#was fun to spend like... 3 hours writing this down

[cocoa-dile]

Would they really stay with you if you asked for a few more minutes in bed? (TWST)

With every student except for Ortho :)

Next post will be another Sebek Zigvolt I think, except headcanons this time around :)

Warnings / Notes: Complete fluff, OOC for everyone to differing degrees, gn! reader, reference to the menstrual cycle in Jack's (but only as a hypothetical situation, nothing detailed or anything like that), my second time writing anything fan fic related (:O), all just for fun and not meant to be taken super seriously. If you have any feedback, please leave it in the comments down below, as well as any requests (which can also be done by clicking the "requests" button on my profile)! I'm also sure that this isn't a unique idea, I think I've seen it done by a few other much more skilled writers so I encourage you to find theirs if you enjoy mine at all :)

Not proofread! I apologize in advance for any mistakes, if there's anything you think needs to be fixed just let me know. Also you would think that because each one is just a few sentences long this would've taken like maybe an hour at most but no this took wayyy too long for what it is

Relationship between reader and character is romantic

Heartslaybul

Riddle: No, probably not. He might let you stay in bed for a couple more minutes as he gets ready for the day, but he probably won't be staying in bed with you - he has a schedule to follow, after all! Riddle has been working more on being a bit lax with following rules, so I think as time goes on you might get lucky, but be patient with him.

Deuce: Ace and Deuce are probably pretty similar here - Deuce would stay in bed with you unless you both overslept already and will be late to class if you stay in bed any longer. Unless he thinks Riddle will get on him or the both of you for staying in bed or waking up late, he'll gladly stay under the covers.

Ace: Yes, most likely. Unless the both of you overslept horrifically, he'll probably want to sleep or be close to you for a couple more minutes anyway. I feel like Ace is the type of person who will continuously push the snooze button on the alarm clock at least 3 times.

Cater: Cater is likely to say yes to this I think, he'd appreciate the time and attention. He likes it when there's some quiet time with just the two of you, where he doesn't have to pretend and can just relax next to you.

Trey: Bakers get up really early so I think out of habit he's up with the sun. On top of that, as vice housewarden to Heartslaybul, he has a lot to take care of. Trey might be willing to spare a few minutes, but if he's got some baking to do or tensions to smooth over he won't be sleeping in. He'd love to make it up to you with some extra time together or a treat that he made special for you.

Savanaclaw

Leona: I feel like this one is so obvious it's not even a question. Yes, he would absolutely stay in the bed for extra sleep or cuddle time. In many cases, he's probably the one asking you.

Jack: I think this is another probably not, leaning towards a maybe. Jack has been shown to highly value his schedule, and takes his time very seriously - maybe if you're still in bed by the time he's done he'll join you again, but I think he would remain a bit steadfast with his "it's time to get up" and "it's time to go to bed". I do think there would be some circumstances that this wouldn't be the case - if you're going through your menstrual cycle (if you have one), if you just need a bit of support or have had a rough couple of days, etc. I think that Jack would highly value the time he spends with his S/O, and wants to be there when you need him.

Ruggie: As long as he doesn't have something to deal with in relation to Leona, I think he probably would. Ruggie seems like someone who has quite a bit on his hands, but if you're his S/O I think that even those small moments and time that you can steal away for each other is really important to him.

Octavinelle

Azul: Probably yes. I think part of the requirements to be Azul's S/O is that he needs to feel comfortable with being vulnerable with you, and even enjoy that vulnerability. Cuddling / sleeping together is one of those activities that creates that feeling of gentle care and love that he really appreciates and makes him feel safe. If it's too late, however, I think he would want to get up - he has business to handle, and Jade and Floyd aren't always the most reliable.

Jade: In most cases, yes, but if it's a day where he plans on going up to the mountain early or has to handle the Lounge, he's off (in some cases maybe even before you wake up).

Floyd: Depends on how he's feeling, but most likely yes. I don't think he really cares about being on time for the Mostro Lounge, and everything else is probably background noise for him. Floyd would probably hold you down in the bed with him as you attempted to escape because he likes feeling you squirm around.

Scarabia

Kalim: Yes, he absolutely would. Kalim is a ball of sunshine who's head over heels for you and is willing to do anything to make you happy. If just a few more minutes in bed is enough, who is he to say no?

Jamil: Jamil has a high level of responsibility within Scarabia, so I imagine that he's another one who has to get up on time and get to work. However, I think that when the stress is getting particularly bad he'd fold and stay with you for a bit before going back to his duties.

Pomefiore

Vil: I'm kind of conflicted on Vil to be honest, on the one hand I think he would value his beauty sleep and a few more minutes couldn't hurt but on the other I feel like he's another person whose pretty particular about when he wakes up, when he does his skin, hair, etc. For Vil, it might be more of a case-by-case basis like with Jack - if you need him, he's there, and if he needs a few more minutes with you, he'd hope that you'd stay for him in turn.

Epel: Another yes, I think Epel would really like doing this sort of thing with you because he likes the idea of being the chivalrous boyfriend who does whatever his S/O asks of him. It makes him feel reassured in his relationship and like you know you can count on him.

Rook: You wouldn't even have to ask, he's already woken up before you and has enjoyed admiring your features. A few more minutes marveling at your beauty surely wouldn't hurt.

Ignihyde

Idia: Most likely, yes. He doesn't leave his room for classes anyway, so unless it's for a super big event going on in one of his video games I think he'd be happy to spend some more time with you. He's touch starved and wants to be near you, so what's the harm in a few more minutes anyway?

Diasomnia

Malleus: Yes, absolutely. My personal bias is definitely going to slip out here, but I really do love the headcanon that Malleus will follow the traits typically associated with dragons, such as being possessive, enjoying collecting things (particularly shiny things), etc. Another common trait many people accept with dragons is that they enjoy being either on top of or very near their hoard. As his S/O, you are incredibly important to Malleus - the most important shiny thing, if you will. Similar to Idia, Malleus is touch starved and wants to be given affection and attention from you specifically. To Malleus, a few minutes is truly nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Silver: Yes, probably. He'd probably end up falling asleep again anyway, so it's good that you're there with him. He doesn't mind a few extra minutes with his beloved, even if Sebek gets on him for being a little bit late to patrol.

Sebek: As much as I absolutely love Sebek, I really don't think so. You might be able to seduce him back under the covers when it's cold out (given that crocodiles are cold blooded creatures, and you're assumedly much warmer than he is), but usually, he stays pretty rigid with his routine. Wake up on time, morning routine with his skin and fixing his hair, and then take care of Malleus. I think he'd make it up to you with some quiet time together, but I doubt that he'd allow himself to sleep in at all.

Lilia: Yes, because I don't think this old man really cares anymore. Nowhere that he needs to be comes before you, and like with Malleus, a few minutes really isn't anything anymore.

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

I haven’t eaten much today

I had fruit and yoghurt and the rest of a cream bun in the morning

Ate a couple of pakoras when I got home. Had a custard bun.

I haven’t eaten like. A proper meal

I was tired after cooking dinner (grilled chicken sandwiches) but I had gotten up to force myself to eat

And then I realise

That thing that flicked onto the garden door when I pushed my cat off the bin

That I cleaned up

*was a worm writhing about that had come from his tail*

Like

A white, slimy, small parasite worm

I’m not typically that squeamish. I didn’t gag or anything, but my appetite which was tenuous to begin with, is gone.

It’s also the fact that I’m tired and very fed up with my family today, even more so now that this has happened because it’s going to be my time (which is already packed) used up to take the cat to the vet

As well as getting the bloody deworming pills for myself

[glowettee]

✧˖° studying without suffering: how to actually enjoy learning (yes, it’s possible)

✧˖° let’s talk.

hey angels, it's mindy!

most people treat studying like a punishment. something to be endured, not enjoyed. it’s that thing you force yourself to do, like taking bitter medicine or running a mile in gym class. but what if that’s the reason you struggle with it?

the secret? you were never meant to hate learning.

somewhere along the way, school made it boring. maybe you had teachers who sucked the fun out of it. maybe you associate studying with stress, deadlines, and exhaustion. but learning is supposed to be exciting. when you actually enjoy it, everything changes. you focus longer, retain more, and (ironically) spend less time studying because your brain actually absorbs the information.

so, let’s fix it. let’s make studying something you want to do instead of something you suffer through.

✧˖° ➼ step 1: detach learning from school

(school & learning are not the same thing. stop letting school ruin your curiosity.)

the first mindset shift? realize that school does not own learning.

➼ school is about structure, deadlines, and tests. it’s designed to measure performance. ➼ learning is about curiosity, deep thinking, and exploration. it’s designed to expand your mind. and help you grow as a person.

if you’ve only ever studied because you had to, your brain associates it with pressure. break that pattern. find something outside of school that you actually like learning about. philosophy, psychology, art history, neuroscience, fashion design, whatever makes you curious.

even if it’s unrelated to your classes, it rewires your brain to see learning as an intrinsic activity, not just an obligation. once you enjoy learning in general, you can transfer that energy back into your studies.

