bed behind you, skin to warm skin.

The last thing you remembered before dropping off into sleep was his lips pressing gentle kisses onto your spine. The next morning, you awoke to the same.

***

Masterlist

Other Wardlow Fics:

Do You Remember When (A, S)

A Stranger in My Head (S, Horror)

All the Better (S)

[bytemee]

SUPER RICH KIDS — yu jimin.

"super rich kids with nothin' but loose ends."

synopsis. stuck on a miserable family vacation with the same rich elites you’ve spent your whole life trying to escape, you somehow become karina’s new favorite distraction—whether as her escape or just her latest source of entertainment. either way, trouble seems to follow wherever she goes, and you’re starting to wonder if getting caught up in it is a mistake… or exactly what you need.

pairing. rich!girlkarina x rich!girl!reader

warning(s). language, dysfunctional family (they're rich vro), drinking, impulsive/reckless behavior, kissing (OH EM GEE.), and let me know if there's more.

words. 3.4k

authors note. i got a lot of reqs to work on, but chat...im actually gonna go ghost for a bit...wanted to feed u before i left. NOT FOR LONG JUST A BIT.

masterlist. navigation.

the night had started with forced smiles and expensive wine.

a business dinner, your father called it—an important meeting with the yu family about a potential merger, partnership, or investment—something that only mattered to men who measured their worth in profit margins. you were there for appearances, another polished accessory at the table, sitting pretty in an outfit that cost too much and shoes that made your feet ache.

karina yu, seated across from you, was similarly dressed up and looked just as uncomfortable. she was a year younger than you and, like you, was being trained to follow in her father's footsteps. the yu heir, your father liked to say.

"so polite." your mother would smile. "a proper young lady."

and she was. always so obedient, so docile. her eyes lingered on you a little too long every time you refilled your glass, every time you made a face at the bitter taste of wine, every time you raised your arm to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand—the way a boy would.

somewhere between dessert and your father's third whiskey, he made a comment. something about the way you dressed, the way you ate, the way you spoke. the words came out slurred, and your mother didn't say anything, but karina's eyes met yours in a flash of pity. you weren’t even sure what you said back. maybe you laughed. maybe you just took another sip. either way, by the time the dinner ended, you were in the midst of an argument, your father's face flushed with anger, your mother's lips drawn tight with disapproval.

"fuck you!" you'd spat, legs moving of their own accord. "you're such a fucking bastard!"

and then you saw it.

your father’s porsche, gleaming under the valet lights, parked at the front like a monument to his self-importance.

before you could think twice, you were slipping off your shoes and hurling one at the windshield. the crack of impact was louder than you expected, and you watched in a daze as a spiderweb of fissures spread across the glass.

“have you lost your mind?”

you went around the car, popping open the trunk before grabbing one of his sleek golf clubs and bringing it down over the hood; the first hit dented the hood. the second left a long, jagged scratch across the side. the third—

"stop! are you crazy?" your mother yelled.

you barely spared her a glance, breathless as you adjusted your sunglasses, heart pounding in your ears as you brought the club down again and again, watching as the car crumpled under the force of each blow. and when you finally ran out of breath, you looked up and saw the doorman staring. your mother, too, her face pale and expressionless. even your father, still standing by the front door, hadn't moved.

even the yu parents watched with thinly veiled horror.

and then there was karina.

standing just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted ever so slightly as the faintest ghost of a smirk curled at the corner of her lips.

three years later, you weren’t supposed to still think about that night.

but the problem with rich people was that they never let anything die. your father’s car had been replaced by the end of the week, the dinner party swept under the rug, your behavior excused as a rough patch in polite conversation. still, the whispers followed you through every gala, every charity event, every hushed conversation between wives who sipped champagne and smiled like they weren’t enjoying the gossip.

and unfortunately, karina's family, along with others, joined you on this godforsaken vacation, this trip of torture and misery. this was a chance for your parents to play recruiter, and they weren't the only ones.

you try to avoid her. really, you do.

you sit at opposite ends of the dinner table, sip champagne like it might actually make this tolerable, and politely nod at conversations about stock portfolios and summer homes in monaco. but the whole time, her gaze is like a brand. you can feel her eyes on you, burning a hole right through the back of your skull.

"she's still staring," you murmur at some point, leaning into your best friend's ear.

"who is?" he whispers back, turning his head ever so slightly to glance around the room.

you sigh and look back down at your plate, idly playing with the food on your plate. you're not hungry. you haven't been hungry for the last three days. it's a wonder you've managed to keep any of it down. "karina," you say. "she keeps—"

"karina?"

"yes," you hiss. "karina yu. has been staring at me nonstop for the past twenty minutes."

he pauses and looks at you, his eyes widening in understanding.

"oh, right," he says, and then his gaze shifts to your left, and he raises a hand in greeting. "hey," he says, and when you glance up, you see her waving back.

you groan inwardly, and she must hear because the next moment, her gaze is on you again. you meet her stare and watch as she raises her wineglass in a small toast. "she's pretty," your best friend says.

you roll your eyes and look away. "i guess," you say.

she’s trouble, is what you really mean.

but you don’t say it, because then you’d have to explain. you’d have to explain the way she had stood there that night, watching you rip your father’s car apart like it was performance art, the way her lips had curled in approval.

you shift in your seat and pretend like the weight of her gaze doesn’t make your skin prickle. your best friend, ever oblivious, keeps sipping his champagne.

and then—she slides into the seat next to you.

she smells like jasmine, and her hair brushes against your cheek as she leans over to whisper in your ear. "you’re not even pretending to have fun," she says. when you turn your head, karina is right there, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she smiles at you.

you swallow thickly.

“i didn’t know i was supposed to be entertaining anyone,” you say.

she tilts her head. “that’s the thing about you. you always end up putting on a show anyway.”

your grip tightens around your fork. “what do you want?”

her lips press together like she’s holding back a laugh. “a little company.”

“i’m busy.”

“with what?”

you blink at her.

and karina smiles sweetly, cocking her head to one side. her hair spills over her shoulder in a glossy wave, and she tilts her chin up, just a little, her eyes dancing with challenge. she looks good like this—all sharp angles and smooth lines, her clothes tailored to perfection, accentuating every curve. you hate that you notice.

she licks her lips, and your stomach flips.

and just like that, you stupidly take the bait.

“fine,” you say, setting your napkin down with a sharp flick. “where are we going?”

karina grins, like she’s just won something.

the next thing you know, you’re in the driver's seat of some random convertible, the engine purring underneath you. it's not hers; it's yours, and it's not either of your parents’ because you both stole it from the hotel parking lot.

“you’re going to get us killed,” karina says, but she’s laughing, wind whipping through her hair as you speed down an empty road. you shoot her a grin, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the radio until it lands on some old r&b song you barely remember.

“wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” you muse. “at least the headlines would be fun.”

she gasps, clutching her chest in mock horror. “tragic demise of two rich idiots—local community breathes sigh of relief.”

you bark out a laugh, the sound cutting through the wind, and you feel a sharp pang of relief when karina grins back, wide enough to show teeth. you almost miss the turn for the beach, and she yelps as you swerve onto a side street, tires squealing against the pavement. it's late, well past midnight, and the roads are deserted. you can't hear anything over the roar of the engine.

it's electrifying.

"this is the stupidest thing i've ever done," she says breathlessly, and you throw back your head and laugh.

"isn't it?" you say. "and we're only getting started."

karina grins, white teeth flashing in the dark, and then you're driving down the coastline, music blaring, windows rolled all the way down. the ocean air fills your lungs, and you feel lighter than you have in weeks, months—years, maybe.

the beach is empty when you finally pull up, the sand stretching out under the moonlight, waves crashing in the distance. you kill the engine, and the two of you sit there in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of the wind, the water, and your own breathing.

karina shifts beside you, tilting her head as she looks out toward the water. “it’s pretty,” she says, her voice soft.

you follow her gaze, watching as the waves roll in, cresting against the shore, leaving foamy trails in their wake. you nod absently.

"yeah."

you clear your throat and reach for the door handle. “come on.”

she follows without question, slipping off her heels as soon as her feet hit the sand. you do the same, relishing the way the cool grains shift beneath your toes. it feels good after being cooped up all day, stuck in stuffy rooms full of people you couldn’t care less about.

karina inhales sharply.

you turn to look at her, and she laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she walks past you toward the ocean. the breeze catches her dress, making it ripple around her hips, and you follow without thinking, drawn to her like a moth to flame.

karina takes a deep breath, then exhales long and slow. “god,” she mutters, rubbing a hand over her face. “i needed this.”

you smirk. “the break from pretending to be the perfect daughter?”

she huffs out a laugh, but there’s something wry in her smile. “something like that.”

there's an awkward pause where neither of you speaks. karina stares out at the ocean, and you stare at her, watching as her eyes grow distant and thoughtful.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask.

she hesitates, then glances at you. “that night.”

you don’t have to ask which one.

“ah,” you say, stretching your arms overhead. “and here i thought we were avoiding the past.”

“i think about it sometimes,” she admits. “the way you just did it. no second-guessing, no hesitation. you just let it all out.”

you scoff, kicking at the sand. “and look where it got me. my dad replaced the car, my mom pretended it never happened, and i’m still stuck in the same stupid cycle.” you shake your head and run a hand through your hair. "all i did was make things worse."

karina turns to look at you, her eyes sharp as she studies you.

"but you felt better afterward, didn't you?" she asks softly.

you glance away, chewing on your bottom lip as you consider the question. you did feel better. for a while, anyway. but the feeling faded quickly enough. your parents were pissed, and they made sure to remind you how disappointed they were and how embarrassing it was to have their daughter act like that.

"i guess," you finally say.

karina hums thoughtfully, then takes a step closer to you. "would you ever do something like that again?"

you raise an eyebrow. "why? planning on watching again?"

she doesn't flinch. "maybe."

you snort and shake your head, “you liked it, didn’t you?”

and she smiles.

“i like when people stop pretending.”

and there it is—the real reason she keeps following you around, why she keeps pushing you, why she keeps testing you. it's not because she likes you; it's because she's curious. she wants to see how far you'll go, how much it'll take before you crack. you wonder if she's always been like this, if her family's wealth and influence have made her so bored and jaded that she'll do anything for entertainment.

you don't know what possesses you to take a step forward.

but karina doesn’t move away, doesn't even blink; her gaze flicks upward, meeting your eyes. you're taller than her by a few inches, and she has to tilt her chin up slightly to maintain eye contact, and for a moment, you wonder if she's going to kiss you. but instead, she reaches out and touches your cheek. her fingers are warm against your skin, and you swallow thickly as she brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

her thumb lingers near your jaw. "i'm hungry."

you blink, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic. "what?"

karina grins and lets her hand fall back to her side. "i said i'm hungry," she repeats, then nods toward the beach. "we should get some food."

you open your mouth to respond, but she's already walking away, headed toward the car, her dress billowing out behind her.

you take a deep breath.

then another.

and another.

and then you follow, because what else are you supposed to do?

an hour later, you were sprawled across the king-sized bed of a five-star hotel that you booked just for tonight with your dad's black card, karina curled up beside you in an oversized robe, giggling into her hand as you held the room’s phone to your ear.

you weren’t sure exactly what time it was, but you didn't care, forcing your voice to be deeper, which was totally not believable and made you sound like a fucking idiot.

"sir," the poor receptionist stammered, "the kitchen is closed—"

"do you know who i am?" you interrupted, deepening your voice even more as you mimicked your father’s business tone. "i could have this entire establishment shut down by morning. now, i want a steak, medium rare, and a bottle of your best wine on the table within the hour."

the line went quiet for a moment, and you could hear typing in the background. karina muffled her laughter against your shoulder before composing herself just enough to put on her best impression of your mother. "and do not forget the crème brûlée," she added, her voice sickly sweet. "my husband simply must have his dessert."

there was another long pause on the other end.

"…right away, sir," the receptionist finally said, defeated.

the moment you hung up, karina lost it, burying her face in the sheets as she laughed. you couldn’t help but grin, watching the way she absolutely delighted in your childish antics, how she encouraged them with her own impulsive ideas. it felt like a dream, something so outside the realm of reality that it was almost absurd. and yet, there you were, playing make-believe like children, stealing bottles of alcohol and ordering room service at 2 am.

"this is crazy," karina said between giggles, looking up at you with shining eyes. "absolutely insane."

you raised an eyebrow. "crazy enough to be fun?"

she blinked at you for a second before smiling. "yes."

you grinned. "good."

the room service arrives anyway (turns out, rich people always get what they want), and karina laughs when the waiter leaves, eyeing the table full of food. she looks like a kid on christmas morning, and you can't help but smile as she takes in all the options. the two of you sit side by side at the table, digging into the assortment of food.

it's probably the most delicious meal you've ever eaten.

karina laughs, taking a sip from her glass of wine as she watches you devour the steak. you try to ignore the way your stomach twists when she smiles at you, but it's hard not to notice the warmth spreading through your chest every time she looks your way. it makes your cheeks flush, and you're suddenly grateful that the lights are dim enough to hide it.

"i can't remember the last time i ate this much," you mumble around a mouthful of food.

"me neither," she admits. "i think i might explode."

"same," you say.

she leans back in her chair, swirling the wine in her glass before bringing it up to her lips. "what are we going to do tomorrow?" she asks.

you shrug. "dunno."

karina sets her glass down and watches you for a moment; the way she studies you makes your breath catch, and you quickly look away, suddenly too aware of how close you're sitting. her knee brushes against yours under the table, a light touch that makes your heart beat faster than it should.

"you've got some sauce—" she gestures vaguely toward your face.

you reach up to wipe it away, but she tuts, shaking her head. "no, here."

before you can react, she leans in, her thumb brushing against the corner of your lips, wiping away the sauce with a soft sweep. your skin burns where she touches you, and your gaze flickers up to meet hers. she smiles slightly, and your breath catches when her thumb lingers on your lip before she pulls away.

"there," she murmurs, licking the sauce off her finger, and oh god—your pulse spikes, and your whole body flushes.

you clear your throat and try to ignore the way the room suddenly feels warmer than before. it's too hot, and your clothes feel tight around your chest. you can't breathe. karina's gaze burns into you, and you swallow hard, trying not to squirm under her scrutiny.