✧˖° ➼ step 2: romanticize the process (but actually make it feel good)

("romanticizing studying" doesn’t mean just buying cute stationery. let’s go deeper.)

sensory association is everything. your brain links experiences to the way they feel physically. so if studying feels uncomfortable, you’ll avoid it. the solution? make it a luxurious experience for your senses.

✧ visuals → clean, minimalist desk, soft lighting, aesthetic study materials ✧ sound → rain sounds, classical piano, lo-fi beats (music that enhances focus) ✧ touch → cozy blankets, warm tea, smooth pens gliding over paper ✧ scent → vanilla candles, fresh coffee, the pages of an old book

this isn’t just about aesthetics. it’s neuroscience. when studying feels pleasurable, your brain stops resisting it.

✧˖° ➼ step 3: use high-dopamine study techniques

(forcing yourself to study the “normal” way is why you hate it.)

some study methods are literally designed to be boring. ditch them.

instead, try:

➼ blurting method: instead of passively reading, close your book and write down everything you remember. then check what you missed. (way more engaging than just re-reading notes.) ➼ dual-coding: mix visuals with text. draw tiny sketches next to your notes. turn concepts into mind maps. watch a video explaining a topic right after reading about it. ➼ pomodoro stacking: instead of the typical 25-minute study sprints, customize it. (ex: 50 min deep focus + 10 min break with an actual reward.) ➼ interleaving technique: mix subjects instead of block studying. it forces your brain to stay engaged.

stop making studying harder than it needs to be. find what works for you, and your brain will stop fighting it.

✧˖° ➼ step 4: make studying social (but in a smart way)

(because you’re not supposed to do this alone.)

studying alone for hours? miserable. but studying with others who are just as serious as you? instant motivation boost.

but instead of chaotic group study sessions where no one gets anything done, try:

✧ parallel studying: hop on facetime or join a study livestream. silent, focused, but together. ✧ teaching method: explain concepts to a friend. if you can teach it, you truly understand it. ✧ study accountability: check in with someone daily. send each other your study goals, no excuses.

even just knowing someone else is studying at the same time can trick your brain into feeling more engaged.

✧˖° ➼ step 5: shift your identity

("i hate studying" isn’t a personality trait. it’s a mindset problem.)

if you keep saying “i hate studying,” your brain will never enjoy it. change the narrative.

➼ instead of “i suck at studying,” try → “i’m learning how to study in a way that works for me.” ➼ instead of “i can’t focus,” try → “i’m training my brain to focus longer every day.” ➼ instead of “i don’t feel like it,” try → “i’m someone who gets things done, whether i feel like it or not.”

become the type of person who enjoys learning. once that becomes your identity, everything else follows.

✧˖° ➼ step 6: create emotional attachment to your goals

motivation dies when your goals feel distant and impersonal. if you’re studying just because you “have to,” it’s easy to procrastinate. but if you link it to something deeply personal, it becomes non-negotiable.

try this: visualize your future self. imagine the version of you who already achieved everything you want. who is she? what does she do? how does she study?

then, make it emotional. ✧ if you dream of getting into your dream school, print pictures of it. make a vision board. ✧ if you want financial freedom, imagine the luxury of never stressing over money. ✧ if you want to be respected in your field, remind yourself that your knowledge is your power.

when you make studying personal, it stops being a chore. it becomes a commitment.

✧˖° ➼ step 7: stop making everything harder than it needs to be

(struggling doesn’t mean you’re working harder. it just means you’re struggling.)

too many people study inefficiently because they think suffering = productivity. but studying smarter is always better than studying longer.

some ways to make it easier on yourself: ➼ use study apps → quizlet, pomdoro apps for focus, notion for organization ➼ summarize like you’re texting a friend → rewrite notes in your own words, no unnecessary fluff ➼ study in “levels” → don’t jump straight into deep studying. warm up with light review, then increase intensity ➼ take advantage of spaced repetition → stop cramming, your brain retains more when you review over time

efficiency = less stress, better results. don’t work harder than necessary.

✧˖° ➼ step 8: replace toxic productivity with high-performance habits

studying 10 hours in one night ≠ academic excellence. true high-achievers prioritize sustainability.

➼ quit glorifying exhaustion. taking breaks improves focus. it’s not laziness. ➼ learn when to walk away. if you’re zoning out, step away. 10 minutes of real focus > 2 hours of fake studying. ➼ protect your sleep. all-nighters don’t make you hardcore, they make you ineffective. your brain processes info while you sleep.

the goal isn’t to study the longest. it’s to study in a way that keeps your mind sharp and focused.

✧˖° ➼ step 9: master the “dopamine pull” method

instead of forcing motivation, use dopamine to your advantage.

➼ habit stacking → pair studying with something enjoyable (ex: study while drinking your favorite matcha) ➼ mini rewards → after finishing a chapter, reward yourself with something small but satisfying ➼ gamification → track progress like a video game. every completed task = a “level up”

your brain loves dopamine. give it reasons to associate studying with good feelings.

✧˖° ➼ step 10: let go of perfectionism (but keep high standards)

perfectionism leads to procrastination and burnout. instead of striving for flawless, aim for consistent excellence.

✧ done is better than perfect. stop rewriting notes 5 times. ✧ progress is the goal. each study session should move you forward, even if it’s small. ✧ your worth is not your grades. strive for success, but don’t let school define you.

when you release perfectionism, you actually start achieving more. keep your standards high, but don’t let them paralyze you.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips

(things that helped me romanticize studying & actually make it enjoyable:)

➼ set a 5-minute timer. just start. most of the time, your brain stops resisting once you begin. ➼ don’t let study guilt ruin your breaks. rest is productive. ➼ have a “study fit.” i swear, dressing up just a little makes a difference. ➼ invest in one high-quality pen. something that glides effortlessly. small detail, huge difference. ➼ study in cafés, libraries, parks. switch locations to keep it interesting. ➼ make it ✧ cozy ✧. fuzzy socks, oversized sweaters, soft blankets. your comfort matters.

✧˖° homework: rewire your study experience

➼ for one of your study sessions this week, try at least two of the techniques above. ➼ write a short journal entry: how do you want to feel while studying? how can you make that happen? ➼ change just one thing about your study setup that makes it more enjoyable.

then come back & tell me. did studying feel better? (you can always message me or send me an ask in my inbox)

[burymagdalene]

Drip by Drip - S. Reid x Reader

In which the nine long days spent apart ends in a harmonious reunion of a needy shower spent together.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: plain smut. (18+ pls pls) I didn't even write 70k words of plot before like I usually do. tags: softdom!Spencer, shower sex, age gap (or could also not be...) pinv, a possessive vibe, fingering, handjob, making out, multiple things being very wet...playing with your tits, creampie, finger sucking, praise, & desperation! wc: 3.3k a/n: More of this. I had a lot of fun writing this even though I kind of felt really dirty to the point of religious guilt as a non-religious person so I hope you guys like it! <3

Your body finally relaxes after what feels like the longest day you’ve had all week once Spencer's shower stream washes over you.

Nine days. Nine brutally slow days of watching over Spencer’s apartment- or torturing yourself by being reminded of his belongings for over a week.

When he first left, you’d been naive. Spencer hasn’t been away for over a week since you’ve started dating. The first time he was gone for three days you felt like you were going to faint. You wish you still had those champagne problems as you’re washing yourself for the trillionth time alone in Spencer’s shower.

The past 24 hours have been especially hard. You were woken up at 5:00 am with Spencer calling you before he had to get ready in the hotel and go out to do whatever had taken up so  much of his time in Boise, Idaho. 

First, good news: He thinks there is a break in the case, and should be getting home later.

Second, great news: Spencer has conveniently woken up with a hard on that's throbbing helplessly against his stomach.

Which sounds like a heavenly wake-up call. But in the FBI he has to be adaptable to the quickest changes in plans.

Five minutes into purring into your side of the phone while touching yourself to Spencer’s groans, another charming individual begins to call Spencer as well. His boss.

So, tucking himself into the band of his underwear, Spencer leaves again. You could’ve finished yourself off, but self pity got the best of you as you drift off to sleep.

A painfully slow and hard day at work followed, rude people and small mishaps on your part that were blown out of proportion to make you feel worse. A crappy self made dinner that took longer to cook than to eat.

But in Spencer’s shower, you’re able to unwind, happy in knowing you can spend the end of a bad day in your lover's space. Regardless of if he’s here or not. Which is another problem, you haven’t heard from him since he was panting on the phone earlier– so it’s safe to say he probably will not be coming back today because of the rush in which he had to hang up earlier.