"are you okay?" she asks.

"fine," you manage, reaching for the bottle of wine. your hands shake slightly as you pour yourself a glass, and when you glance back at karina, her eyes are still on you, studying you like you're a 400-page textbook.

you take a large sip.

"so," she says slowly, resting her chin in her palm, "have you ever had a girlfriend?"

you choke on the wine.

karina watches as you splutter and cough, her expression amused as you struggle to catch your breath. when you finally manage to compose yourself, she raises an eyebrow expectantly.

"well?"

"what?"

she smiles, "or a boyfriend? whichever one floats your boat."

"uh…" you trail off, trying to think.

"i haven't either," she says helpfully.

your face burns, and you take another sip of wine, hoping the alcohol will ease the sudden tension in your shoulders. "i haven't really thought about it," you admit.

"really?" she tilts her head curiously. "not even once?"

you shrug, picking at a loose thread on the hem of your shirt.

"okay," she says, and then she slides off her chair and moves around the table, standing next to you. you turn, startled, and she's right there, leaning against the armrest of your seat, her eyes dark as she stares at you.

"kiss me," she says.

your heart skips a beat.

"what?"

"you heard me," she says, smiling a little as she runs a finger along the edge of the table. "kiss me."

"i can't."

"why not?"

"because—" you start and then stop, not sure how to explain why this is a terrible idea. because your family will kill me? because my parents will disown me?

karina's smile widens.

"if you won't, i will."

you blink. "what?"

"i said," she says slowly, "if you won't, then i will."

she steps closer, her gaze locked onto yours. your breath hitches, and you lean back instinctively, but her hand finds your thigh, squeezing gently. she smells like jasmine, and her skin feels warm where it brushes against yours.

"kiss me," she murmurs, eyes dancing with challenge.

you swallow hard.

"okay," you say, your voice hoarse.

her smile widens, and she leans forward, her lips brushing against yours. it's soft at first, tentative, and then her hand slides up your thigh, and your brain short-circuits. she's gentle but persistent, coaxing you open, her tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you gasp. you let her in, tasting wine and strawberries and something sweeter.

your mind goes blank.

when you pull apart, her eyes are hooded, pupils blown wide. her lips are swollen and pink, and she licks them slowly, savoring the taste. she smiles at you, a lazy, satisfied grin.

"well?" she asks.

your heart pounds wildly in your chest.

"good," you croak.

karina laughs.

you wake up with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. there's no one next to you, just an empty space where a person should be. the sheets are still warm.

karina left a note.

and a phone number.

call me when you want to have fun again. - karina <3

[youthguk]

✦Encore 3: Curtain call (Finale) | jjk (m)✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: “Some endings beg to be rewritten.”.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, unprotected sex (be responsible!), angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 13k

author's note: I don’t have enough words to describe what Encore means to me — but maybe that’s the magic of it. This story was born from a single spark of tension, and it grew into something raw, aching, layered, and deeply personal. I poured so much of my soul into this series — every whisper of heartbreak, every charged glance, every line of dialogue that trembled with what wasn’t said. From the first quiet heartbreak to the final kiss — thank you for letting me write it all. Encore will always have a piece of my heart.

part 1 | part 2 | final (you're here)

The hallway is quiet.

Dante’s penthouse suite glows gold behind you, warm and opulent, his cologne still lingering faintly at the collar of your dress, though he never touched you. You stand in your heels, spine stiff, lips parted — trying to think of something elegant to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re choking on guilt and regret and the echo of Jungkook’s name.

He watches you with that half-lidded charm he wears like a signature suit, loose and luxurious, as if nothing ever truly touches him — not press, not rejection, not women who shift under his gaze but don’t fall.

You inhale sharply and speak, voice smooth even as your fingers tremble at your sides.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t move. Just smiles.

“You can’t,” he repeats, like it amuses him. “Is this the part where you tell me about office ethics?”

You nod once, but your tone doesn’t waver. “It’s Vogue Korea policy. Editors don’t sleep with partners, clients, or hosts.”

“And I,” Dante murmurs, stepping closer, “am powerful enough to change policy.”

You meet his eyes — calm, perfectly still — and it should be easy to pretend. You’re practiced at this, at being unreadable, untouchable, above desire. But something cracks. And you don’t know if it’s the scent of Jungkook still trapped in your memory, or the way your heart has been aching in silence since you left him in that hallway, but the words leave your mouth before your pride can stop them.

“I can’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “Because my heart’s already taken.”

Dante's expression shifts, a subtle change that sends a chill down your spine. His carefully crafted smile twists into something unreadable as he takes a careful step back.

And then, slowly, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite mocking and isn’t quite sincere. His voice is velvet with a blade hidden underneath.

“First time I’ve ever been used by a woman to get back at someone else,” he says, almost like a toast. “I hope he’s worth all this theater.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You can't bring yourself to answer.

You leave without another word, dress whispering around your legs, hair falling loose as the night finally breaks over your shoulders like a closing curtain. The air outside bites at your skin, sharp and alpine-cold, and the valet raises an eyebrow when you step into the waiting taxi without giving a destination.

“Anywhere,” you say, voice soft, eyes distant. “Just… drive.”

Lake Como flickers by like a dream unraveling, all soft lamplight and shuttered balconies and cobbled hills bleeding into the next. Your cheek leans against the window, chilled glass numbing the side of your face, and you watch the world blur as if motion will erase everything you did, everything you wanted, everything you still feel clawing beneath your ribs.

Lake Como's beauty feels like a cruel joke against your emptiness, its picturesque streets and twinkling lights mocking the deafening silence that reminds you with every step that he didn't come after you this time.

You don’t return until the sky begins to lighten with the haze of dawn, pale lavender washing over the peaks like the softest lie. Your heels echo on the marble of the hotel corridor, a ghost retracing her steps. You dig for your key card, heart still beating too fast, thoughts already shifting to how you'll pack your suitcase in silence, how you’ll leave everything that happened in Italy behind.

Rounding the corner to your door, you freeze in your tracks. The sight before you knocks the air from your lungs: Jungkook lies slumped against your suite door, his usually pristine appearance now a portrait of violence. His head rests back against the wall, revealing a swollen-shut eye and split lip crusted with dried blood. His black dress shirt, now wrinkled and stained crimson, clings to his beaten form while his raw, scraped knuckles tell their own story of the fight.

Your clutch slips from your grasp as instinct takes over. You’re on your knees in seconds, hands on his face, your voice breaking apart with panic as you shake him gently, his lashes fluttering under your touch.

“Jungkook—what—oh my god, what happened—what did you—Jungkook, wake up—”

His eyes barely open, dazed and unfocused, lips parting with a soft groan as you press your palm to his cheek.

“Shh—don’t talk, fuck, just—come on, I need—fuck, we need to get you inside—”

You fumble with the key card, hand trembling, managing to drag the door open and guide his weight into your arms. He’s deadweight at first, but then his hand finds your waist, clutches it faintly, and he lets you lead him inside — not out of strength, but because he trusts you still, even like this.

The suite is still dark. You ease him onto the velvet chaise by the window and rush to the bathroom for towels, first aid, anything — your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears. When you return, he’s sitting hunched over, elbows on his knees, blood dripping sluggishly from the corner of his mouth, but his gaze finds you when you kneel in front of him.

“Y/N,” he rasps, and it sounds more like worship than pain. “You’re here.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, tears hot at your temples. “Don’t talk. Not until I clean this up.”

You press warm cloth to his lip, swearing under your breath when he flinches.

“What the fuck did you do, Jungkook? Who did this to you?”

He doesn’t answer. You dab at the blood on his temple, your fingers gentle, and when you ask again — slower this time, voice shaking — he finally speaks.

“I went after him.”

You freeze and your hand stills against his skin.

“You—what?”

“Dante,” he murmurs, head dropping. “I followed you both. I couldn’t— I thought— I didn’t know if he—”

You close your eyes. “Jungkook—”

“He was alone,” he says, voice hoarse. “I found his place. I lost it. I yelled. Demanded to know where you were. I… I swung at him. I tried to hit him.”

“You what?!”

“His bodyguards came before I got far. They—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely to his bloodied state. “They handled it.”

“They told me you left,” he adds, quietly. “That nothing happened. That you said no.”

You stare at him, heart caving inward.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, hands trembling again as they fall to your lap.

“I know,” he breathes. “But I couldn’t lose you. Not again. I—I’d rather bleed for you than live pretending I don’t still love you.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Dangerous. Irrevocable.

You meet his gaze, see the red blooming beneath his eye, the vulnerability split right down the middle of his mouth, and you don’t think — you just lean forward.

And kiss him. Soft at first. Searching. Trembling. But then he surges into it — one hand gripping your thigh, the other cradling your jaw — and the kiss turns deep, slow, devouring. Your tears mix with the blood on his lip, and still you don’t stop. Your fingers curl into his ruined shirt, and his tongue brushes yours like a promise, like a prayer, like a please, please don’t leave me this time.

His lips are cracked, faintly bloodied at the corner, but the kiss is impossibly soft. He moves like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again, like this moment is a thread and he’s terrified to tug it too hard. His hands find your waist — trembling, careful — while yours grip the sides of his face, fingertips brushing over bruised cheekbones and sweat-damp curls.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make sense of all the ruined years. He kisses you like you’re the only reason he’s still breathing.

And when you finally pull away — chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, the silence trembling between your mouths — you whisper, “You need to stop.”

But he doesn’t let go. His eyes are glassy now, lashes wet, pupils wide with everything he’s been swallowing for years. His fingers slide from your waist to your hands, curling around your wrists like he’s trying to anchor himself in them.

“Please,” he breathes, and his voice cracks on the word and you freeze.

“Y/N,” he says again, and this time, the plea is quieter — more broken. “Don’t send me away. Not like this. Not when I just found you again.”

He’s crying now — not the dramatic kind, not the kind that demands anything from you. Just quiet tears slipping down his cheeks, landing in the creases of his lips, the bruises on his skin. The boy who left you all those years ago has become a man who’s falling apart in your hotel room, weeping for a version of you he never stopped needing.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice trembling, hands tightening slightly on yours. “I know I was selfish, and cowardly, and fucking blind. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not running. I’d stay this time. I’d stay even if it killed me.”

You feel your heart twist, stretch, threaten to shatter. But you’ve rebuilt too many pieces of yourself alone to let them crack again now.

You reach up, thumbs brushing away the wetness on his face, and it breaks something in you to see how he leans into your touch like it’s the only comfort he’s known.

Still, your voice stays steady. “You need to go pack. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care about the flight.”

You step back slightly, but his hands follow — ghosting over your hips, then gripping them, desperate.

“Please,” he chokes out, voice cracking again, lower now, raw like his throat’s been scraped hollow. “Please don’t ask me to walk away. Not after this. Not when I finally—”

You shake your head, gently, firmly. “Jungkook—”

“I’ll stay,” he says. “I’ll wait. I’ll do anything. Just... don’t let this be the end. Don’t shut me out again.”

His eyes are shining, his hands trembling as they slide up your arms, as if trying to memorize the shape of you through his touch alone. He leans in again, forehead resting against yours, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye onto your cheek. It doesn’t sting — it only reminds you how close he still is.

“I love you,” he whispers, wrecked and breathless. “I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything, but please—don’t send me back into a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Your eyes flutter shut. You want to say yes. You want to let him stay, crawl back into his arms, pretend it’s enough — just this moment, just this need. But you can’t.

You open your eyes and lift your hands, placing them softly over his as you gently — almost tenderly — remove them from your waist.

“You need to go,” you whisper.

His lips tremble. You press a kiss to his forehead — one final grace — and then step away completely.

“This,” you murmur, voice steady even as it aches, “stays in Italy.”

He lingers in the doorway, eyes searching yours one last time. His fingers trace the doorframe, hesitating.

"Y/N..." His voice catches, barely a whisper.

You keep your gaze steady, arms crossed against your chest. The silence stretches between you like a physical thing.

Finally, his shoulders slump. Without another word, he turns away, each step heavy with resignation. The door opens with a soft creak, then closes behind him with a quiet click that echoes through the empty room.

You stand there in the darkness, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway until there's nothing left but the hum of the air conditioning and the weight of your decision settling into your bones.

Seoul, One Month Later

There is something strangely comforting about the hum of the Vogue Korea office — the way espresso steams through the marble-counter café bar on the sixth floor, the way heels echo down glass-lined corridors, and how every monitor glows with Pantone palettes, layout grids, and a rotating carousel of pre-spring collection drafts. You’ve always found sanctuary in this rhythm — the precision, the pressure, the need to be perfect and perform it effortlessly.

The November air is sharp, bracing as it filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Seoul glints outside like a jewelry box, all chrome and movement, as you sip your Americano from a Maison Kitsuné mug and scan the proofs spread across your desk — feature layouts for Chanel Beauty, three possible headlines for the Balenciaga editorial, and a string of half-formed notes for a Seoul Fashion Week retrospective you were too tired to finish last night.

Your laptop pings. You don’t flinch. Another edit request for the holiday issue. You glance at the schedule on your phone — back-to-back today, copy deadlines and a round-table pitch for the February Valentine’s campaign — and somewhere in the middle of it, a fitting appointment with a model who’ll be shot draped in Loewe’s upcoming campaign shawls.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’ve trained your body to move without letting the inside show. No one here knows what happened in Italy.

No one knows how you’ve been waking up at 3:17 a.m. every night since, sheets tangled between your legs, the ghost of his breath still hot on your neck. No one sees the way your hand freezes sometimes while drafting interviews, your mind skipping like a scratched vinyl — back to the way he whispered your name while tasting your skin. Back to the blood on his mouth. The way he kissed you like dying was an option.

You touch yourself to that memory more than you’d ever admit. And when you come, you hate how softly you whisper his name.