Over the water pattering against tiles, you do not hear the key jingle and door shut that signifies Spencer’s long-awaited return. Head down and eyes closed, most of your senses are just focused on trying to unwind.

Spencer, placing his bag down in the kitchen, can hear the shower going and immediately saunters over. Not having a plan, but just to show that he’s finally back. He can’t fathom being home right now without alerting you.

Slowly, as if not to scare you too badly, he probably will though, he slips in through the bathroom door, places his toiletry bag down on the sink.

You’re a bit unfocused, but not completely to the point of missing this. Out of your peripheral vision you see the slightest movement and your head whips to the side. Spencer. You could fucking melt.

Through the steam that has built up, you can make out his slouched figure and contrasting pleased smile. You can’t help yourself, with soft dripping skin you swing his shower door open to greet him.

“Spencer,” you whisper out in shock, trailing water onto his bathroom floor. “Oh my God.”

“Hi my baby-” He reaches out to swipe away some droplets on your face, but doesn’t finish. You’re pulling him into a tight, wet hug.

Arms slung fiercely around his neck, he barely buffers in returning your hug with his jacket-clad arms around your waist.

In the back of your mind you’re aware that the water on your breasts and stomach are soaking through his undershirt. That your clean hair is dropping water onto the shoulder of his jacket. You’re also aware how expensive a suit is. 

The harsh disparity from the cool air sticking to your wet skin from the hot (frankly, too hot) shower you were in previously is pebbling your nipples against his now soaked-through button up, your skin is covered in goosebumps that he’s swiping away with his thumb. 

A low hum into your ear as he’s trailing his thumb nail against the sensitive part of your inner waist, “Angel girl,” a deep sigh, “I missed you so much.”

Your arms tighten around him, forehead landing on his wet shoulder, you could cry. You could laugh maniacally. Either way, you feel cemented against his frame, the only warmth being produced near you since stepping out of the shower.

A small indent in your lower stomach is being formed from his belt digging into your pliable skin. You feel like a fresh heap of soft clay ready to be moved and constructed into anything Spencer’s hands can make of you. You feel utterly his.

You pull away slightly, uncomfortable from where his buckle was pressing against your belly. Pulling one hand away you trace it with a fingernail, Spencer and you both looking down at it between your bodies. Both noticing the drastically different attire. 

A chuckle slips from your lips without thinking, “you branded me, look.”

Spencer’s thumb stops rubbing circles into your side, a shiver rolls down your spine. Daring to look up at him, you’re met with his dark eyes resembling magic 8 balls. An underlying fortune there too: Outlook Good.

Warm hands are soon softly gripping your cheeks as you’re being pulled into a burning kiss. His lips against yours after all this time, you moan immediately. Dry and soft and pillowy he’s swallowing you and pulling you flush against him, buckle be damned.

Water from your hairline is rolling over your cheeks and soaking the cuffs of Spencer’s sleeves. You haven’t pulled away far enough, but you can bet that the white button up he’s wearing is see through.

You’re freezing, the air from the bathroom is torturous, your skin on high alert. It’s making you push yourself onto Spencer so hard he stumbles back. He grabs your ass to steady you both for a moment and you bite harshly onto his bottom lip.

“God, my girl,” Spencer shivers against you when he feels your cold hands seek warmth under his shirt, “My perfect girl, I can’t believe how much I missed you.” He places a kiss onto the top of your head.

Speaking into his shoulder, “I missed you too, I feel crazy. Such a bad day.”

Both of his hands slowly trail up your waist till they meet the side of your boobs, you pull your lips in to conceal a whiny moan.

“I’m sorry I left you hanging earlier, did you finish?”

“N-no, went back to bed.”

He groans against your head. Placing his hands firmly on your hips to push you away slightly, taking a long good look at your naked frame. You feel exposed, embarrassed, and hot. Looking back at him, his perfect suit, deliciously tainted by your wet body print, chest visible through the wetness.

One of his thumbs wanders from your hip, back to the small indent of his buckle, rubbing it back and forth. This time you can’t help but whine.

The tension is tangible and painful. Your hands feel stuck to your sides before you snap out of it, pulling him close by the tie before you try to remove it with slippery hands.

Tight and hard to undo because of the wet nature of his garments frustrates you as you try to untangle Spencer from his tie. Him being clothed feels utterly unbearable. Through half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, he watches you struggle with the tie.

“Here- honey, let me.” Spencer's removal of the tie, his fingers taking it off rather steadily compared to your shaking ones. Though the excitement zipping through him equals yours.

You latch onto him again, completely devoted to his presence, there’s no way in hell you’re letting that much distance and that much time separate you again. Tugging one side of the collar of his jacket you slip it off of him, he grabs your wrist.

“I’m here, I’m here,” A wet kiss to your begging mouth, “Get warm in that shower, you’re trembling. I’ll be there in 30 seconds. Can you wait that long for me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Knew it. Good girl.”

With that, your stomach plummets and you spin on your heels back to the shower. It’s almost orgasmic in itself to find yourself under the hot water pressure again. 

The door is almost completely steamed up now, you can hardly make Spencer out through it. You can only see movement and more of his tanned skin being exposed through a murky lens.

You can’t help it, greedy fingers come down to rub a few circles onto your clit as he finishes undressing and approaches you. The weight and stress of the nine days going straight to your clit to be absolved.

The door swings open, mercy.

You don’t feel polite enough to stop the rubbing, Spencer doesn’t seem to mind, mumbling “Jesus.” under his breath before meeting you with a kiss under the shower head.

His tongue rolls slowly against yours, making your toes curl in on themselves where you stand. Fingers picking up against yourself you moan into his open mouth, he pulls his face back to watch you. 

A kiss against your throat makes you whimper and pull your head to the side for another one to be placed. 

With Spencer’s rock hard dick against his stomach in your line of vision you wince while removing your hand from yourself, your hips instinctively kicking up to chase where your hand is now grabbing the base of Spencer.

He hums low, a bead of precum leaking out to be washed away by the stream. You glide your hand quickly, a desperate attempt to hear more of his moans vibrate against your skin. 

“Slowly, baby-” He gasps as you circle his head.

You can’t let up, you barely feel in control of your body. Your head is spinning, you just can’t believe he’s with you.

Finally, a louder moan is cut from Spencer’s lungs as his hips slowly fuck against the fast pace of your fist. The tip of his dick barely ever encases in your hand as he does so, only able to feel the sensation of bottoming out when he’s inside you.

While you’re distracted, moaning brokenly into the suffocating air and pumping your hand against Spencer’s throbbing length, Spencer trails down to pet your clit again for you.

“Fuck, I missed you. I miss touching you like this, the way I can feel your heartbeat in it, baby-” He draws out the last word in disbelief. You felt the thrumming against your own fingertips earlier, so by now you’re sure it’s fluttering against his hand in an obscene way. 

His middle finger circles your entrance. Your heart is in your throat. 

“Please-” You sob out, being teased right now would end you forever.

“Mhm. I am.”

Taking his time feeling against your spongy walls where his thumb continues its circles against your bundle of nerves, your hand against his cock grows sloppy.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the muggy air making you deliciously light headed against his ministrations. 

The second finger brings a delightful stretch, your head falls back against the wall as you whine. It’s been a while. You harness some sort of defiance that refuses to fuck yourself when he’s gone. The week of nothing stretching you out causing for a tight suction around his two fingers as he fucks into you.

“Tight, baby. It’s been too long. I left you too long, my poor thing.”

Though your hand slowed against his cock, you’re still trying to keep up simulation for him, not wanting to be a cruel tease when he’s working against you so perfectly. Spencer pulls that hand away eventually though. Without explanation, you know he was about to cum. His stomach always flexes and twitches when he’s using all his willpower to hold back.

“Need it. Need you-” You gasp against his lips. Totally overzealous. Spencer knows the way you’re tight around him, you’re going to need a third finger to take him without your common whiny complaints.

Teeth knocking together, he continues to tongue kiss you. He wants to expedite this process of feeling you around his cock just as much as you do, he just has more willpower than you. You can mumble and beg and plead till tears well up in your eyes. His stomach swirls with a burning passion because of it, but he has no capability to hurt you. 

So you get another long finger inside you.

You let out a high pitched whimper- proving yourself wrong immediately. You needed to be stretched out this way. Damn his perceptiveness.

Your eyes roll back and your hips roll against the fingers rubbing against that sweet spot in you that shakes your thighs.

“You gotta keep yourself open for me when I’m gone, love.” He whispers brokenly into the thick air around you.

“Can’t. Only you.” You grumble back.

Spencer can’t get into the health benefits of taking care of yourself this way, especially in the long periods when he’s away. He can tell you’re bordering speechlessness and he’s dizzy enough to follow your technique of just letting out pretty moans.