But none of it shows. Not here. Not between the racks of sample clothes or in the chilled hush of the editors' lounge or when Kara walks by with that same acidic smile she’s been wearing all month. You’ve noted how her eyes linger on you longer than necessary — not in jealousy anymore, but in something more deliberate. It doesn’t matter. You’ve been avoiding her since Italy, and you plan to continue doing so.

You’re in the middle of annotating a Burberry accessory spread when the PA chimes: a department meeting in fifteen minutes. You slide on your blazer — cream Jacquemus — and gather your notes, making your way to the long oval conference room on the east side of the floor.

The glass walls are half-frosted, the room already filled with editors in signature blacks and muted creams. You take your seat. Smooth your skirt. Sip from your water bottle.

You are calm, unshakeable. Until you hear his name.

“I want to thank everyone for the incredible performance on the October cover,” your boss begins, her tone clipped, composed, the sleeves of her Céline coat folded neatly against her chair. “The BTS feature put us back on the map, and the numbers are better than projected. That being said, January needs to go even bigger. Jeon Jungkook will be launching his solo album that month, and we’ve secured him as our January cover.”

Your pen doesn’t fall. Your posture doesn’t shift. But inside? A slow twist, somewhere between the throat and the spine.

“Y/N will lead the campaign again,” she continues, not even looking at you — because of course, it’s a given now. “Photoshoot. Feature article. Backstage access. His team already agreed. You’ll follow his schedule — starting with the Louis Vuitton shoot next week, then trailing him through his album production.”

The table buzzes lightly with murmurs — approving, congratulating. Someone across the table says, “Well deserved,” and another smiles at you and adds, “Iconic pairing.” You offer a diplomatic nod. A perfect smile.

Kara doesn’t smile. And then — sharp as broken crystal — her voice cuts across the table.

“Is she really the best choice for this?”

The room stills, you feel every eye in the room.  You don’t look at her, but you hear everything in her tone — the ice, the bite, the implication. Your boss doesn’t flinch.

“She’s proven herself capable,” she replies evenly. “If you have concerns, Kara, bring them to me privately next time.”

Kara falters. Just a blink. But it’s enough. Her mouth sets into a tight line, and she looks away. You blink once, calmly, and wonder — for just a moment — since when she’s become so reckless, so willing to sabotage in public. But the thought doesn’t linger because your mind has already gone somewhere else.

Two weeks.

Two weeks in and out of shoots, tracking studio sessions, trailing the man you’ve spent every night trying to exorcise from your system. You know how he looks in soft morning light. You know how he sounds when he begs. You know how he tastes when he’s desperate.

And now you’re supposed to trail him with a notebook and call it journalism.

You swallow hard. Your hands don’t tremble. But you think — just for a second — that maybe this is where the real performance begins.

✦✦✦

It’s still early when you arrive at the studio — the kind of early where the lights are too cold, coffee tastes like necessity, and the air smells faintly of fresh paint and concrete dust. The Louis Vuitton team has already begun assembling the set, a curated dreamspace of vintage suitcases, faded wallpaper florals, and a stately brass bed that rests like a memory in the middle of the soundstage. Every element carefully chosen, every texture soft with nostalgia, as if the shoot itself is caught mid-sentence — a story without an ending, paused between what was meant and what became.

You move through the crew like silk — smooth, precise, unfazed — giving notes to lighting techs, nodding approval to stylists, adjusting a rack of garments that had been arranged slightly off-sequence. The shoot, your shoot, is titled “Une Lettre Jamais Envoyée” — A Letter Never Sent — and every frame is meant to ache. Garments are archival but lived-in, all sepia-toned cashmere and sharp tailoring softened by time. The concept is simple: the solitude of a man in a room filled with things he cannot throw away, haunted by someone who never answered.

The irony is not lost on you.

You check the call sheet once more, your voice steady as you walk through the logistics with the producer. Monochrome lighting for Look One. Diffused sun-flare for Look Three. Music low, intimate — you’d asked for Debussy, for that familiar aching piano to fill the air like perfume.

And when he arrives, you don’t need to see him to feel it. The room shifts.

The energy bends around him the way candlelight bends around the mouth of a bottle — quiet, warm, dangerous. Jungkook steps onto the set in full silence, a charcoal overcoat draped over his shoulders, his dark hair slightly tousled as if someone had already run fingers through it. His jaw is set, lips slightly swollen from either sleep or biting them raw, and his gaze scans the crew until it lands — unerringly, unrelentingly — on you.

But you don’t look up. You don’t flinch, don’t pause, don’t show the way your stomach flips once, hard, like a page turning before the story’s ready.

Instead, you speak to the photographer, a veteran French lensman who prefers film over digital and only calls you chérie, no matter the chaos on set. He adjusts the angle slightly, then lifts his hand mid-frame and calls out across the room, “Y/N, can we get him styled a bit looser in the sleeves? It’s too structured for the concept.”

You exhale once, slow. Professional. Composed. You cross the set and you touch him.

Just his wrist, where the cuff sits too stiff against the edge of his hand. You unbutton it slowly, rolling the fabric back with careful fingers, exposing the delicate veins on his forearm, and then you do the same to the other — ignoring the way his eyes never leave you, ignoring the way he breathes like it hurts to stand still.

You smooth down the line of the coat. His skin brushes yours. Your fingers burn. Still, you don’t speak. He does. A whisper, meant for you and no one else.

“I missed your hands.”

You don’t look up. Instead, you step back and signal to the photographer that the frame is ready.

The shoot begins.

Jungkook moves like poetry — like he knows what this campaign is about, like it was written about him. He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed, one hand tangled in the hem of a scarf that doesn’t belong to him, and he looks like someone who’s been left behind but still hopes the door might open. His expressions shift with each shutter click — longing, silence, disbelief, ache — and every single one of them feels too close to what you remember of him beneath your fingers in Italy.

You manage the room like nothing’s wrong.

You direct the crew, review the monitor feed, adjust the tone when someone gets too loud. When Look Three is rolled out — the white cotton button-down, slightly wrinkled, collar open like he just woke up heartbroken — you hand it to wardrobe yourself, knowing full well how it will sit against his skin. You do not speak to him again. Not even when the stylist forgets to tuck the tag and the photographer gestures for you to fix it.

You step forward, one last time. You reach for the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing his throat, and for a second he leans toward you — barely — as if the instinct is still there, like gravity. You ignore it. You tuck the tag. You fix the line. You walk away.

You finish the shoot an hour ahead of schedule.

You thank the team. Compliment the assistant stylist. Sign off on the film canisters and hand them over to the creative director. You do everything you’re meant to do, perfectly, professionally — and only when you sense him start to move behind you, feel the slightest shift in the air as if he’s about to reach for you, do you grab your bag and walk out, heels clicking loud and fast against the polished concrete floor, the sound of your escape echoing louder than his footsteps ever could.

You don’t look back. Because if you do — even once — you know this whole thing will burn.

✦✦✦

The next day of the schedule starts with a shutter click.

You arrive five minutes early, which is late by Vogue standards but early enough to look effortless. The studio is already lit in soft amber tones, flashes tested, light reflectors set in that subtle arch that frames the subject like an exhale. A quiet team of production assistants, stylists, and makeup artists hums around the space like bees in a glass hive. You take a seat near the edge of the shoot — clipboard in hand, pen capped, expression neutral — because today, you are not his past.

You’re just the editor and this is work.

Jungkook sits beneath the lights, draped in minimalist Givenchy, collar just low enough to hint at the ink curling across his collarbone. His skin is impossibly clear, styled to perfection, and you note — clinically, without emotion — that his eyes have dark circles under them that no amount of concealer can blur. Still, he poses like he was born under halogen, relaxed spine, parted lips, chin tilted, like he knows his angles and isn’t afraid to use them.

Across the room, Vogue Korea’s designated campaign photographer adjusts her lens and calls for frame five. You’re not on set — not yet — but you’re close enough to hear his voice when he answers a casual question from the stylist.

You’re also close enough to feel the air ripple when his eyes flick toward you between shots.

You’ve been in this industry too long to show weakness — not under studio lights, not with a photographer framing him like a god and a camera trained on every shadow.

Instead, you glance down at your notes. The interview outline is clean, with your handwriting pressed into the margins beside each question — an efficient, emotionless skeleton of conversation. You’re scheduled to ask about the album’s concept, the title RE:ENTRY, his intentions behind the tone, and any specific themes he’s chosen to highlight.

The theme is obvious. But you’ll ask anyway.

At exactly 11:30 a.m., the shoot breaks for rotation. You’re called over by the PR manager, and then by the Vogue photographer, who wants you on set to check visual tone and continuity.

You cross the studio slowly, adjusting your blouse at the wrist, pen still tucked neatly between two fingers, heels clicking softly against the concrete. When you step into the center of the lights, you feel it again — the way the room bends, the way his gaze wraps around you like silk that’s been soaked in heat.

You ignore it. The photographer points to a slight wrinkle in the shirt Jungkook is wearing. “Y/N, can you smooth that for me? It’s catching glare.”

You nod once. Step forward. Your fingers brush the hem of the shirt, then flatten over the fabric just above his waist. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his breath shifts — you feel it bloom against your cheek, and your skin prickles with memory. Still, your hands are steady. Your eyes never meet his.

You adjust the fit, step back, nod to the camera.

Then you return to your seat. The rest of the day is efficient. You conduct the first half of the interview in a lounge corner of the studio, Vogue’s photographer snapping lifestyle-style candids in the background. Your questions are clean, practiced — too practiced. You ask about sonic inspiration, the shift from being part of a group to working solo, what scared him most about releasing something under just his name.

He answers well. Articulately. Formally. As if you aren’t the one person in the world who knows exactly what the track titled Notte Bianca is about.

You nod politely. Take notes. The shoot wraps at 5:00 p.m.

You thank the team, nod to the brand rep, shake hands with the makeup artist who complimented your ring. You don’t look at him again. Not until the very end, when you sense — not hear, not see, sense — his movement behind you. A reach. A step too close. Fingers about to graze your wrist.

You turn your head sharply — not enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remind him that you saw.

And then you leave, your car door shuts with the cleanest click you’ve ever heard.

✦✦✦

The car ride to Jungkook’s studio is unnervingly quiet — no music, no notifications, just the rhythmic tap of your nails against the Vogue press badge clipped discreetly inside your tote. Outside the window, Seoul moves like water — all steel and winter glass, a city too fast to hold your nerves.

When the taxi pulls up, you almost miss it.

The recording studio doesn’t flaunt its purpose. It’s hidden behind a row of designer cafés and flower boutiques in Hannam-dong, masked in matte black brick, with only a brushed steel door and keypad hinting at what it guards. There’s no sign. No name. Just silence. Which, you realize the moment you step out into the crisp air, is entirely the point.

You let yourself in with the temporary guest pass his team sent the day before, and the door opens on a different world — warmth, hush, acoustics tuned to velvet. The air is low-lit and humming with equipment, the scent of coffee and ozone hanging above a polished concrete floor. On one side, a glass-walled booth with layered sound panels and a hanging condenser mic; on the other, a leather couch and a wall of analog gear that looks far too expensive to touch.

You recognize it instantly as a space meant for vulnerability — but guarded like a vault.

Jungkook’s voice reaches you before you see him. “Hey.”

You turn, and there he is — already seated near the mixing console, one leg folded beneath him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fingers idly toying with a capless pen. He looks… quieter here. Not styled. Not sculpted for press. Just him.

You nod, polite. Controlled. “Hi.”

And then — like before — you don’t sit right away. You set your bag down carefully, unfold your notes, pull out the recorder, and begin the slow work of building a wall between the memory of his mouth on your body and the man now waiting to be interviewed.

“Thanks for making time for this,” you add, walking to the velvet chair opposite him.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Thanks for not avoiding me anymore.”

You ignore that. You press record.

“This is for the January cover feature,” you say, your voice even, practiced. “It’s a longform editorial piece to accompany your solo debut. I’d like to begin with the album title. RE:ENTRY. Why that name?”

He shifts in his seat, looking toward the floor before answering.

“I liked the idea of burning through the atmosphere,” he says. “Coming back into something that used to feel like home, but being changed by the fall. Everything’s faster now. Hotter. You survive it… or you don’t.”

You nod. Your pen glides across the paper.

“And the sound?” you ask. “You move between genres — synth, stripped-down ballads, late-night R&B. What ties them together?”

He tilts his head. “They’re all from the same orbit.”

You look up at him.

He adds, “Even when I was making Private Room, I was still haunted by Encore. I wanted sex and silence in the same breath. I wanted the story to feel like it was begging for one more night.”

You don’t blink. “So Encore is the centerpiece track?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, and smiles like it costs him something. “It’s the one that hurts the most.”

You cross your legs. "And Don’t Look Back (You Did)?"

“Regret. Ego. Silence.” He meets your gaze. “You’d know.”

Your pen stills — for just a second — but you move on. “And Her Ghost Wears Chanel?”

He breathes out, voice lower now. “That’s about waking up next to people who still aren’t her.”

You don’t flinch. You just write the line down, word for word, inked sharp and clinical across the page.

There’s a beat of quiet. You can feel the shift — the closeness, the weight of everything unsaid leaning into the pause.

You redirect. “Let’s talk about New Year’s Exit,” you say, voice crisp again. “It opens the album.”

He nods. “It’s about starting the year without something you thought would be permanent.”

“Someone.”

He doesn’t deny it. You lower your pen, pause the recorder gently. “Would you be willing to let me hear a track?”

He’s already moving. He rises from the chair — graceful, relaxed, more fluid than you remember — and walks toward the mixing board. The entire room shifts with him, like gravity, like muscle memory, and when he turns back to you, the lights catch his cheekbones in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest.

He presses one key. And then Notte Bianca begins.

The track opens with the soft pull of fingers over a guitar string — warm, breathy, deliberate — and you feel it before you register the sound, something low in your spine tightening like recognition. The room doesn’t change, not visibly, but it feels different now, like every shadow is suddenly looking at you, like the light itself has gone still just to listen.

You remain seated, back straight, pen still in hand even though you haven’t written a word since he pressed play. Your eyes flick toward the console screen where the waveform glows and moves, but it’s his voice that finds you first — low, layered, textured with static and restraint, the way he always used to sing when he wanted to break your heart quietly.

"Lake light on your thighs / Moon in your throat / My name under your breath like it burned."

You don’t move.

"You kissed me like the night was rented / Like it wouldn’t last the drive home."

He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you.

You feel it — not just in the air, but under your skin, like heat rising too fast. The lyrics pour out in waves, brushed with the same decadence that coated the marble floors of that Italian hotel, the same pulse that dragged you toward him under that chandelier, the same unbearable ache of wanting him and hating him in the same breath.

You swallow once. Your pen is trembling now.

"You said nothing when you left / But your lipstick stayed in my lungs."

The last chord hangs for too long. And then silence.

You lift your eyes, slowly, knowing that if you meet his gaze for more than a second, your composure will unravel like thread under fire.

Jungkook doesn’t speak immediately. He lets the quiet linger between you like a question you haven’t earned the right to ask.

When he finally does speak, his voice is soft — not teasing, not smug — just quietly devastating.

“That one came out fast.”

You blink once, slow.

“It sounds…” You reach for a word, but none of them feel professional enough. “It sounds… expensive.”

He smiles faintly, almost sadly. “It was.”

There’s a silence again — not awkward, just heavy.

You flip the page in your notebook with a hand that pretends not to shake. “Is it about someone specific?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back, fingers threading behind his neck, body angled like a challenge, like he’s trying to look relaxed while waiting to see if you’ll flinch first.

“Only one person would recognize it,” he says finally.

You don’t answer.Instead, you click your pen closed and lower your voice, just enough to remind yourself that you're still in control.

“Any other tracks you’d like to walk me through today?”

He tilts his head — a little amused, a little bitter.

“I thought this was just a feature article,” he says. “Not a postmortem.”

You force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “They’re the same thing, sometimes.”

He stands and the room bends with him — subtly, but you feel it, like the soundproofing is no longer between the walls but between your ribs.

“I want to show you something,” he says. You don’t respond, but you follow him. 

The glass door to the recording booth is already cracked open, a soft glow pulsing from the mic’s standby light. He gestures you in, lets you step past him first, and when the door clicks shut behind you, the quiet becomes absolute — not silence, but a vacuum, the kind of hush you feel in your teeth.

He doesn’t move to the mic, standing behind you instead. Too close.

You can see your reflection in the glossy black of the sound panel in front of you, and the moment his voice drops — low and velvet — near the shell of your ear, you feel your pulse skitter hard behind your ribs.

“You didn’t ask about Private Room,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes while your voice barely works. “I didn’t think I needed to.”

He leans in from behind, breath warming your neck, his mouth not touching but close enough that your skin knows what he wants.

“Maybe you should’ve.”

You don’t know who moves first.

It could be you shifting your hips, or him closing the distance between his mouth and your neck. But the second he kisses you again, everything unravels. The studio is quiet — dangerously so — the only sound the low hum of the condenser mic and the soft hiss of your breathing when his lips skim your skin again, lower this time, finding that place beneath your ear that always made your knees tilt inward.

You stand there, frozen and burning, arms hanging useless at your sides while his hands move with a kind of hesitant worship — first hovering at your waist, then settling at the slope of your hips. Your skirt is short. You wore it because it was sharp. Professional. Structured. Not so it would make it easier for him to find your skin beneath it. But now, when his thumbs dip under the fabric and he groans softly against your neck, you know you made a mistake thinking you could stay in control of this.

You reach for him behind you, fingers closing around his wrist, guiding it higher — first to your ribs, then up, until his palm cups your breast through the thin fabric of your top. He breathes your name into your hair, barely a sound. You don’t respond.

You push backward, just enough to feel the line of him — hard, warm, pressed against the curve of your ass through too many layers. The contact sends a bolt of heat through your core, sharp and sweet and horrible.

He growls then, low and ragged, and spins you gently, urgently, until your back is against the padded wall. His gaze is molten, his lashes dark with restraint. One hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your lip.

“I don’t have a condom,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours, breath fanning hot across your mouth.

Your eyes stay on his, steady. “I’m clean. On the pill.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m clean too.”

You tilt your head, lips almost touching now. “Then fuck me. Raw.”

He kisses you — not sweetly, not gently — and it knocks the breath out of you. The kiss is wet, open-mouthed, all tongue and memory. His hands yank your top up and over your chest, dragging it to your collarbones while he palms your breasts, rough and aching, mouth breaking from yours only to attach to your neck, your jaw, the space just above your collar.

His fingers tug your skirt higher and he drags your underwear down in one motion, breath catching when he finds you soaked.

“You wanted this,” he mutters, almost angry.

“You left me,” you snap.

And still — your legs part for him. He strokes you once, twice, and you arch into the wall with a gasp. He leans in, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re hard,” you whisper back.

He groans — deep, feral — and with one hand gripping your hip, he aligns himself and pushes in, slow and thick, stretching you open in a way that makes your jaw go slack.

The first thrust is unbearable. The second nearly makes your knees give.

It’s different — raw — in every sense. Hotter. Messier. You feel every inch of him, no barrier between you, no distance, no excuse. He presses you into the wall and begins to move, hips rolling deep, his breath catching against your neck with each thrust. One hand holds your thigh up, the other slides around your stomach, anchoring you to him as he rocks into you harder, deeper.

“You feel—fuck—you feel like sin,” he breathes, and the sound of it makes your head fall back.

You clench around him and whimper something that sounds like his name. His grip tightens.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs against your skin.

“No,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “Don’t.”

He fucks you like a memory he refuses to let fade — slow and deep, then fast and filthy, each thrust wet and loud and obscene in the echo of the booth. You’re both making sounds now, breathless and unfiltered. His hand slips between your legs, fingers rubbing where you’re swollen, and when you cry out, he curses under his breath.

“Don’t be quiet,” he groans. “Let me hear you.”

You come fast — it crashes into you like the snap of a wave, your body going taut, your thighs trembling as your orgasm rips through you, pulsing around him.

He barely holds it together. The rhythm stutters, grows erratic. He grunts something low against your shoulder, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and full, buried as deep as he can go. Your walls flutter around him, milking every drop, and he stays inside for a moment — just breathing, just holding.

Then, wordlessly, he pulls you off the wall. He lowers you into his lap as he sinks into the studio chair, still sheathed inside you, still hard, still not done.

You let your weight settle onto him, and for a moment, you both just breathe — foreheads brushing, skin hot and trembling, his hands skating up the back of your thighs with reverence that feels dangerous. You grind once, slow, a test — and he exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

You plant your hands on his chest, lift your hips, and begin to ride him — deliberately slow at first, dragging your wetness along every ridge of him, letting the stretch burn again just because you want it to. Your head falls back with a moan that echoes off the soundboard. He watches you like he’s in a trance, jaw slack, hands gripping the curve of your waist to steady you as you find rhythm again.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he groans, voice rough, low. “On me. All mine.”

You don’t answer — you just roll your hips harder, faster, chasing friction and heat.

He growls, leans forward, and his hands cup your ass, fingers digging into the flesh as he guides you faster, helping you ride him with bruising force now. Your moans turn breathless, pitched higher, your thighs shaking from effort and overstimulation, and he leans in to suck a mark beneath your collarbone, murmuring filth against your skin as he does.

“Fuck, baby… You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Do it.”

He thrusts up once, twice — hard — and then holds you still as he comes, buried deep, heat spilling into you, a low growl rasping out of his throat. You shudder once more with him, clenching around every pulse of him, drunk on the stretch, the fullness, the rawness of it.

You collapse onto his chest again, trembling.

He breathes against your hair. “Round two?”

You smile. Slow. Lazy. Still wrapped around him. “Not tonight.”

You pull back, fingertips smoothing the line of his jaw. You press one soft kiss to his lips — all heat and no promise — and when you stand, he groans at the loss of you.

You smooth your skirt down, roll your top back into place, gather your pen from the floor like it matters.

Then you look at him over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you say, voice satin-sweet, already turning toward the door. “That was a very, very good fuck.”

[you can read the article of OC and Jungkook’s album tracklist here]

✦✦✦

The morning stretches itself across the Vogue Korea editorial floor in long, ivory ribbons of winter light, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows with theatrical precision, as if the sun itself is rehearsing a cue for your moment. The glass table gleams beneath your fingertips. Your laptop screen reflects back your masterpiece — the completed feature article for the January issue, centered around Jungkook’s solo debut, your words threading through each song like the fine gold stitching of a couture hem.

You’ve read it a dozen times this morning alone. Still, it holds. Still, it sings.

Each paragraph cuts clean. Every pull quote lands like a lyric that never needed melody. You’ve captured RE:ENTRY the way it was meant to be seen — not just an album, but a confession dressed in synth and sweat and late-night regret. It is, without a trace of false humility, the best work you’ve ever done. And the issue? Your issue. The layout. The vision. The headline structure. The branded social rollout. All of it — yours.

The room is full — editorial, design, digital, partnerships — everyone seated around the long conference table, coffee cups half-full, coats draped over the backs of chairs, winter breath still lingering in some of their voices. You finish your presentation with a confident click, closing the laptop and lifting your chin slightly as you glance toward your boss.

For a beat, there’s silence. And then it starts — a ripple of soft applause that swells into something louder, more genuine, until even the department heads are nodding to each other in agreement. Compliments bloom across the room like perfume. Someone says the piece reads like a movie. Someone else calls it transcendent. Even Hyerin catches your eye from across the table, mouthing a quiet “you killed it.”

Then, from the head of the table, a slow, deliberate nod.

Seo In-kyung, the Editor-in-Chief herself — rarely warm, never effusive — folds her manicured hands atop her tablet, tilts her head slightly, and lets the words fall in that sharp, measured tone she reserves for verdicts and final cuts.

“I don’t say this lightly,” she begins, her voice cool and commanding, “but your feature has set the tone for this issue in a way I haven’t seen in years. It’s layered. It’s intimate. And most importantly, it’s Vogue. I can already feel the ripple effect.”

You exhale slowly, the praise sliding over your skin like sunlight through silk, warm and grounding and almost enough to distract you from the truth that’s been haunting you since the night at the studio: that no matter how clean your layout, how polished your sentences, how composed your posture — you let him in again. And you’ve been ignoring every message since.

But for now, you’re untouchable. Or at least, you were until Kara stands.

The sound of her palms meeting each other breaks through the air with a peculiar cadence — a slow, sarcastic clap, each strike louder than the one before. The entire room shifts toward her in confusion, and when she smiles, it’s the kind of curve that doesn’t reach her eyes, the kind of expression that warns before it wounds.

In-kyung’s voice tightens like a drawn thread. “Kara. Sit.”

But she doesn’t. Instead, she adjusts the fall of her designer blouse, takes a step forward, and clears her throat delicately — the kind of theatrical gesture that lets everyone know she’s about to make the moment about herself.

“Maybe,” Kara begins, her voice sugar-laced and perfectly pitched, “if the rest of us were fucking with the people we were interviewing, we could all produce work like that.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. No one does. The room plunges into silence so deep it hums, and you swear you hear the central heating system kick on just to fill the space with something. Across the table, Hyerin’s eyes widen. One of the junior editors drops their pen. Someone mutters what the fuck under their breath, barely audible.

And you? You sit motionless. Perfect. Stunned. Your spine straight, your limbs gone cold.

Your name is not said. But it doesn’t have to be. In-kyung straightens, rising from her seat like the ghost of judgment in ivory cashmere,“Kara. My office. Now.”

Kara offers a slow, graceful blink, like a model turning for her close-up, and walks toward the exit with a posture that suggests not shame, but triumph. You follow, legs heavy and heart racing, still unsure how reality is moving beneath you when the ground feels like it should be giving way.

Inside the office, the door clicks shut with a finality that feels fatal. You don’t sit. Kara does.

She opens the folder in her hands and begins sliding photos across In-kyung’s desk with infuriating precision — one after another, each print more invasive than the last. There’s a shot of Jungkook’s hand on your back outside the gala limo. Another of him stepping into your taxi the following morning. A third from years ago, the two of you on the sidewalk in Mapo, your fingers linked, your faces flushed with the kind of joy only twenty-year-olds and fools believe is permanent.

You stare in disbelief, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“What the hell is this?” your voice cracks. “Were you following me?”

Kara doesn’t even look up. She keeps arranging the photos like artifacts.

“No need,” she says, light as air. “Your fuckboy is a walking goldmine of sasaeng activity. I just reached out to a few desperate little fan accounts. They practically threw this at me.”

Something in you shatters.

“Are you hearing yourself?” you hiss, turning to In-kyung with disbelief. “She bought photos from stalkers. This isn’t journalism. It’s harassment. Jungkook has no privacy and you’re—”

But In-kyung doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t shout and doesn’t look at the photos a second time.

She simply closes the folder in one deliberate motion, turns her eyes to yours — steady, unreadable, perfectly composed — and delivers her verdict with the same calmness she uses to kill stories at the pitch table.

“You’re fired.”

You feel the words before you hear them, the coldness of them landing first in your stomach and then rising like bile to your throat. You blink, stunned, trying to make sense of what you’ve just been told.

“What?”

Her tone doesn’t change. “The article will be reassigned,” she says. “The cover credit will follow. You’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

You can’t move. “This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “You’re rewarding her for a smear campaign built on sasaeng surveillance—”

You want to speak — to scream, to argue, to defend yourself with everything you’ve built — but your mouth doesn’t open. Kara sits still, smug and silent, as if she’s already lit the match and is simply watching the room burn.

“You made a choice,” In-kyung cuts you off, voice quiet, cold. “To violate our professional code. To sleep with a client. You gambled your credibility. And you lost.”

Kara exhales like a cat stretching in the sun. “Have a nice life, sweetheart.”

You look to In-kyung again, searching for anything — reason, mercy, even disgust.

But she’s already turning back to her computer. You are no longer something she needs to look at.

“Please escort yourself out,” she says without lifting her gaze.

And just like that, you are erased.