A tiny trail of white essence pools around his fingers and he nearly keels over. You’re definitely ready to take him now. Seeing the ways he makes you feel good in the mess you make always drives him to the brink of insanity.

“Taking them out now. Gonna give you what you want. Feel ok?” He whispers into your ear before nibbling the lobe softly before parting to analyze your face.

“Feel reallyy good, Spence.” You smile a dazed grin at him, eyelids fluttering shut. Bringing the fingers that were just inside you to his lips he sucks them off and bites down on his fingers a bit too hard at the divine taste.

“Do you want to turn around for me, angel?”

Spencer’s trying to think of the best way to do this. His shower is nice, but isn’t the biggest shower in the world, he lives in an apartment in D.C. after all. He’s gonna have to fuck you from behind.

“Yeah, course.” You shift slowly, forearms out to brace yourself against the cold wall. Sticking your butt out playfully, he grips it softly, lines his cock against you.

“You feel okay? Ready?” He plants a kiss on your shoulder, you turn your head to make eye contact, you and Spencer usually can’t go too long without looking into each other's faces.

“Feel okay, really want you baby.”

Your head stays tilted to the side and your temple rests against the wall as he nudges his head against you.

Opening you up just enough, the stretch of all of him after a considerable amount of time has you keening.

The hand not gripping your waist moves up to cup one of your tits, rolling the sensitive nipple between his fingers.

“Fuck-” you whimper out meekly.

Letting him all the way in, he squeezes your breast for purchase. Looking at how he’s fully settled inside you, Spencer begins peppering soft kisses over your shoulder and spine, calming you and himself down.

Using the wall as leverage you slowly move yourself back against him, notifying Spencer you’re ready to be taken.

Gasping, he pulls almost all the way out to slowly fuck himself in again before settling on a good, unyielding pace. The feeling of your warm skin under his hands, warm cunt around his dick and warm water falling against his back is making him feel like he’s on a cloud. Completely blissed out having you in his arms again.

You groan (rather unladylike while getting fucked this way) and circle your hips against his thrusts. Spencer peers up at you, making sure your face isn’t holding any tension that could be read as something hurting. Instead you just open your mouth, ready for a finger.

Begrudgingly, he takes his hand off your breast to place his thumb down on your tongue, you moan happily and smile around him as your teeth scrape him lightly when he finds a delicious spot in you to pound at. 

Overwhelmed, he has to look up at the ceiling. He’s been so pent up that letting his hips move in autopilot against you, the quiet sopping sound of you two together over the water falling, the base of his spine tingles.

“Still okay?”

He asks at your closed eyes, you gurgle out an uh-huh against his thumb, drool rolling down your chin to be forgotten in the shower.

“Kay- good.” He kisses your cheek.

Feeling his orgasm beginning to build, Spencer takes his hand from your waist to move to the front of your hips where your clit is exposed.

A trembling bite is met against his thumb as he uses three fingers against you in relentless circles. Keeps his hips going the same pace.

“Spence- you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Ha- trying to, doll.” His eyebrows furrow- trying to hold back long enough so he can fuck you through your orgasm, though the tone of your voice is making that increasingly hard.

Your head lolls back against his shoulders and with a few “ah, ah, ah’s” you’re coming hard all over him.

“Good, yeah. You’re okay, feel so good f’me.” He whimpers as you begin to pull his orgasm from him. His hips still against you at your deepest point as you let out a tiny mewl at the stimulation. Tongue pushing out his thumb to moan freely.

He rocks himself inside you while holding your hips up, making sure no slips occur in his bathroom today. Spencer keeps grinding and rubbing your clit until you’re both shaky with overstimulation, and till you mutter out a “can’t-”. He doesn't argue with that.

The shower water is beginning to chill as he watches his cum slide down your thighs into the basin. Spencer is rubbing your arms soothingly up and down till he pulls you against him. 

“You wanna get out, pretty?”

“Cold.” You shudder.

Your legs feel like jelly when he’s wrapping a towel around your shoulders and ushering you into his bedroom. Another towel tied lowly on his waist he pulls an FBI hoodie over your raised arms and boxers up your legs. His own robe pulled off the door to drape over himself.

The tender attention you receive no matter what type of sex you and Spencer have always heats your cheeks with delight. A tender pressure is being massaged into your thighs with the lotion you brought over from your own apartment, and your eyes flutter shut as he mumbles something along the lines of “princess.. blah blah blah…” to you.

“Please never be away from me that long again. I really missed you, Spencer.”

All warmed up and soft from his pampering, you lie against his rising and falling chest.

“I know. I did too. It’s strange, I feel like when I’m with you, you act as my circadian rhythm. You ground me and keep me in check, I know when to wake up when you do. I sleep better, eat better. When we’re apart I struggle with that. You’re a resounding part of my day.”

You nuzzle against his chest, preening at his words. 

“I love you so much.”

“My baby, I love you too.”

Squished together tightly in a way that’s breeding an almost uncomfortable warmth, you and Spencer fall asleep. Hearts mirroring each other in matching soft and measured beats, the 216 painful hours apart start healing with every drum in your chests.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

that old cliché.

you swore you’d never give in to the maid of honour and best man cliche. and then you met evan buckley.

evan buckley x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol. buck’s a filthy flirt.

word count - 6k

authors note - and so she returns!! thank you all so much for your loveliness on my post about my break - I appreciate it more than you know. this one was so much fun to write. i’ve not written any longer stuff for buck, but he’s a character I feel that I have a really good understanding of - I actually think we’re very alike - so this came so easy. hope you love it as much as I do. <3

masterlist. inbox.

Silvery melodies of laughter clink off the rim of the champagne flute you hold in your freshly manicured hand. As the gentle breeze whips through the material of your dress, you look around you, realising you’ve never seen so many people so happy at once.

The backyard of the Italian villa is packed, dozens of guests milling around - dancing, drinking, chatting and catching up. Family, friends, colleagues; people from every phase of the bride and grooms life, all celebrating together in one place.

A rocks glass is placed down onto the table in front of you with a thud. Looking up, you’re met with the sight of the best man towering over you expectantly with a drink in his hand.

“Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

You scoff, staring up at him through your lashes.

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yeah. But why?”

“It’s whiskey. I watched you grimace every time you had to drink the champagne, so I thought you’d want something different.”

You swirl the glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice against the sides.

“You were watching me, huh?”

“Of course I was. Can’t take my eyes off you in that dress.”

“Shut up,” you chide, fighting to keep the grin off your face. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“The whole best man and maid of honour thing. It’s just too cliched.”

He laughs all hearty and genuine, and you poignantly ignore the way the butterflies start fluttering in your stomach.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, shaking your head at him.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams, Evan.”

“Oh, you will be,” he winks, knocking his glass against yours in a quick cheers before walking off to the find the groom.

You watch him go, not completely oblivious to the way his suit fits him just right. Determined to stand your ground, you inhale a deep breath before taking a sip of your drink. The drink that definitely isn’t exactly what you needed. The drink that he’d practically read your mind to figure out. Effortlessly.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s been like this all day.

You met Evan Buckley for the first time last night, at the rehearsal dinner. The bride, your best friend in the world, kept telling you that you’d love the best man.

“He’s from California,” she’d said. “He’s Danny’s friend from when they were kids. He’s a firefighter, babe. He’s hot.”

You’d laughed it off, zipping up the back of her dress while she watched you in the mirror.

“Oh, come on. That’s so cliched. The whole maid of honour and best man thing is so old, Lucy.”

“You’re single, he’s single,” she’d protested. “It’d do you some good to get laid, relieve some stress. And people let their guards down at weddings. Now’s your chance.”

“If I wanted to get laid, I’d get laid,” you scoffed.

“All I’m saying is that Buck is completely your type. He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, he’s sweet. And you’re gonna have to spend a fair bit of time together tonight and tomorrow, so… just keep an open mind.”

“Fine,” you soothed, rolling your eyes. “Mind wide open. Alright?”

“You’re gonna love him.”

“You said that already.”

“Because I really believe it. You’re gonna love him.”

And the problem is… she was kind of right.

No, you don’t love him. You’ve known him for 48 hours. But… there’s something.

Lucy wasn’t lying. He is gorgeous, and funny, and sweet. And hot. So hot. He showed up to the rehearsal dinner in dress pants and a linen shirt, all sun kissed and muscled and tanned and stunning.

The two of you were seated next to each other, planned so carefully by the bride and groom. One minute you were making cautious introductions, shaking hands and smiling gently. The next minute you were crying with laughter, clutching at his bicep as he grabs your thigh, legs intertwined and chairs pulled together.

Lucy and Danny nudge each other occasionally, watching the both of you get along like two old friends that have known each other forever. A look passes between them that says I told you so clear as day.