✦✦✦

The office is quiet now — too quiet — the way a room sounds after applause ends and everyone forgets to look back. You sit alone in the corner cubicle that used to buzz with purpose, dragging your Vogue-embossed storage box closer with one hand, the other carefully wrapping cords, tucking notebooks, flattening printed drafts that once mattered more than breath itself. Your coffee mug — the one from Paris Fashion Week with the chipped handle and a faint lipstick stain that never came off — goes in last.

You don’t cry. Not because you’re strong. But because there is something so bitter, so insulting about the way it ended that it leaves no room for tears, only a scalding sort of fury that simmers behind your ribs like boiling perfume.

You don’t look at Kara’s desk. You don’t even let your gaze hover near it.

You think about the years it took to get here — from intern to editor, the nights you stayed late under flickering lights, rewriting celebrity copy while Kara slipped out early for rooftop events she didn’t earn. You think about the trust you built, the reputation for polish and precision, the way your boss once said you were the kind of woman who made Vogue feel like Vogue again. And now? One grainy photo from a sasaeng with a zoom lens and a grudge, and it’s over.

Your jaw clenches. When you close the lid on the box, the snap of it feels ceremonial.

Footsteps approach, soft-soled and hesitant. You don’t look up until Hyerin’s voice breaks the hum of your rage.

“They’ll reconsider. I know they will. You just need to wait it out.”

You meet her eyes — kind, worried, sincere — and something in you softens for a breath. But only a breath.

“I don’t want them to,” you say, your tone low, flat, final. “If this is what they stand for — if this is what they protect — then I don’t want to belong to it.”

Hyerin looks stricken. “Y/N…”

But you’re already standing, lifting the box with both arms. It’s heavier than it should be. Or maybe you’re just exhausted.

“I didn’t sleep with him for a cover,” you add, pausing at the edge of your cubicle. “But even if I had — I’d still have more integrity than someone buying evidence from stalkers. And they chose her over me. That’s all I need to know.”

✦✦✦

The taxi ride home is silent. Not a single notification or a single tear.

But when you step inside your apartment, place the box carefully on the floor, and shut the door behind you — it breaks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a sharp inhale, a trembling lip, and the way your shoulders fold forward like they’re finally allowed to collapse. You don’t scream. You don’t sob. But your hands shake when you reach for your phone, and your heart races the moment his name lights up the screen.

You press call. It rings once, then twice.

“Y/N?” His voice is thick with disbelief, like he never actually expected to hear from you again. “Wait—are you okay?”

You don’t answer him right away.

“Do you know,” you begin, voice steady despite everything, “how many sasaengs follow you?”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence that stretches too long.

“…Yes,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You swallow. “Do you know they’re selling photos of you?”

The panic in his voice is instant, sharp as a blade. “What? What the fuck—why are you asking? Did they follow you? Did they send you something? Y/N, what did they—”

“They didn’t come to me,” you interrupt softly. “They went to someone else. Someone who used it to destroy everything I worked for.”

Another silence. And then, his voice drops — low, furious, gutted. “Tell me who.”

You laugh — not out of humor, but out of something hollow and tired and cruel. “Does it matter? It’s done. I’m fired.”

“What?”

“I lost everything,” you say, softer now, like you’re just realizing it yourself. “The article. The credit. The cover. All of it.”

He curses under his breath. You can hear him pacing, hear the frustration laced into every inhale. “They can’t fucking do that. You worked for years—"

“I don’t care,” you lie.

“Yes, you do.”

You sit on the floor, legs crossed beneath you, staring at the wall like it might offer you something. “I care about writing. I care about fashion. But I don’t care about a company that protects stalkers and punishes women for who they love.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then his voice shifts — softer, more cautious.

“I know you still love Vogue Korea like that.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t love them,” you say finally. “I love the work. I always did.”

There’s a pause. Then a breath.

“You know the October cover? The BTS one?”

You blink. “What about it?”

“It was my idea.”

You frown. “What?”

He exhales, like he’s been waiting to admit this. “I found out you were working there. I pitched the cover, and insisted on Vogue Korea. I told them I wanted it — told the team I’d only do the solo campaign if they agreed. I didn’t know how else to get to you.”

“You…” your voice falters. “You did all that just to see me again?”

“Yes.”

The confession hangs between you, delicate and irreversible.

“And now they’re stealing your work from you — the very thing I pitched because I wanted you back in my world. I’m not letting them get away with that.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you whisper, “I hate that you still make me feel things.”

“I hope,” he replies, voice breaking just slightly, “you hate it a little less tomorrow.”

✦✦✦

The glass walls of the Vogue Korea conference room still gleam with that same sterile gloss — the scent of designer leather chairs, faint citrus from someone's perfume, and the cold metallic hum of power thickening the air. You shouldn’t be here. You know that. And yet, you sit at the long oval table, fingers clasped in your lap, spine straight, head high — not for them, not anymore, but for yourself.

You didn’t ask to come back. You wouldn’t have. Not after how they discarded you with such dispassion, like the work you bled for had never stained their brand bright enough to matter. But then the invitation had come. Not from Seo In-kyung. Not from the Vogue board. It came from HYBE, with your name printed in clean, exacting type, and a tone that wasn’t a request — it was a summons.

The door opens behind you.

Seo In-kyung enters first, all sharp angles and polished silk, her expression unreadable except for the faint crease between her brows — as if being made to explain herself is beneath her title. Kara walks in just a step behind, her expression a masterpiece of faux neutrality, lips pressed together so tightly that they’re nearly colorless. She sits without greeting you, without a glance. You return the favor.

And then he enters.

Jungkook was dressed in black head-to-toe — blazer open, shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. His jaw is locked, his posture coiled and still, and there is something in his gaze that makes the whole room stiffen as he steps inside alongside his manager. You don’t flinch. You meet his eyes. And this time, you don’t look away.

Because if they fired you for loving him, then let them see it. He sits directly across from you, and the silence lingers just long enough to curdle. His voice is calm when it finally comes, but barely.

“I’ll make this simple,” Jungkook says, his eyes never leaving In-kyung. “I’m no longer consenting to my January solo cover if the credit for the article is assigned to the wrong person.”

A pause. In-kyung blinks once. “The credit is a formality,” she begins smoothly, tilting her head ever so slightly toward you, “though of course I understand there’s a... personal stake here.”

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift — but the temperature in the room does.

“No,” he says, tone even sharper now. “It’s not personal. It’s ethical. I don’t condone plagiarism. Or fraud.”

His manager clears his throat beside him, carefully composed. “We have emails, timestamps, raw drafts, BTS’s own recording sessions — all traced directly to Y/N’s involvement. Any change to her authorship would not only be inaccurate — it would be actionable.”

Kara shifts in her seat, the first sign of discomfort flashing in her eyes.

But Jungkook isn’t finished. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, and when he speaks again, the edge in his voice is no longer subtle.

“And even beyond the article,” he says, “I still don’t understand how she was fired. Not reprimanded. Not reassigned. Fired. And replaced with someone who sourced photos from fucking sasaengs.”

Kara’s voice shoots up before anyone else can respond.

“I didn’t take the photos myself,” she snaps, finally cracking through her composure. “I bought them. They were already out there. I didn’t create the scandal—”

“You weaponized it,” Jungkook cuts in, tone now dark and lethal. “You used stalker photos to humiliate a colleague in a professional setting. You endangered my privacy. Her safety. And you dragged a private relationship into a boardroom as ammunition. You think that’s not disgusting?”

His manager steps in before Kara can reply, voice cool, detached, lethal in its corporate precision.

“The fact remains that these images, regardless of origin, were disseminated within an official Vogue Korea meeting — and used to provoke professional consequences. From our legal standpoint, that constitutes a violation of privacy law and creates grounds for a breach-of-contract dispute. Unless remedied.”

In-kyung’s expression tightens. She smooths her skirt, then folds her hands, composed but calculating.

“We’ll reinstate the credit,” she says at last. “The article will be published under Y/N’s name as originally planned. And the cover will remain with Mr. Jeon.”

There’s a flicker of triumph in the air — but it doesn’t reach you.

Because you already know what you’re about to say. You speak before anyone else can.

“I’m not coming back.”

Jungkook turns to you so sharply it’s like someone tugged a thread from the center of the table.

In-kyung blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t return to Vogue Korea,” you repeat, voice steady, gaze pinned to your former boss. “You may put my name on that article — because I wrote it — but I will not work for a publication that values power and optics over people. That protects stalkers. That dismisses women for the crime of loving someone inconvenient.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Jungkook shifts again, slowly this time, turning his head toward In-kyung with that same quiet finality that has sold out stadiums.

“I want Kara fired,” he says, voice so calm it almost feels kind. “And I want that request noted in the official record. From the artist. Personally.”

You don’t look at Kara. You don’t need to.

Because this time, when you walk out of that office, the door doesn’t slam behind you.

It closes — soft, final, clean. The hallway feels brighter on the way out.

Jungkook catches up to you at the elevator, a half-step behind, and when he speaks, it’s softer now — less fire, more ache.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. “Not for me.”

You turn to him with a bitter smile. “I didn’t. I did it for me.”

He nods once, and the elevator dings open. You both step inside.

“I owe you,” you say after a moment, voice low. “You didn’t have to show up like that.”

“I’ll always show up for you,” he replies, and for once, it sounds like a vow.

Silence settles again — warm, heavy — until he glances at you and adds, “Do you want a ride?”

You hesitate but nod. And this time, when you get into the car with him, it doesn’t feel like surrender.

It feels like agency.

✦✦✦

The car is silent for a while, the kind of silence that doesn’t ache — not exactly — but hums with something tentative and unspeakable, something that lives between the past and the possibility. Outside the tinted windows, Seoul glows with its usual contradiction — steel and chaos dressed in elegance, neon halos wrapped around glass buildings, traffic humming like a restless symphony beneath them.

You sit with your hands folded neatly in your lap, your body angled toward the window, your thoughts stretched thin between relief and exhaustion. And then you hear him breathe in like he’s been holding it for too long.

“How are you?” he asks.

You glance at him, not expecting the question to land so gently.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice calm and even. “I’ve saved up enough to hold myself through a few months. And I have an idea. A project, maybe.”

He turns slightly, enough for you to see his profile against the soft glow of the passing streetlights.

“What kind of project?”

You pause, then let it slip — not with rehearsed polish, not as a pitch, but as something tender you’ve been nursing in the back of your mind.

“A digital magazine,” you say. “Something fresh. Modern. Built around voices that actually have something to say. Not just trends, but meaning. I want to tell stories again — without being filtered through nepotism and ivory towers.”

His mouth parts like he’s about to interrupt, to offer something, but you continue before he can find the words.

“And I’ll be fine,” you say. “I always am. I’ve got this.”

He nods, slowly, his jaw tightening just slightly.

“I could help,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, not pushy — more like a hand hesitantly extended in the dark. “If you need funding. Or reach. Or anything.”

You smile, soft and kind.

“I know. But it won’t be necessary.”

His brows twitch. “You sure?”

You turn your head toward him then, really look at him. “I got everything I ever had on my own. I want this to be mine, too.”

It’s not rejection, not really — but it’s a boundary. One spoken with grace, but firm enough to bruise. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. He only nods again, his lips parting for a breath that he never quite exhales, eyes now fixed on the blurred city rushing past.

He doesn’t say it, but you feel it anyway — the desperate, quiet ache of a man trying to find any way to stay in your orbit, even if all the lines have been drawn in stone.

By the time the car pulls up to your apartment complex, the tension has shifted. It’s not heavy anymore. It’s just there — coiled in the silence, lingering in the static between your fingers.

Jungkook reaches for the door handle, but stops when you speak again.

“You know,” you murmur, eyes sliding toward him, tone feather-light, “you could come up for a minute.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, letting the smallest smirk tug at your lips. “Your blazer is still at my place. I figured you might want it back.”

He blinks once, a beat of disbelief, then — a smile. Real. Wide. Bright in a way that makes him look younger, almost like the boy you used to know before the world taught him how to disappear.

“Right,” he says. “The blazer.”

And just like that, he follows you up the stairs.

The door swings open with a soft click, and the warmth of your apartment spills into the hallway — soft lamplight, the faint scent of fresh flowers, and something faintly sweet clinging to the air like vanilla and ink. Jungkook follows you in, quiet behind you, his steps slowing as he takes in the space — small, yes, but so meticulously curated that it feels like stepping into the pages of a life built by hand.

Your bookshelves are stacked not just with titles, but with memories — worn copies of fashion memoirs, old literary paperbacks with creased spines, a row of thick archival issues of Vogue from various countries, and a ceramic pen holder shaped like a Chanel No. 5 bottle. Your desk is minimal, sleek, but lived-in: a half-used candle, a leather-bound planner with sticky notes peeking out, a cup of cooling tea beside your laptop. On the wall just above it, perfectly framed and hung in a gold-trimmed black mount, is the October issue of Vogue Korea.

His cover. Your article.

You watch him approach it, his eyes scanning the glossy finish, the sharp serif headline, the tension frozen forever in that singular photo you both helped bring to life. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His throat works around the words he doesn’t say, and you leave him there, letting him take in the quiet proof that even now, even after everything, he still lives here — in your space, in your timeline, pressed between your fingerprints and your dreams.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” he says finally, voice low.

You smile gently, already walking into the small open kitchen. “Well, I wrote it,” you reply, pulling down two glasses. “It was mine before it was anyone else’s.”

He turns at that, and the look on his face is almost boyish — reverent, maybe. Like he’s seeing you again for the first time, not through a lens of guilt or memory, but through the stillness of now.

You return with the wine and a sly glint in your eye, nudging his elbow as you pass. “Don’t look so serious. We’re not here to mourn.”

He lifts a brow. “No?”

You hand him a glass and settle onto the plush, soft-blanketed couch that dominates your small living room, the cushions already sunken from nights spent editing drafts and reading fashion week recaps. You tuck your legs beneath you and raise your glass in a mock-toast.

“We’re here to celebrate. My freedom. My future. Today was a win.”

He clinks your glass gently, eyes never leaving yours. “To your freedom,” he murmurs.

The first few sips pass easily, the taste rich and deep. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker — something French and sultry, the kind of thing you play when you're pretending not to romanticize solitude. The conversation flows without effort, meandering through memories, playful jabs, late-night ramen disasters from your early twenties, the ridiculous way he used to sneak into your dorm through the laundry exit, how you once nearly got caught at a public library and laughed for fifteen minutes straight after.

He’s different now. Older, yes — carved sharper, his fame molded into his posture — but when he laughs like that, head tilted back, lashes low, he feels like the boy you never really stopped loving. Not completely.

And maybe he never stopped loving you either.

When the wine bottle is nearly empty and your legs are stretched lazily across his lap, the mood shifts. Not jarringly — no crash of thunder, no sudden silence — but something gentler, something that folds over the room like velvet being pulled across bare skin.

He brushes a piece of hair from your cheek, his fingers staying there, calloused and warm against your skin. His thumb drags softly along your jaw, then rests at the corner of your mouth as if memorizing the shape of your silence.

“You deserve the best things in this world,” he says, voice tender, achingly sincere. “And I wish I never disappointed you the way I did.”

You look at him, eyes wide and open, the sting in your chest blooming and soft all at once.

“I don’t want you to carry that forever,” you whisper. “We’ve both made peace with the wreckage. I want us to move forward — not with guilt. With hope.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You really believe we can?”

You nod, slowly, deliberately. “I believe in starting again. And I believe in us, if we choose it.”

That’s when he leans in.

There is no sudden urgency, no hunger to consume — only the slow, careful gravity of two people finding home in each other’s mouths. His lips meet yours like a secret finally spoken aloud. The kiss is slow and reverent, a study in restraint, his hand still on your face, the other slipping to your waist as if asking permission he already knows you’ll grant.

You move together like something rediscovered — nothing desperate, nothing rushed. When he lifts you into his lap, you don’t hesitate. Your fingers tangle in his hair, his hands glide beneath your shirt, and every inch of contact feels like returning to a language your bodies never forgot.

You murmur his name. He breathes yours against your neck.

“I love you,” he says, not as a plea, not as a promise — just truth.

You whisper it back, slow and trembling, as you guide his shirt off, as he lifts you in his arms and carries you toward your bedroom. 

The door to your bedroom creaks open as he carries you inside, the backs of his fingers still stroking your waist beneath your blouse, as though he can’t bear to stop touching you even for a second. The room is small but bathed in warmth — draped in deep tones and the faintest scent of your perfume that lives in the pillows and hangs from the edges of the curtain. He sets you down at the foot of the bed as if you’re something precious, something fragile and sacred, but the look in his eyes tells you he also wants to ruin you.

You pull your top over your head, slow, deliberate, leaving yourself in nothing but a bralette and that little skirt you forgot you were still wearing. He watches you with parted lips, chest rising, gaze molten as he reaches to kiss you again — slower this time, deeper, his tongue licking softly into your mouth while his hands slide over your thighs.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathes, voice hoarse, kissing your collarbone, your shoulder, his mouth tracing the line of your bra. “Do you know what it’s been like? Wanting you like this, every night, for years?”

Your fingers are already tugging his shirt out of his pants, unfastening buttons one by one, letting your nails graze the inked skin of his chest.

“I want you,” you murmur, breath catching as he kisses just beneath your breast. “All of you.”

He lowers you onto the bed with maddening control — pressing kisses along your ribs, your stomach, as his hands tug your skirt down your legs. You feel like fire under his touch. You arch into him, gasping when his mouth finds your inner thigh. His breath is warm, heavy, teasing, but he takes his time. He licks you through your panties first, a slow press of his tongue that has you already clenching around nothing, already aching for more.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “So fucking sweet.”

When he finally pulls your panties to the side and buries his face between your thighs, you forget every coherent thought. His tongue is slow and deliberate — soft licks at first, then deeper, firmer, as he moans against your skin like he’s starving for it. One of his arms hooks around your thigh to keep you still while his other hand trails up your body, palming your breast through your bra, rubbing his thumb over the peak.

You whimper, fingers tangled in his hair. “Jungkook…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, licking up and down your folds. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good again.”

And then his tongue circles your clit — slow at first, then faster, as he sucks you into his mouth and keeps your hips pressed down. You can’t stop the moans, the way your back arches, the way your thighs tremble under his grip.

You fall apart like that, shattering beneath his tongue, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes over you. But he doesn’t stop — not even when you twitch and squirm and plead. He licks you through it, groaning against you like he needs it, until you’re gasping, breathless.

When he finally comes up for air, lips wet and eyes dark, you’re already reaching for him — unbuttoning his pants, tugging them down with a quiet desperation.

“Please,” you breathe. “I need you inside me.”

He curses under his breath, leans over to grab a condom — but you stop him.

“I’m still clean,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “I’m still on the pill. And you?”

His eyes lock with yours — hot and heavy and searching. “Yeah. I’m clean.”

You nod once. “Then fuck me raw.”

That’s when something in him snaps.

He strips down in seconds — shirt, boxers, everything — and when you see him, thick and flushed and already leaking, your mouth waters. You reach for him, running your palm down his length, watching the way his eyes flutter shut.

But he grabs your wrist.

“No teasing,” he growls. “Not this time.”

Then he’s on top of you — dragging your panties down the rest of the way, lifting your leg around his waist as he lines himself up and pushes inside.

You both gasp. The stretch is slow, hot, overwhelming. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, his name spilling from your lips as he rocks into you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice shaking. “You’re so tight. So warm. I missed this. I missed you.”

When he bottoms out, he stays there for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling at the sheer intimacy of it. You feel every inch of him, bare and pulsing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“I love you,” you whisper, your breath stuttering. “I love you so much.”

He kisses you then — slow, open, deep — and begins to move.

The rhythm builds gradually, your hips meeting him halfway, your fingers digging into his arms as he fucks you with long, dragging thrusts that make your entire body sing. The room is filled with your moans, your names falling from each other’s lips like prayers. There’s no distance between you anymore. No layers of pain. Just skin and sweat and love.

When he pulls your leg higher and goes deeper, you sob out a broken cry, eyes squeezed shut from how intense it feels.

“Look at me,” he pleads. “Don’t look away.”

You do. And you see everything.

When you come this time, it’s with him — bodies pressed close, lips locked, everything clenching and shivering as you fall together.

After, you lie in the quiet, tangled in each other, your fingers brushing over his chest, his lips on your forehead, your thigh, your hand.

“I love you,” he whispers again, soft and sure.

You smile against his skin. This time, you believe it.

There is no fight, no push-pull. Only warmth. Only skin. Only the slow, glorious ache of making love to someone who knows where your soul lives — and chooses to return to it.

The night unfolds like a second chance. And when you both fall asleep — tangled, bare, with no lies left between you — it’s not the end.

It’s the encore that mattered most.

.

.

an: you can get access to early chapter and exclusive content to my stories here 🖤

taglist: @twiinkletae , @whoa-jo, @emixlyn, @maariinaaaaa , @strawberryberrygirl , @viacb97, @bhonbhon , @baechugff, @mrspotatas, @hrndzsposts , @zzztaegizz , @bubblyyz , @vandjklove , @queenmasterxx, @lynnnnnnn23 @alittlelostalittlefound @whoa-jo @azaood @mar-lo-pap @sweatycherryblossomluminary @jk-190811 @kelsyx33 @rkive994 @asyr97 @do-the-shammy @gracelyxxx @slut4jeon @alessioayla @deeznutkooks @thatbtssong @bjoriis @chxiosworld @ushymushygushy @vantaelis @ilovehotmen1234 @sillyminmin @kreighposts @llallaaa @anyarealita @youthguk

[burrowdarling]

My MVP II (18+)

Summary: What happens after the NFL Honors, especially after your ride back to the hotel. Read part one here!

Pairings: boyfriend! Joe Burrow x girlfriend!reader

Requested: Yes | No

Warnings: oral (fem receiving), light spanking, elevators, Joe praise, sex (p in v), MDNI

Note: Heyo! Here's part two: The Hotel Room from My MVP, I hope you all enjoy. Thank you all so much for the love on the first one, which has over 600 notes in 3 days (like what?!?) Happy Superbowl Sunday, wish we had our boys playing, but smut always help with that right?

Word Count: 2.8k

Check out my Masterlist here!

Taglist: @burrowbarbie @definitelynotdomanique @one-sweet-gubler @plushkhiii @enchantedinfinity @iosivb9 @hellsingalucard18 @hotburreaux @lilfreakjez Feel free to comment or message me if you'd like to be added to the list!

You tried your best to keep pace with Joe’s long legs as you trailed behind him, fingers knotted through his. He Handed his keys off to the valet, his face expressionless as he did so. You felt your cheeks flush at the knowledge of what you had just done, knowing some stranger was about to get into the same car. Trying to keep your face down, you mumbled a thank you to the man as you passed him by. The walk wasn’t long, but your short legs were no match for Joe's long strides. 

“Joey, can we slow down? It’s hard to walk in these damn things,” you pleaded, wishing you had taken them off and reaped the consequences later. 

He wordlessly obeyed your request, slowing his pace slightly so you could catch up. Joe took the opportunity to release your hand, slipping his own protectively around your waist to keep you close. You walked through the sliding doors of the hotel lobby, Joe making a beeline for the elevators. The wait was short, glad to have gotten an elevator all to yourselves. Joe pressed the ‘close doors’ button as fast as he could, making you giggle.

“Someone’s eager,” you said, trying to spin to face him. You were feigning for his touch, still riding the high from your first orgasm. It was nothing compared to what Joe could give you, him knowing your body better than you did.

Joe pulled you tightly into his front, the feel of his cock straining against his dress pants making your breath hitch in your throat. The thought that this could stop on any floor, anyone could walk in had your pulse thrumming. Joe leaned his head down to the crook of your neck, mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“Do you know how badly I want to fuck you right now?” Joe asked as more of a rhetorical question, “how badly I wanted to rip this dress off of you before we even got out of the car at the venue?”

He slipped the back of your dress up, keeping your front covered. You let out a gasp of surprise at the sudden breeze on your backside, feeling more exposed than you were in the car. You were shocked, unsure of what to do with this new side of Joe. He was always so reserved when it came to you, but tonight was like he had flipped a switch of his own.

“I’m regretting letting you put your excuse for fucking panties back on right now,” he groaned, giving your ass a smack and a squeeze. Joe took the chance to grind himself against you, a moan slipping from your lips at the feel of him, desperate to have him against your bare skin

You made it out of the elevator unscathed, in a desperate pursuit to find your room. You fumbled with the keycard, unsure as to why Joe entrusted you with the job considering his composure was much better than yours. He waited patiently though, large hands on your shoulders while you went through your bag to find it, slipping it out of your purse and only dropping it to the floor once before you both made it in the confines of your room. 

The moment you passed the threshold, Joe was on you. You had only taken a few steps in as your back was against the door as it closed. Joe’s mouth was everywhere on your skin, lips leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

He walked you backwards to the center of the room, mouth never leaving yours. When he was satisfied with your placement, he left one final kiss to your lips before parting from you. You groaned at the loss of contact, confusion over your features when he took a seat in the armchair. 

“I want you to strip for me, sweetheart,” Joe growled out, eyes heavy with desire. His eyes were so blown with lust, you’d give him anything he asked of you. 

You walked towards him silently as you spun around, needing help unzipping your dress. You felt his large warm hands move up your back before settling on the top of your back. Joe gave you a short stroke of his thumb as a way of saying he was there, using his other hand to move the zipper down to the base of your spine. You walked back towards the middle of the room, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves as you turned back to face your man.

You hesitated for a brief second, processing his request fully under his domineering gaze before he gently nodded towards you as a sign to go ahead. He dropped you a wink before giving you a small smile, reminding you that your Joey was still here, even if he was putting on this persona tonight. You wanted to please him, give him the proper celebration he deserved. 

You pulled your hair to one side, exposing your shoulder and the skimpy strap of your dress. You locked eyes with him, taking your hair and moving the strap to slip down your arm. His eyes never left yours, licking his lips as he was unable to settle into the chair fully. You could tell he was ready to jump your bones, holding himself back to preserve this moment for as long as possible. You moved to drop the strap from your other shoulder and watched as the fabric pooled around your ankles. You stepped out of it as Joe moved from his stop on the chair. He had you in his arms, tossing you like you weighed absolutely nothing back against the pillows on the bed. You erupted in laughter, feeling heat pool in your stomach at his sheer size and strength.

You were laid back on the bed, knees bent and your heels sticking into the duvet. You watched Joe as he started to rid himself of his clothes. You admired him, feeling a strong pull of lust and love for the man before you. A well of pride sat heavy on your chest that you were able to shower him with the love and affection he deserved, to treat him like the MVP you believed he was to you. You watched as he reached around his neck, getting ready to slip the chains off for the night.

“Keep them on,” you spoke softer than you meant to, breathless at the sight of him, “you never wear jewelry, I wanna enjoy it.”

Joe nodded at your request, beginning to remove his jacket while leaving the chains around his neck. His skin was taught, his muscled chest finally being within your reach after he wore that suit all night. You got up from your place on the bed, moving on your knees to meet Joe where he was standing. He took the last of his clothing off, tossing it to the side before turning towards you. You took your opportunity, slipping a delicate hand up his chest and settling on one of his chains, giving a soft pull towards you. Joe groaned at the feeling of the taught jewelry at the nape of his neck, nipping at your lips in praise. His hands settled on your ass, gripping your cheeks in both hands before giving them a tender squeeze. You gasped at the sudden touch, Joe capitalized on the moment to slip his tongue in your mouth. Moving one hand to the middle of your back to support your body. 

It was raw and full of passion, unfiltered and encompassing the pent up emotions of the day.  Your hands were lost in his hair, gripped whatever you could to keep your head from spinning. Joe laid you back on the mattress, getting to his knees and pulling you to the edge of the bed. Much like he did earlier, he took the time to take off each one of your heels

“As sexy as these are, I wanna be able to move you around freely and not risk taking a heel to the face,” Joe joked lightly, slipping off your heel as he kissed up your calf. You nodded in agreement knowing you weren’t the most coordinated person. Even in intense moments like this, he always knew how to keep you comfortable. He repeated the same on your other leg, taking the time to move slowly up your body. Joe didn’t leave an inch of skin untouched by his lips as he settled at the apex of your thighs. 