But you’re stubborn. Too stubborn, some may say. You know you’ll never hear the end of it from your friends if you give into this very alluring temptation, and perhaps your pride means a bit more to you than it should. So you resist, you refuse to give in. Even if you really want to.

And that was just last night. Today has been even worse.

By worse, you mean the connection between you and Evan has grown even stronger. You walked down the aisle with him, arm linked with his, both dressed up to the nines. The maid of honour and the best man, a perfect picture.

You haven’t been able to keep your hands off each other all day. Little touches - his fingers on the small of your back, your grip on his bicep, shoulders brushing and thighs pressed together. Nothing crazy, but nothing meaningless, either. There’s an undeniable electricity buzzing between you, hot and alive.

You’re not sure how much longer you can deny it.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You’re dancing with Lucy and her little nieces when you hear yelling and commotion coming from the other side of the dance floor. Looking over, you see Danny, Evan and other groomsmen flailing around and fussing.

“What happened?” Lucy’s yelling, making her way over with you in tow.

“Just a drink spillage, Luce! But it’s red wine, and now Buck’s shirt is pink.”

You look at the man in question and can’t help but laugh. His crisp white dress shirt is now a pretty shade of pink across the front, his cheeks a rosy colour to match.

“Stop laughing,” he chides, but he’s grinning at you as he says it. “I need to go and change. I have a spare shirt in my suitcase upstairs.”

He starts to leave, but soon turns around and calls your name.

“I don’t have a key for that big door at the end of the hallway to get to our rooms. Do you?”

“Yeah, it’s in my purse. You want it?”

“Just come with me. It’ll be easier.”

Before you can argue, he’s taken off, big strides across the garden. You have to practically run in your heels to keep up with him, shaking your head in frustration.

“I could have just given you this,” you say when you reach the door, unlocking it for him.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The smirk he gives you is so cheeky, it’s a wonder you don’t smack it off his face. Cocky bastard.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, walking with purpose to his room.

“Come in with me? It’ll only take a minute, then we can walk back together.”

You know you should say no, tell him that you’ll meet him downstairs. But you don’t. Instead, you say,

“Fine. But hurry up. I don’t wanna miss the party.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes, unlocking the door to his room that’s conveniently directly across from yours.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid watching him undress. He shrugs off his now pink shirt, taking it with him into the bathroom.

You’re surprised at how tidy everything is. Not that you think Evan would be particularly messy, but he doesn’t strike you as a neat and clean type. His suitcase is unpacked into the closet, bed made, nothing on the floor. It only makes you like him more.

“Can you grab my other shirt from the closet please, gorgeous? The one I wore last night for the rehearsal dinner.”

You swing the two doors open and rifle around, failing to see the linen button up that he’s looking for. Suddenly, you feel a warmth behind you, Buck’s solid form caging you in. He reaches around you, arm brushing yours as he finds what he needs.

“Found it,” he murmurs into your ear, all low and honeyed.

Against your better judgment, you turn around, finding yourself face to face with him. He towers over you, watching your reactions carefully. Your hands reach out and rest on his bare chest, steadying yourself before you either fall over or pass out.

Buck gently traces your bottom lip with his thumb, eyes completely locked on yours. You have to resist every urge to either bite it or suck it into your mouth, reminding yourself that now isn’t the time. The noise from the garden floats up and through the window that’s cracked open slightly, tethering you to the reality that is slowly fading away the longer you hold Evan’s gaze.

He leans in, and to your surprise, doesn’t kiss you immediately. Pressing his forehead to yours, he inhales deeply, as if committing the moment to memory. His thumbs are now tracing gentle circles on your jaw, soft and callous at the same time. You inhale slowly, processing the scent of his cologne mixed with the evening breeze. If you could bottle it up, you think, you’d be a millionaire. This would cure everything.

Buck finally closes down the gap between you, inching towards your lips softly. You shut your eyes, waiting for him to finally kiss you - when there’s deafening knocking on the door. The two of you jump apart, hearts pounding and nerves on a live wire.

Evan strides over to the source of the noise, taking a deep breath to try and compose himself as he goes. You perch on the edge of the bed, smoothing down your dress and attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“Buck? Dude, it’s Jake. Hurry up, yeah? The guys wanna do our dance routine before everyone gets too drunk to remember it.”

He doesn’t bother opening the door, just yells back through the wood.

“Yeah, sure - I’ll be down in a minute!”

You hear Jake’s footsteps retreat, both of you exhaling the breaths you didn’t know you’d been holding. Buck looks at you, worried that the moment’s been ruined, to find you stifling a laugh behind your hand.

“There’s a dance routine?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, fighting to keep the grin off his face. “We created it years ago. The guys won’t let it die.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this.”

You’re cackling, reclining onto the duvet as you laugh.

“Stop,” he groans, jumping over to flop onto his back on the bed next to you. “I did a lot of regrettable things in college… and that routine is definitely the worst of it.”

“I hope you know that you’re never going to live this down, Buckley. I’ll be reminding you of this forever.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at you. “You really like me, huh?”

“What the hell gave you that impression?”

“You said forever. What’s next, honey? You gonna get down on one knee later?”

You’re suddenly aware of the warmth of the whiskey flowing through your veins, giving you a liquid confidence that stuns both you and the man lying next to you.

“Two knees, maybe. But not one.”

His eyes go wide as you smirk, pulling yourself off the bed and making your way over to the door. Buck watches you carefully, gaze steady and firm.

“You coming? I’m more than ready to see those moves of yours.”

He stands up, slipping on his shoes and shrugging the clean shirt onto his broad shoulders. You grab your purse, leaning against the doorframe as you wait.

Evan reaches past you for the door handle, nose purposely brushing yours as he does it.

“I’ll hold you to what you said before,” he murmurs, moving a strand of hair away from your face softly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

You look up at him with big doe eyes, like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Sure, Evan,” you reply lowly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Breaking away from him, you swing the door open, strutting down the hallway without looking back. Your confidence has sky rocketed, knowing that he wants this just as badly as you do. You walk back out to the garden and take your earlier seat, ready for the show you’ve been promised.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The dance routine is spectacular.

It’s cheesy and hilarious and very early 2000s inspired - it’s almost like watching a music video from a boy band you loved when you were a teenager. It should embarrass you, turn you off majorly, but… it doesn’t. It only does the opposite.

Everything Buck does makes you like him more.

You spend the rest of the evening dancing, laughing, and floating on cloud nine. In a garden in Italy, surrounded by your best friends - you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

As the evening dwindles to an end, everyone slowly begins making their way back to their rooms within the villa. You sit down, unbuckling your heels to finally give your feet a rest. It almost feels like deja vu when a rocks glass is placed down in front of you on the table.

“Hi, Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yes, but why?”

He pulls out the chair in front of you and sits down, looking at you intently.

“Thought we could have a nightcap before we go upstairs.”

You look around to find that mostly everyone has decided to call it a day. You can see Lucy and Danny walking off hand in hand, going for a stroll around the grounds before they let the wedding officially be over. It just leaves you and Buck, sat in your original places.

“Is this Baileys?”

“Yes ma’am. Do you like it? I figured you probably wouldn’t want another whiskey, seeing as you’ve had so many.”

You scoff, trying to fight the grin that threatens to take over your face.

“I’ve had, like, four, thank you very much.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, making you chuckle as you shake your head.

“Cheers, Evan,” you toast, clinking your glass against his matching one. “We did it. A wedding without a hitch. Mostly.”

“My shirt will never be white again, but besides that, we did a pretty good job.”

“We make a good team.”

He looks slightly taken aback by your honesty, trying to hide his smirk.

“Yes, we do. A super hot, super funny team.”

“A super hot, super funny team.”

You both laugh, heads thrown back with no cares in the world. Buck shuffles his chair forward so his legs are slotted on either side of you, warm skin radiating into yours. The moonlight is glinting off of his cheekbones, illuminating the light streaks in his hair. You’re a little tipsy and much too tired to fully fight your feelings anymore.

He’s beautiful, and you’re sick of denying it.

The two of you finish off your drinks, sat in a comfortable silence beneath the starry night sky. His hand has found its way onto your thigh, thumb rubbing gentle patterns into your bare skin. You’re sneaking glances at him when he looks away, admiring the way he’s glowing, buzzed off of the alcohol and the excitement of the day. He’s doing the same with you, soft smile etched onto his face as he watches you gaze up at the stars above your heads.

A yawn escapes you, making both of you chuckle.

“I’ll walk you to your room?”

“Well, you better. I’m the only one of us with a key for that big door.”

He laughs even harder, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I forgot about that. If you weren’t here, I’d have slept on the floor in the hallway or something.”

“Probably wouldn’t be the first time,” you mutter, standing up and tucking your chair under the table.

“Sorry, what was that? Say it again? Hmm? Hmm?” he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you so your feet are no longer on the floor.

“Okay, okay! Put me down before I throw up,” you shriek, giggling like a teenager.

He places you back down, hands on your hips to steady you. You look up at him, keeping your eyes fixed on his to steady yourself from the dizziness. When you feel ready to go, you clear your throat, willing yourself to walk away before you kiss him stupid.

“We should go to bed,” you whisper, afraid to ruin the moment.

“Yeah?”

“Separate beds,” you tell him sternly, chuckling when he cackles.

“Yes ma’am.”

Buck walks you back to your room in a gentlemanly fashion, looping your arm through his to keep you both upright. When you reach your door, your fingers linger on the handle, as if you’re not quite ready to go inside just yet.

Reaching out gently, he moves a strand of hair from your face, fingertips brushing your cheekbone as he does it. You sigh softly, eyes fluttering shut at the sweet contact.

“Goodnight, gorgeous,” he murmurs lowly. “Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight.”

He takes a step back towards his door when you speak again.

“Evan?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Everything, today. You’ve been a damn good best man.”

“Well, thank you. For being the best maid of honour.”

You nod, smiling like an idiot as you unlock your door and shut it behind you. You take a deep breath when you’re finally inside, throwing down your heels onto the floor and your purse onto the side table. Reaching behind you, your fingers tug at the zipper on your dress, attempting to pull it down.

It’s only now you realise your dilemma. The zipper is on an awkward place on your back, right where you can’t get to. You think quickly back to this morning - one of the bridesmaids doing the dress up for you, pulling the material taut as she fastened it. You’re not going to be able to get this off yourself.

Finding the purse that you discarded minutes earlier, you aim to find a hair clip. If you can loop a bobby pin into the zipper, you think, you might be able to pull it yourself. You root around in it for a second, before pulling out two phones.

Well, fuck.

You’d completely forgotten that Evan had given it to you earlier in the evening, worried that it was going to get broken if it stayed in his back pocket. You’d tucked it away and not thought about it again.

Until now.

Now, you’re realising that you’re going to have to go and give it back. He probably hasn’t remembered that you have it, otherwise you’re sure he’d be knocking on the door or yelling across the hallway.

You stand in the middle of your room, with two phones and a stuck zipper, wondering if the universe thinks this is funny.

You’re certainly not laughing.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“Evan?”

He swings the door open, facing you in his suit trousers with no shirt on.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I have your phone.”

Holding it out to him, his fingertips brush yours as he takes it from you, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, shit. I forgot about this. Thanks, pretty.”

“Of course.”

You stand and look at each other for a second, so much left unsaid.

“Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Anything.”

His instantly willingness has butterflies fluttering in your stomach, flitting and lightweight and undeniable.

“Can you help me get my dress off?”

When he smirks and goes to speak, you cut him off quickly.

“The zipper is stuck, Evan. Alice zipped me up this morning and I can’t undo it by myself.”

“This is a very long winded way of asking me to get you naked, gorgeous.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“If that’s what I wanted, I would just ask you, Buckley.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“Can you help me or not?”

He’s laughing, now, head thrown back with it. You hate the way it makes your heart sing.

“You coming in? Or you want me to undress you in the hallway?”

“You’re not undressing- fuck, you’re annoying.”

He’s still chuckling when he ushers you inside, shutting the door firmly behind you both.

“How do you wanna do this? Lights on, lights off? Curtains open or shut? Music? Candles?”

“Undo the damn zipper before I smack you.”

His laughter is rumbling through his chest, contagious in its nature. You want to be angry at him, but you just can’t seem to find it in you.

“Turn around, gorgeous.”

You spin to face the door, taking a deep breath as you anticipate his touch. You feel his warmth behind you, fingertips dancing over the skin of your shoulders before they reach your zipper. You can’t see him, but you can envisage the sight - his broad chest, thick neck, that beautiful sun kissed glow he’s developed over the past few days. Your lungs heave as the room suddenly feels like it’s a thousand degrees.

Buck slides the zipper down your back slowly, with intent and clarity. When it reaches your coccyx, he stops, resting his other hand on your hip to keep you steady.

You know you should step away, maybe throw him a quick thanks as you leave. But you do believe in fate, whether you like to admit it or not - and this entire night has felt like it’s been written in the stars.

Who are you to deny what the universe is so clearly gifting you?

You let your arms relax, sighing as the dress falls off of you and down to the floor. You step out of it, finally turning around to face Buck wearing nothing but your lacy white underwear. Surprisingly, there’s not an ounce of self consciousness in your body. The only thing you feel is desire.

For the first time since you’ve met him, Evan is completely speechless. His eyes rove over you, drinking in the sight in front of him, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in awe, fingers itching to reach out and touch you. “The minute I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were real.”

“Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“Touch me, please.”

He grins, surging forward to cup your cheek with one hand while the other finds its home on your waist.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

“Finally.”

Buck leans in and presses his lips to yours surprisingly gently, testing the waters. You tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him as close as possible. He gets the message, reeling you in and deepening the kiss until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

You’re being walked backwards and into the wall, pushed up against it for leverage. You hike a leg up over Bucks hip, groaning when the two of you grind forwards at the same time. His hands are everywhere - your face, tits, ass, waist - anywhere he can reach. It’s like he’s not quite sure where he wants them, as if he’s worried he’ll leave somewhere untouched.

“You’re all I’ve thought about for two days,” he’s muttering into your neck as he leaves open mouthed kisses on your skin. “Driving me crazy.”

“I got myself off last night,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut when he sucks at the spot under your ear. “Thinking about you.”

“Fuck,” he moans, sinking down to his knees in front of you. “Tell me more. Please.”

It’s almost biblical, the sight of him. On his knees, practically begging, looking up at you like you’re his saviour. You’re dizzy with the power, blood rushing straight to your head.

Buck presses kisses into your leg, starting at your calves and moving up. When he gets to your inner thigh, he gazes up at you, pleading with his eyes for you to continue.

“Tell me more or I’ll stop,” he says sternly, hooking his fingers into your underwear to pull them down and off.

“Okay, okay,” you pant, dropping your head back against the wall. “I, I- I couldn’t stop thinking about your arms in that shirt. The, the, the-”

You’re stuttering as he licks a stripe up your core, diving in with no hesitation. His fingers are gripping your thighs so hard you know it’ll bruise, and you can’t wait to feel the imprints in the morning.

“The?”

He’s pulled away to look at you with his brow quirked, dirty smirk etched across his face.

“Keep going, gorgeous. You haven’t even got to the good part. Neither of us have.”

You scoff at him in defiance, but slide your fingers into his hair to tug him back to where you want him.

“You looked so strong,” you continue, sighing when his tongue finds your core again. “Kept thinking about how easily you could throw me around. Pick me up, sit me on your face…”

Buck groans, all deep and rumbled, and the vibrations have your legs going weak. He doubles down on his efforts, slipping his tongue inside as his nose nudges your clit. He’s a fast learner, taking mental note of the spots and pressures that make your knees buckle.

“Keep going,” he mumbles into your core.

“You keep going,” you retort, pulling at his hair.

He chuckles but obliges your request, sucking your clit into his mouth with purpose. You’re shaking, holding onto him for dear life as you reach your climax. The moan you let out is borderline pornographic, and it has Buck palming himself over his suit trousers with a groan.

“Fuck, Evan,” you pant, chest heaving as you slump into the wall. “You need to grab me before I collapse. My legs are jelly.”

Laughing as he does it, he stands up and wraps his arms around your middle, holding you against him as tightly as he can.

“You okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Better than ever.”

He rests his lips on your forehead, both of you breathing each other in for a moment.

“Can’t believe you were right across the hallway from me, trying to be quiet while you were getting yourself off,” he murmurs, fingers running up and down your back. “You should have come over here. I would have helped you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you tease, cupping his face in your hands. “I was still acting like I didn’t wanna rip your clothes off back then.”

“Knew you’d crack eventually,” he winks, grinning when you laugh.

You pull him into you for a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, clearly telling him exactly what you want.

“You gonna fuck me, Evan? Or are we just gonna stand here all night?”

He shakes his head with a smirk before throwing you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce back off. As he starts to crawl over to you, you stop him with a foot on his chest.

“Nuh uh. You’re wearing too many clothes. Strip, Buckley.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He’s standing up immediately, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them off in one fell swoop. His boxers are next, leaving him stood bare and beautiful in front of you.

“Fuck. You’re not real,” you breathe out, eyes dancing over him.

“Oh I am so real,” he’s reassuring, situating himself on top of you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down so you can grind your hips into his.

“I’ve been waiting two days for this,” you murmur into his lips. “Make it worth my while, please.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he teases, kissing you again with such a force that you’re dizzy.

Buck sucks a bruise into your collarbone, licking a stripe up your sternum and tasting the salt that sits on your skin. Your patience is wearing thinner and thinner, anticipation bubbling up in your veins.