“God you’re fucking dripping for me, sweet girl. How do you want me first?” Joe asked as he toyed with you, stroking the area just above your pubic bone causing you to stir.

“What do you mean first?” you question him, you did already finish once tonight. Your mind went blank at the possibility of just how much he wanted to wear you out tonight.

“You heard me, I plan on getting you to cum multiple times tonight. How many times do you think I can make you finish him? Once, twice, maybe three times if I’m lucky” Joe said with such confidence in his voice that your body trembled with excitement. 

“Though I think we both know I don’t need luck for that. I know just what makes you tick, exactly what my girl likes” Joe said as he brought his hand down between your legs, swiping a finger through your slit before moving up to circle your clit with his thumb.

The simplicity of the touch already had your back arching off the bed, having been craving to have his hands on you for hours. He took his free hand and brought two fingers up to your lips, tapping them to get you to open. He slipped them inside, thoroughly wetting them like you did earlier. Your eyes stayed locked on his gaze as he slipped them past your lips with a pop. You could tell he was imagining his cock in your mouth, drawing a lazy smile to your lips as the later probability. 

He brought the wet digits down to your core, slipping them inside of you as he pumped them in and out slowly to start. You were already beginning to lose it, your  body wound so tightly, it wouldn’t take much to get you there. He increased his pace as he changed the angle of his fingers, moving them in the ‘come here’ motion as he kept hitting that certain spot inside of you. In perfect rhythm, you were on fire from his touch as you were seconds from losing it, his movements unrelenting. Your hands gripped the sheets, knuckles going white at the sheer pleasure he was causing your body. You felt electric, a simple spark could send you reeling. You tossed your head from side to side against the pillow, eyes clenched shut from the pleasure coursing through you. You were so close to the edge, fighting to get to the point of that sweet release.

“I'm so close, Joey. I wanna cum for you like a good girl,” you moaned, stirring something inside of Joe at your words. It was as if he took your words as his own motivation to get you there, feeling how close you were.

“That’s it, cum all over my fingers baby,” Joe praised as your high ripped through your body, feeling a bit sensitive from your previous orgasm. “Number two will be with my mouth, I gotta get a taste of you.”

Before your mind could uncloud from the high, Joe’s tongue was already slipping inside of you lapping at whatever he could get. Your hands settled into his hair, pulling him closer to your body as you possibly could. You were a moaning mess, earning a groan from Joe in response that only made things feel more intense from the vibrations. It didn’t take long for you to finish on his face, grinding down to ride out your high that came so fast out of left field. This one feeling more intense than the first, the realization dawning on you that you had just squirted all over Joe. A small pit formed in your stomach that he would be upset somehow, propping yourself up on your elbows to look down at him between your legs.

His gaze met yours, telling you everything you needed to know. His pupils were blown so wide with lust. A look that said ‘don’t you dare feel bad for that’ while he made no move to part from you. He tenderly licked as your breathing even out, lapping at your juices like he was deprived. He moved to make his way up your body, flipping you around and lifting your hips so you were on your knees. He climbed on the bed to settle behind you, leaning down to bring his mouth by your ear. 

“You have no idea how hot that was, watching you do that. I can’t wait for number three to be around my cock, I already know your cunt is so fucking wet for me,” Joe growled out as he brought his mouth down to you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

You hadn’t spoken much, mumbling back an incoherent string of sounds that were meant to come out as words. Joe laughed behind you, pulling you up from your hands to rest back against him. You leaned your head on his shoulder, taking the time to breath before he would wreck you with his unrelenting thrusts. He gave your temple a kiss, gripping your breasts and toying with your nipples. He already had that knot in your stomach forming again, the pressure building in your center with an ache to have him inside of you.

“Need you inside me, Joe,” you whined against him, reaching your hands around to get any part of him in your grasp. 

“I can’t deny my baby what she wants, good to hear your voice still works for now,” Joe said as he moved you back to your hands and knees. You arched your back and wiggled your hips, ready to have him inside you. You pushed back against him, feeling his hands on your hips to stop your movements. A low whine slipped past your lips, ready to beg for his cock to be inside you already when he slipped in without warning.

You moaned loudly at the fullness of having him inside you, dropping your head in relief at the contact. Joe’s grip on your hips was firm as if he was taking out all of his pent up tension and the nerves from the night out on your body. You weren’t complaining, relishing in the thrusts and feel of his body coming into contact with yours after each one.

He pulled out quickly, flipping you onto your back before quickly finding his way back inside of you. He dropped to his forearms above you, caging you into his body as you locked eyes.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, i wanna see your face when I make you come undone on my cock,” Joe said as he deepened his thrust more than you thought was possible.

Your hands were clawing at his back, trying to ground yourself into the moment, every delicious stroke making you lose more and more of your sense of control. You felt yourself tightening around his cock, your release on the edge of tipping. It was as if Joe knew exactly where you were, dropping one of his hands between you and rolled your clit with his thumb and forefinger, the touch acting like a catalyst to your orgasm. You were a mess below him, arching up into his body as your nail raked down his toned back. 

Your release brought Joe to his own, painting your walls with his own cum shortly after you. He slowed his strokes, the both of you feeling sensitive to the slightest touch after your highs. You both laid there and caught your breath.You brough one of your hands to cup his cheek, Joe leaving into the gentle touch in the aftermath of everything.

“Congratulations, Joey. That was way better than any afterparty’” you said, giving him a peck to the nose as you giggled. Joe’s hand found their way to the sides of your face, still propped up on his forearms.

“Let’s get you cleaned up baby,” Joe said as he picked you up in his arms to bring you into the bathroom. Your body felt tired, but your desire was still high.

“Round two in the shower?” you questioned, wiggling your eyebrows at him making him let out a laugh and you to pout, “I didn't get to reward you properly. Someone was too caught up in my pussy to let me.”

“Let’s get in there first and go from there you minx, a man needs a moment to recover.”

[kingkaisen]

THE FANBOY GUIDE!

˗ˋ ୨୧ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ୨୧ ˊ˗ fanboy!gojo x celebrity!reader

˗ˋ ୨୧ 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ୨୧ ˊ˗ gojo, one of your biggest fans, has the chance to finally meet you. however, he hopes to also accomplish his number one dream: to fuck his idol.

˗ˋ ୨୧ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ୨୧ ˊ˗ 18+ ONLY // MINORS DNI - (switch!gojo, creampie, oral f!receiving, riding) fem!reader, no curses au.

˗ˋ ୨୧ 𝐀/𝐍: ୨୧ ˊ˗ gojo has been on my mind, & this is the result! header concept inspired by @kazushawty’s cyber theme.

˗ˋ ୨୧ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ୨୧ ˊ˗ 4K

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PURCHASE, SATORU. ENJOY THE EVENT!

The blue-eyed man blinked at his bright computer screen, which displayed his emailed receipt from Ticketmaster. In the left pocket of his black sweatpants — which he wore despite the summer heat at this time of year — his phone buzzed to alert him of a fat sum of money being taken out of his bank account.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled to himself.

He refreshed the page. And he refreshed it once more.

But after two lengthy scrolls through the confirmation email, there was no denying it.

He was going to meet you.

Gojo’s long fingers clicked away at his mouse and keyboard until he landed on his rather popular fan blog. To say that he was a member of your fandom would be an understatement, as he practically ruled over all of your supporters and gave true meaning to his username, kinggojo.

Even as a busy high school teacher and martial arts instructor — perhaps, entrepreneur as well, being as he owned his own martial arts school — he still carved out some time every single day to post about you. Watch your videos. Study your latest professional photoshoots and off-guard paparazzi shots.

And soon, a little plastic backstage pass will dangle around his neck, giving him undenied access to you.

The real you.

—

kinggojo: guess who’s finally gonna meet y/n? (:

—

At the airport, Gojo spent his time FaceTiming Nanami, who had to endure his rambunctious ramblings while on his lunch break.

“Give me one year,” Gojo paused, glancing down at his phone, “one year, and I swear, she’s gonna become my wife.”

“I don’t care,” Nanami chewed on his sandwich. “Please leave me alone.”

“Yeahhh, you’re just jealous.” As Gojo grinned goofily, the salaryman promptly ended the video chat.

While Gojo would have dialed him back repeatedly until he gave in and answered, Nanami had lucked out, as it was time for him to board his plane.

The plane ride was nothing short of exhilarating. Gliding through the air as a first-class passenger, he counted down the minutes until he’d finally see your charming smile in person.

Naturally, he had to splurge for an occasion as special as this one.

The best seats on the plane, the nicest hotel room in the city — he wished he could personally thank the spoiled geniuses who invented valet parking and free drinks for first-class passengers.

Although his bank account had seen better spending days, he was perfectly fine with eating cheap styrofoam cups of chicken flavored ramen once he got back home from his trip.

In his hotel room the night before his Big Day, Gojo gathered everything he might have needed along with his ironed outfit, and hung it up in the closet. He took his time with making sure he’d look especially sharp come morning, as he wanted to look good for you.

Good enough for you to fuck him.

Call him crazy. Overly optimistic. But he had a goal; an accomplishable dream that made his dick harden against the fabric of his pants whenever he thought about having hot, creamy sex with you — his number one idol.

As he crawled into bed and lazily stroked his cock, painting his fist white as the pearly ropes of cum spurted out of him, he thought about what it would be like if his wildest dream came true.

—

At the meet and greet, Gojo stood around backstage with all of the other fans, and one of them even knew about his blog. They all chatted about you, occasionally interrupting themselves to mumble a quick “I’m so nervous,” before talking about another topic, and Gojo couldn’t help but have pity for them.

He was nervous as well, of course, but even more so, he was determined.

And when you stepped through the door, smiling once your prosperous groupies shrieked and squealed, Gojo had finally understood what authors meant when they wrote about love at first sight.

You were more beautiful than he could have imagined. Even more gorgeous than in your pictures somehow. He was certain that you even glanced his way, but he couldn’t prove it.

“There she is,” Gojo said to no one in particular, not even completely aware that the words had fallen from between his lips, but a woman standing next to him spoke up.

“I can’t believe this is really happening!” She shook her hands out of pure excitement. “I hope she’ll sign my merch!”

Precious.

Some people had hopes and dreams as simple as that one. The taller man was certain that if he confessed his own hopes, they’d laugh at him.

Or worse, get him kicked out of the meet-and-greet completely.

But he didn’t have time to worry about what anyone else hoped to gain out of your event, not when the queue was moving rather quickly, and he found himself biting his lower lip and shifting his weight.

He was growing more and more nervous with every second that passed by. It was the ultimate countdown until he’d finally meet you.

Soon enough, it was his turn.

“Hi,” you beamed kindly at the handsome stranger, “how are you?”

How cute.

Your sweet, customer service tone made his heart skip a beat, and while he wanted to revel in the fact that he was meeting you and you were speaking to him, he couldn’t think too much about it. He couldn’t risk losing his cool.

“I’m better now that I’ve met you,” Gojo smiled, pulling out his phone to take the one photo he was promised in his package deal. “How are you doing? Having fun?”

You tilted your head a bit, and it occurred to Gojo that most fans probably didn’t bother to ask about your day, or your feelings.

“I’m great, thanks. You’re really kind for asking that!” You smiled. “What pose would you like to do, honey?”

Gojo melted inside. He knew the term was simply meant to make your fans feel more special than they actually were, but even so, he’d never forget the sound of you saying that to him.

Suddenly, Gojo wrapped one arm around your waist, pulled you against his side, and he raised his phone before snapping a photo with you.

Before he pulled away, he whispered into your ear, “there’s something really sweet about the way you called me honey just now.”

“O-Oh,” you stammered, looking down at your feet, the stranger’s warm breath against your ear made your cheeks warm up. “I just call everyone honey.”

“Of course, I’m just saying that I liked it. You’re just…” Gojo paused, looking you up and down, “pretty cute, aren’t you?”

Looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read, you said, “are you flirting with me?”

Gojo glanced at your security guard. The buff guy was more interested in the complimentary buffet than your protection, and Gojo took a step closer, hearing a jealous groan from the line of fans behind him.

“Maybe,” A small smirk appeared across Gojo’s face. “How would you feel if I was?”

“I’d probably have to just . . . ask you to leave.”

“There’s no need, sweetheart,” Gojo said softly, “I’m running out of time anyway. But that’s no way to treat a fan, is it?”

You gulped. You stared deeply into his eyes.

“You’re, um,” you said shakily, “you’re allowed to hug me before you go . . . if you want.”

“Come here, then.”

The tall man wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. The hug lasted longer than it should have.

“I’d love to spend more time with you,” Gojo whispered. “Maybe some other time.”

As he pulled away, you felt him slip something into your pocket.

“It was nice meeting you,” you said.

He left without another word.

Your meet-and-greet lasted for two entire hours after that, and throughout every single interaction with a fan of yours, you couldn't help but wonder what the handsome man slipped into your pocket.

Finally, as your event came to an end, you reached into your pocket and found a yellow sticky note.

Written on it was an address, a hotel room number, and his name.

—

Any sane person who valued their safety and their life would have ignored it. Toss the note in the trash. But you found yourself standing outside of his hotel room door, and for the first time in your entire life, you were nervous about meeting a fan.

You knocked on the door, your breath shaky as you did so.

“This is insane,” you thought.

Half of you wanted to run away before he answered. The other half of you wanted to stay.

But, before you could truly decide, he opened the door, standing there with a genuine look of surprise.

“Huh,” Gojo smirked, stepping to the side to let you into his room. “You actually came.”

It was all an act; the cool, calm, and collected aura was a cover-up, for underneath it all, he was a mess of a man.

The sweaty palms that he secretly tried to wipe off on his pants. His throat dried to a crisp no matter how many bottles of water he downed before you knocked on his hotel room door, which was idiotic, because he ended up spending the last thirty minutes before your scheduled arrival running back and forth to the bathroom to pee.