“How’d you want it?” he whispers into your ear.

“Just- deep. Wanna feel you for the rest of the weekend.”

He groans, a breathless chuckle leaving his lips.

“Anything you want, gorgeous. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything in the world.”

His lust drunk rambling makes you giggle, wiggling your hips into his to hopefully hurry him up. You tug at his hair, pulling his face so it’s level with yours.

“Now, Evan. Can’t wait any longer. Please.”

“Fuck. You’re so pretty when you beg.”

He lines himself up, pressing his forehead to yours as the two of you connect. He’s big and he’s stretching you out just right and you think you might have died and gone to heaven. You both groan, panting into each others mouths.

“Fuck, baby. It’s like you were made for me.”

The baby sends warmth running through both your core and your heart, all the signals setting your nervous system on fire.

“Please,” you whimper, kissing him with desperation as you tangle your fingers in his curls and pull. “Please, Evan.”

“I’ve got you,” he’s mumbling, pulling his hips back and sliding them forwards with clear intent.

Reaching up beside your head, Buck pulls a pillow down and situates it under your hips, putting you where he wants you.

“Want you to feel me as deep as possible,” he murmurs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “Won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

You can only moan at the promise, praying he delivers. There’s a shiny sheen of sweat covering his sun kissed skin, making him glow in the moonlight like some sort of angel. Sent just for you.

Buck sets a steady rhythm, not too fast but just fast enough. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and you ignore the pang of jealousy in your chest at the idea of him with another woman, even in the past.

Now that you’ve had a taste of this, you don’t want to let it go.

He’s pressing kisses onto whatever skin he can reach - your neck, your collarbone, underneath your ear. His hips never cease, determined to get you both to where you need to be. When he hitches one of your legs over his waist, you can’t help but drop your head back, eyes fluttering shut at the new angle.

He tilts his hips upwards, and hits a spot that has you keening. Speech has left you, and all you can do now is take it like you were made for it.

“Right there? Yeah? That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod frantically, sucking in a shuddering breath like you’ve been under water. Your legs have started to shake, and Buck’s grinning when he thinks about how far he can push you before you’re at your limit.

“Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me.”

You’re so close you can taste it, desperate to find this release that’s been building for the last forty eight hours. When Buck moves his hand from your hip to your throat and squeezes just slightly, you snap.

You’re coming with a breathless moan, back arching into him to plaster your fronts together.

“Shit, you look so beautiful when you come. Jesus.”

You manage a soft smile, looking up at him to see those bright eyes staring into yours. He looks entranced, as if he’s staring at a piece in an art gallery. You swipe his hair back from his sweaty forehead, teasing your thumb across his bottom lip. When he sucks it into his mouth, your jaw drops open, mind foggy with arousal.

“Think you can give me another one? Let me see you come all pretty again?” he asks around your digit, tongue laving over your skin.

“Mhmm,” you’re agreeing before you can even process it, eager to please.

“That’s my girl.”

He moves your fingers from his mouth back into his hair as his find your throat once more, applying a little pressure. His hips pick up their pace, faster and harder than before. He’s fucking you into the mattress, strong arms keeping you from sliding off the bed.

He looks breathtaking, on top of you like this. He’s so broad, towering over you like he’ll shield you from the entire world if he has to. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the whole universe, unbothered by anything or anyone else.

“Buck- I… I-”

“I know, baby. Can feel it. Atta girl.”

You pull him down to kiss you as you reach your third climax of the night, arms wrapping around his neck so every inch of you is pressed together.

“There we go, good girl. That’s it, yeah. It’s yours, baby. It’s all yours.”

Buck finally finds his release, triggered by yours. His head drops into your neck, his frantic breath tickling your skin. You murmur sweet nothings into his ear, talking him through it as he shudders and shakes. Eventually, he collapses completely onto you, body weight pinning you down.

You’re both heaving for air, lungs burning as you try to regain an ounce of composure.

He murmurs something into your shoulder, the vibrations of it rumbling through your bones.

“Hmm?”

“You called me Buck.”

A breathless laugh escapes you, silvery and melodic.

“I’ve been trying not to for two days.”

“I know. You thought you were making a point.”

“I was making a point.”

“Sure, honey. Sure.”

“I hate you,” you grumble, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face. “I also hate that we’ve just made Lucy and Danny the happiest people ever.”

“Oh, shit. I hate it when they’re right.”

He pulls his head from your neck to look at you, resting his cheek against your chest so he can gaze up and into your eyes.

“I’m sure we can keep this a secret for a little while.”

“Yeah… we can’t.”

You quirk your brow at him in a silent question.

“I told Danny I was gonna marry you the minute you walked into the rehearsal dinner in that red dress. Can’t hide how I feel about you, gorgeous. It’s physically impossible.”

You can’t help but laugh, running your fingers through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“Take me on a date first. Then we’ll talk about marriage, okay?”

“You did say forever, earlier.”

“That I did. Maybe my heart knew something my brain didn’t.”

Buck grins up at you, all blinding and giddy.

“The best man and the maid of honour, huh?”

“That old cliche,” you chuckle. “We weren’t the first, and we won’t be the last.”

“You’ll be my last, gorgeous.”

“Real smooth, Buck. Real smooth.”

“Buck,” he whispers, half in amusement, half in awe.

He could get used to this. You both could.

as always, reblogs are like gold to writers. if you enjoyed this, please reblog!! it’s invaluable <3

@peachysink @jjamjamie @alipap3 @spookyysinsanity @sophiah2253 @annaaaaanguyenn

[jadevine]

Preindustrial travel, and long explanations on why different distances are like that

Update March 1, 2024: Hey there folks, here's yet another update! I reposted Part 2a (the "medieval warhorses" tangent) to my writing blog, and I went down MORE of the horse-knowledge rabbit hole! https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/741423906984951808/my-post-got-cut-off-so-i-added-the-rest-of-it Update Jan 30, 2024: Hey folks, I've posted the updated version of this post on my blog, so I don't have to keep frantically telling everyone "hey, that's the old version of this post!" https://thebalangay.wordpress.com/2024/01/29/preindustrial-travel-times-part-1/

I should get the posts about army travel times and camp followers reformatted and posted to my blog around the end of the week, so I'll filter through my extremely tangled thread for them.

Part 2 - Preindustrial ARMY travel times: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask

Part 2a - How realistic warhorses look and act, because the myth of "all knights were mounted on huge clunky draft horses" just refuses to die: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/732043691180605440/helpful-things-for-action-writers-to-remember

Part 3 - Additional note about camp followers being regular workers AND sex-workers: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/740604203134828544/reblogging-the-time-looped-version-of-my

--

I saw a post on my main blog about how hiking groups need to keep pace with their slowest member, but many hikers mistakenly think that the point of hiking is "get from Point A to Point B as fast as possible" instead of "spending time outdoors in nature with friends," and then they complain that a new/less-experienced/sick/disabled hiker is spoiling their time-frame by constantly needing breaks, or huffing and puffing to catch up.

I run into a related question of "how long does it take to travel from Point A to Point B on horseback?" a lot, as a fantasy writer who wants to be SEMI-realistic; in the Western world at least, our post-industrial minds have largely forgotten what it's like to travel, both on our own feet and in groups.

People ask the new writer, "well, who in your cast is traveling? Is getting to Point B an emergency or not? What time of year is it?", and the newbies often get confused as to why they need so much information for "travel times." Maybe new writers see lists of "preindustrial travel times" like a primitive version of Google Maps, where all you need to do is plug in Point A and Point B.

But see, Google Maps DOES account for traveling delays, like different routes, constructions, accidents, and weather; you as the person will also need to figure in whether you're driving a car versus taking a bus/train, and so you'll need to figure out parking time or waiting time for the bus/train to actually GET THERE.

The difference between us and preindustrial travelers is that 1) we can outsource the calculations now, 2) we often travel for FUN instead of necessity.

The general rule of thumb for preindustrial times is that a healthy and prime-aged adult on foot, or a rider/horse pair of fit and prime-aged adults, can usually make 20-30 miles per day, in fair weather and on good terrain.

Why is this so specific? Because not everyone in preindustrial times was fit, not everyone was healthy, not everyone was between the ages of 20-35ish, and not everyone had nice clear skies and good terrain to travel on.

If you are too far below 18 years old or too far past 40, at best you will need either a slower pace or more frequent breaks to cover the same distance, and at worst you'll cut the travel distance in half to 10 or so miles. Too much walking is VERY BAD on too-young/old knees, and teenagers or very short adults may just have short legs even if they're fine with 8-10 hours of actual walking. Young children may get sick of walking and pitch a fit because THEY'RE TIREDDDDDDDDDD, and then you might need to stay put while they cry it out, or an adult may sigh and haul them over their shoulder (and therefore be weighed down by about 50lbs of Angry Child).