However, after years of flashing a false smile in front of a classroom packed with moody teenagers during his darkest days, and dishonestly congratulating his martial arts students even when their kicks were less than splendid to encourage them and see them beam with confidence, Gojo had considerable expertise when it came to acting.

Of course, he was nervous.

It was you.

Even so, as his heart pounded rapidly inside of his chest, he was beyond thrilled about what was to come.

And who was to come.

“I knew you’d be surprised. I'm surprised as well.” Shutting the door after you entered his unexpectedly luxurious hotel room, you gulped, your eyes failing to meet his bright blue ones. “I don’t normally do stuff like this.”

“Sleep with fans?” Raising an eyebrow, Gojo’s cocky smirk turned into a rather kind smile.

“Yeah.”

“Well then, I’m honored. I mean, just getting to meet you was something I wanted for a long time. And to know you’re actually gonna let me ruin you?” Slowly, he leaned in, placing a soft kiss against your cheek. “It’s a dream come true.”

“Are you really a fan of me?” You gave him a look of disbelief.

“Of course I am,” he mumbled. “Why? You don’t believe me?”

“You could have pretended to be a fan to get my attention or something, I don’t know.” You shrugged shyly, which was the cutest thing Gojo had probably ever seen. His cheeks started to burn from grinning so much.

“Trust me,” Gojo suddenly pressed his palm against your jaw, running his thumb across your cheek, stroking you delicately as if he were touching fragile flower petals. “I’ve watched every single video that you’ve ever posted, seen almost every photo, liked every tweet, and ignored all of your typos. I’ve read every single piece of fanfiction about you that I’ve come across online. Tried to write my own one time. It was shit, but still. I’m not really the kinda guy who likes to label myself, but if I’m not your biggest fan, then I don’t know who is.”

When he ran his thumb over your mouth, pulling down on your soft bottom lip ever so gently, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to actually kiss you.

He wanted to do it.

Desperately.

Moonlit nights spent warm in his bed were when he alternated between his top five favorite scenarios, daydreaming about your first kiss as he drifted off to sleep. And, now, he would have the chance to feel your pillowy lips against his — and, god — they felt so perfect against his digit, he ended up chewing on his own bottom lip as he touched yours.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked softly, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. “Please?”

“You’re my biggest fan, apparently, so you can do whatever you’d like.”

He pressed his lips against yours. Every single First Kiss! cliche he had seen in movies and read about in books — going on about fireworks and such — had a bit of truth to it, because when your buttery lips touched his, he instantly melted into the kiss.

It was as if he was born for the sole purpose of kissing you — like a god created his mind, body, and soul for that specific reason.

He moaned; it was strange, yet familiar, as he never made such a delicious, sinful noise whenever he kissed someone.

But then again, during late-night hookups with unsatisfying women, he wasn’t one to typically make any sort of noise.

Apparently, he only ever moaned if it had something to do with you.

Whether he was jerking off to your bikini photos on Instagram, or kissing you, as it would seem, only you could elicit such a beautiful sound from him.

And he wasn’t complaining. Not one bit.

“Gojo,” you mumbled softly against his lips. “Don’t be such a gentleman.”

“Trust me, I’m not.” Gojo's mouth hovered over yours as he spoke. “You have no idea how badly I wanna toss you on that bed right now. I just need to take my time with you and enjoy every minute. I’ve waited too long for this to happen, and I’m not gonna rush it.”

Despite his words, when he reconnected your lips, he kissed you hungrily.

Hurriedly.

His tongue entered your mouth as his hand held onto the back of your neck. It was such a messy kiss, but a passionate one as well, and only a man like Gojo could pull off both with a simple swirl of his tongue, which battled against yours.

And your mouth tasted absolutely delicious. He could hardly wait to taste your pussy as well, wondering how it could compare.

When Gojo’s other hand suddenly gripped your ass, a little gasp escaped from you, and he took that god-given opportunity to deepen the kiss.

If he could have his mouth attached to yours like this forever, wet tongues darting around as you swallowed each other’s moans, he would.

He didn’t want to pull apart to breathe, didn’t want to pause for even a moment and detach his lips from yours, but he did.

He pulled away, but only so he could leave kisses along your jawline.

“Gojo,” you whined, lifting your neck to give the tall man full access to your sensitive skin.

And when those skillful lips of his found that sweet spot right underneath your jaw, he licked and sucked at it as if he’d absolutely die if he didn’t.

“You’re whining like that just from me giving you a little hickey?” Gojo mumbled against your wet skin. “Now I’m curious about the kinda noises you’ll make once I eat your pussy. I won’t lie; I’m pretty excited.”

“Then just do it already,” whining once more, you gripped his shoulders as he started to make his way down your neck, leaving kisses across your collarbone.

“Patience,” Gojo said.

And when he spoke, he spoke as if he wasn’t truly freaking out on the inside.

His idol was desperate for him.

If he didn’t believe in luck before, he surely did now.

Gojo’s large hands, which were formerly roaming your body, pulled your top off swiftly, including your bra. If only he could take your bra with him as a souvenir.

It took all of his strength to not drool at the sight of your hard nipples.

God, were they perfect.

They were certainly magnificent enough to make any previous plans for having patience and taking his time with you flutter out of his lustful mind, as only a few seconds after removing your shirt, you were laying on the bed with Gojo hovering over your tits. He bit his lip in anticipation.

“Can I suck on them?” He asked, his eyes never once glancing away from your chest. “Please?”

“Yes-”

You were interrupted by a sudden gasp falling from your lips, as Gojo attached his mouth to your hard nipple as soon as you mumble that simple little word.

“Hmm,” he moaned.

First, he licked at your nipple while flicking your other one with his finger. Then, he took it into his mouth, sucking on it as he listened to your soft moans, which was a sound he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.

Repeating his actions with your other nipple, he smiled against your tit when you suddenly ran your hand through his hair.

As badly as he wanted to fuck you, the thought of simply laying on your chest on a lazy Sunday afternoon as you ran your fingers across his scalp sounded like a dream.

It sounded like love.

He wanted that with you too.

Gojo took off your pants. He took off his shirt.

Then, he left a trail of kisses down your stomach until he made his way in between your legs. Having the honor of looking at your pussy was comparable only to walking through the golden gates of Heaven.

“What a pretty pussy,” he whispered to himself, running his thumb along your wet folds.

Like a starved man diving into a Thanksgiving dinner, Gojo spread your lips apart, and started to lick your clit.

Even with your back arched, fingers running through his hair as you moaned and moaned, Gojo was certain that he was enjoying it even more.

The hand that was formerly holding the wet lips of your pussy open made its way down to his dick, and he rubbed his clothed dick while moaning against your sensitive button, which he licked at rapidly with his wet tongue.

“Hmm, oh — baby,” he moaned and moaned.

“Gojo,” you whimpered.

He looked up at you through those long eyelashes of his. He was actually going to make you cum all over his tongue.

Excitement ran through his veins like a drug. He attached his lips to your clit, sucking on it until your delicious juice flooded his mouth.

“Oh my god,” you squealed, thrashing around as he refused to snatch himself away from your pussy. Not until all of your creamy mess was all licked up.

Wasting even a drop of your cum was an outright sin. One he would never forgive himself over.

He detached himself from your pussy with a little smack, licking his lips as he sat up.

Gojo started to unbuckle his belt. “You ready?”

You nodded, but once he pulled his pants down, the sight of his large cock made you gulp.

But you should have known.

He was tall. Large hands. Large feet. Large cock, of course.

Gojo pressed his tip against your folds, rubbing the head of cock up and down your wet hole, collecting your juices as he worked his way from your hole to your clit repeatedly.

The very split second in which his cock was pressed against your entrance was a telltale sign that you had never taken a dick that was as big as his.

It managed to put your past partners to shame.

And your purple dildo too.

“It’s too big,” you whined, blinking up at him.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” Gojo rested his hard member against your hole. “I’m gonna make it fit, baby. You’re gonna be a good girl for me and take it, right?”

You were getting impatient. The urge to feel him fill you up was undeniably strong, but also, his urge to take his time with you was equally as powerful.

“Only if you be a good fanboy for me,” you frowned, “and put it in.”

“I had no idea you’d be so impatient,” Gojo smiled, but even so, he still didn’t move. Not yet.

“Don’t tease me,” you said.

“Tease you?” Gojo ran his hand along your thigh, and your frown deepened. “I’m just taking my time. Not my fault you’re so-”

“Maybe I should’ve picked another fan.”

Gojo suddenly shoved himself inside of you.

Screw how much he wanted to savor the moment. If you wanted to be fucked right now, fast and hard, then he’d do it. He’d do anything for you.

After kindly letting your pussy adjust to his size, he increased his speed.

The bed squeaked from his thrusts. He pressed his forehead against yours, his warm breath patting against your face as he moaned softly.

“Faster,” you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Oh, did he obey.

He not only fucked you at a harsher speed, but he repositioned himself so that he could thrust in and out of you roughly.

He anticipated the noise complaint he’d receive from the hotel staff already. Not that he cared. He didn’t care about anything except for how good your pussy felt around his cock, and as his moans increased in volume, all of his thoughts slowly fluttered out of his pretty little head.

He couldn’t focus on anything aside from the pleasure.

He just loved you so much. Your content had changed him as a person, shaped his life into something worth living, and now, here he was, thriving in the utter pleasure you gave him. It melted away his cocky attitude, and he gripped the sheets until his knuckles turned white.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” Gojo said. “I . . . god, I need . . .”

He was begging for something and nothing at the same time, just so desperate and pathetic for you, you, you.

Suddenly, you pushed on Gojo’s shoulders.

“Let’s switch,” you bit your lip. “I wanna ride you.”

He could have cried. You wanted to ride him? Only a fool would turn down that opportunity, and he was quickly on his back as you climbed over him.

“That’s it, pretty baby. Get on top of me.” His large hands gripped your perfect ass, and instantly, he dreaded the very moment when he’d have to eventually let go. His eyes — which glistened with lust without any decency and excitement without any substances — darted down to your wet hole sinking his aching cock. “Oh — put it in. Put it in.”

“Now who’s impatient?” You smirked, but you couldn’t tease him for long, as when his big cock entered you, your mouth flung open with utter shock over how full you felt.

Perhaps, it was foolish to believe that his size was something you’d get used to after he pounded your pussy into oblivion moments before.

Slowly, but surely, you started to bounce up and down along his length. Those bright eyes of his, which were now fixated on your beautiful boobs, fluttered closed as he tossed his head back.

“Oh my fucking god,” he moaned. “Feels so damn good. You’re so perfect, you know that? Keep bouncing on my cock, baby. Just like that.”

He went on and on, more heartfelt words pouring out of his mouth with every jolt of your body.

“I’m so obsessed with you,” he continued, “I can’t lose you after this, I can’t. I can’t, baby. You’re fucking me so good, please…”

He whimpered, which was utterly shocking to him, but it made your walls clench around his dick. His desperation turned you on in unimaginable ways, as now, he was revealing his true colors underneath the false chill and cool persona, and he was nothing more than a pathetic, cute, little fanboy.

“I love you,” a tear slipped down his cheek from utter delight. “I love you so much. Stay with me, I’ll do anything. I want you all to myself.”

“So, so, devoted to me, huh?” You said breathlessly, yet sweetly.

Truth be told, his cock felt so wonderful thrusting in and out of you, it would have been entirely unshocking if you ended up being addicted to him as well.

“I’m gonna cum-” Gojo wrapped his arms around your waist, bucking his hip up to fuck you as deeply as possible. “I’m so close — I’m right there. I can’t hold it, sweetheart, I-I can’t keep it in much longer.”

“Cum for me, Gojo.” You whispered. “Be good for your little idol, yeah? Tell me how much you wanna cum.”

“So badly,” he swallowed thickly, beads of sweat forming across his forehead, his white hair sticking to his salty skin. He was starting to become dizzy from the way your pussy worked on his cock. He couldn’t hold himself back. “I . . . Oh fuck.”

White ropes of his creamy cum exploded out of his dick, shooting inside of you with such urgency and desperation, that a light shade of pink dusted across his cheeks from utter embarrassment.

The white-haired man’s cock twitched. It throbbed until every last drop of semen filled your insides, and broken moans poured out of his throat.

“So much of it,” he softly whined, burying his reddened face in your neck. “I’m sorry.”

His cum spilled out of your pussy. It trickled down until it drenched the white sheets underneath you both, but Gojo’s hips continued to lazily buck up, sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin as he fucked his cum right back inside of you.

—

After taking a few moments to catch your breaths, you and Gojo were right back at it, going round after round until the sun rose, marking the very next day.

The teacher, who had fallen asleep somewhere around 5 A.M., awakened with a shiver shooting up his spine from the chilly hotel room air. And it made sense why, as he was completely naked.

But when he realized that you weren’t in bed with him, nor were your clothes tangled up on the ground along with his, he frowned.

Was it a dream? No. He knew it really happened. Perhaps, he was a fool to think that you’d stay with him, that you both would wake up together and shower before ordering some breakfast via room service.

You were a celebrity, he was simply a fan, and there was no hope for-

Suddenly, a yellow sticky note fell off of Gojo’s chest.

Written on it was your phone number, and a little heart.

—

When Gojo returned home two days later, he collapsed in his rolling chair, exhaling a deep breath followed by an airy laugh.

Even as he opened his laptop and logged onto his blog, he couldn’t believe his luck. The ultimate fanboy, he was.

Half of him contemplated the idea of creating a guide for every other hopeful man with an appetite geared exclusively towards their idol, but in his gut — which twisted with excitement whenever he thought about you creaming all over his cock so deliciously — he knew that he was simply a lucky man.

A lottery winner. The chosen one.

Even if he got an imaginary Master’s Degree in the study of Banging-Your-Idol, and went on to write nonfiction self-help books to aid all of his followers, they would all still fail to accomplish what he did.

However, even if he couldn’t create a guide to help out every other horny and helpless individual, he could still do one thing.

Brag.

And with that, after taking a screenshot of the recent notification that appeared across his screen — showing that your popular, verified account had followed him back — he started typing.

—

kinggojo: hey guys (: none of you are gonna believe what just happened…

♡ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠!

♡ 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 & 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

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