Heavy forests, wetlands and rocky hills/mountains are also going to be a much shorter "distance" per day. For forests or wetlands, you have to account for a lot of villagers going "who's gonna cut down acres of trees for one road? NOT ME," or "who's gonna drain acres of swamp for one road? NOT ME." Mountainous regions have their traveling time eaten by going UP, or finding a safer path that goes AROUND, so by the time you're done slogging through drier patches of wetlands or squeezing through trees, a deceptively short 10-15 miles in rough terrain might take you a whole day to walk instead of the usual half-day.

If you are traveling in freezing winters or during a rainstorm (and this inherently means you HAVE NO CHOICE, because nobody in preindustrial times would travel in bad weather if they could help it), you run the high risk of losing your way and then dying of exposure or slipping and breaking your neck, just a few miles out of the town/village.

Traveling in TOO-HOT weather is just as bad, because pushing yourself too hard and getting dehydrated at noon in the tropics will literally kill you. It's called heat-STROKE, not "heat-PARTY."

And now for the upper range of "traveling on horseback!"

Fully mounted groups can usually make 30-40 miles per day between Point A and Point B, but I find there are two unspoken requirements: "Point B must have enough food for all those people and horses," and "the mounted party DOESN'T need to keep pace with foot soldiers, camp followers, or supply wagons."

This means your mounted party would be traveling to 1) a rendezvous point like an ally's camp or a noble's castle, or 2) a town/city with plenty of inns. Maybe they're not literally going 30-40 miles in one trip, but they're scouting the area for 15-20 miles and then returning to their main group. Perhaps they'd be going to an allied village, but even a relatively small group of 10-20 warhorses will need 10-20 pounds of grain EACH and 20-30 pounds of hay EACH. 100-400 pounds of grain and 200-600 pounds of hay for the horses alone means that you need to stash supplies at the village beforehand, or the village needs to be a very large/prosperous one to have a guaranteed large surplus of food.

A dead sprint of 50-60 miles per day is possible for a preindustrial mounted pair, IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO. Moreover, that is for ONE day. Many articles agree that 40 miles per day is already a hard ride, so 50-60 miles is REALLY pushing the envelope on horse and rider limits.

NOTE: While modern-day endurance rides routinely go for 50-100 miles in one day, remember that a preindustrial rider will not have the medical/logistical support that a modern endurance rider and their horse does.

If you say "they went fifty miles in a day" in most preindustrial times, the horse and rider's bodies will get wrecked. Either the person, their horse, or both, risk dying of exhaustion or getting disabled from the strain.

Whether you and your horse are fit enough to handle it and "only" have several days of defenselessness from severe pain/fatigue (and thus rely on family/friends to help you out), or you die as a heroic sacrifice, or you aren't QUITE fit enough and become disabled, or you get flat-out saved by magic or another rider who volunteers to go the other half, going past 40 miles in a day is a "Gondor Calls For Aid" level of emergency.

As a writer, I feel this kind of feat should be placed VERY carefully in a story: Either at the beginning to kick the plot off, at the climax to turn the tide, or at the end.

Preindustrial people were people--some treated their horses as tools/vehicles, and didn't care if they were killed or disabled by pushing them to their limits, but others very much cared for their horses. They needed to keep them in working condition for about 15-20 years, and they would not dream of doing this without a VERY good reason.

—

UPDATE January 13: Several people have gotten curious and looked at maps, to find out how a lot of cities are indeed spread out at a nice distance of 20-30 miles apart! I love getting people interested in my hyperfixations, lol.

But remember that this is the space between CITIES AND TOWNS. There should never be a 20-mile stretch of empty wilderness between City A and Town B, unless your world explains why folks are able to build a city in the middle of nowhere, or if something has specifically gone wrong to wipe out its supporting villages!

Period pieces often portray a shining city rising from a sea of picturesque empty land, without a single grain field or cow pasture in sight, but that city would starve to death very quickly in preindustrial times.

Why? Because as Bret Devereaux mentions in his “Lonely Cities” article (https://acoup.blog/2019/07/12/collections-the-lonely-city-part-i-the-ideal-city/), preindustrial cities and towns must have nearby villages (and even smaller towns, if large and prosperous enough!) to grow their food for them.

The settlements around a city will usually be scattered a few miles apart from each other, usually clustered along the roads to the city gates. Those villages and towns at the halfway point between cities (say 10-15 miles) are going to be essential stops for older/sick folks, merchants with cargo, and large groups like noble’s retinues and army forces.

Preindustrial armies and large noble retinues usually can’t make it far past 10-12 miles per day, as denoted in my addition to this post. (https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask )

[maybanksprincess]

jj maybank headcannons

warnings: none!

pairings: boyfriend!jj x princess!reader <3

‹𝟹 when your doing your makeup, he just stares. like he will come rest his head on ur shoulder and just watch you for hours, from beginning to end.

‹𝟹 always ties your shoes and buckles your heels for you. any time you try and do it yourself he gently moves your hand and gets on one knee to do it himself.

‹𝟹 when you get on the boat, he always has his hand on your lower back to ensure you don't fall

‹𝟹 with him being taller than you, he never makes you get on your tippy toes to kiss him. he always bends down for you.

‹𝟹 long hugs always. he's such a sucker for long hugs.

‹𝟹 he gets insecure about how he doesn't have a lot of money, and you have a lot.

‹𝟹 when it's your birthday, or he just wants to get u a gift for whatever reason, hes sooo creative. he will sit writing a long handwritten letter, putting it in a envelope all pretty for you, picking out some cute pink flowers and giving them to you. he knows it isnt much but he always tries his best.

‹𝟹 teaches you how to surf 100%, and when u fall off your board, hes there to kiss your boo boo's.

‹𝟹 your definitely the only one who can talk him out of all his stupid ideas he comes up with.

‹𝟹 when you write something to him in cursive, he spends hours trying to figure out what it says (he wont ask u because hes scared ur gonna make fun of him for not knowing cursive)

[aureatelys]

adore you

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c. 3k a/n: written for @mggslover's 1k celebration event, congrats baby! i initially wrote 5k, hated it, and basically rewrote all of it but i swear i still had fun writing this. i hope you enjoy <3

summary:

Weird. You're acting like my boyfriend. - God Is a Freak, Peach PRC Your boss has essentially become your best friend. What the hell does Derek mean he looks at you a certain way?

c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, age gap ofc, feelings realization, reader is oblivious and tipsy but is a consenting party

read below or on ao3 here <3

“So, you and Hotch, huh?”

You had just finished putting your coat up, stepping through the massive entryway of Rossi’s mansion, when Derek approaches you with that familiar shit-eating grin and hands rubbing together like he’s scheming something.

You blink up at him, confused. “Yeah… he gave me a ride.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head but still wearing that smile that made you want to lovingly punch him. “Yeah, I saw that. I meant, you and Hotch aren’t…?”

You squint at him, because you really aren’t sure what he’s hinting at. Also, a glass of wine has been calling your name since you started getting ready and Derek is very much in the way of that. Hotch was always annoyingly punctual, and today was no different because you were honestly about to open up a bottle when you heard his car pull up in the driveway. “We aren’t what?”

“Sweetness. You’re really trying to tell me you and Hotch aren’t together?”

You choke on your spit, coughing so loud in your fist that it echoes down the entryway and gathers the attention of Rossi and Hotch at the end of it. You wave them off when they both give you equally alarmed and concerned looks while Derek laughs heartily, like the asshole he is.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you hiss at him, slapping him on the shoulder as he nearly makes himself tear up from laughing.

Derek puts a somewhat apologetic hand on your arm as he steers you to the kitchen and pours you a glass of red, finally. “Hey, I see the way he looks at you, I just wanted to make sure I’m up to date on everything.”

And that catches your attention.

Your chest still aching from your coughing fit, you give him another perplexed look. “What? He looks at me the same way as he looks at everyone.”

Derek’s face morphs into a nervous, almost uncomfortable one as he starts slowly backing away into the living room, as if you were an unpredictable dangerous animal. “I think I’m gonna… look for Garcia.”

And then he turns on his heel and is out of the kitchen before you can blink, leaving you with your lone glass of wine and the sounds of laughter emanating from the patio.

You’re still so fucking confused, because you and Hotch were only friends. In fact, you can almost consider him your best friend with the way you two are spending so much time together, even on the weekends.

One late night spent in his office to work on reports that were due the next day that you had procrastinated on and ordering Chinese food eventually turned into a habitual thing, now spending the last hour of the workday every night in his office. Then, he started inviting you to the park to play with Jack who had apparently been asking for you, then staying for dinner because Hotch was not eating the way he should’ve been and him and Jack didn’t deserve to eat pizza rolls with mac and cheese every night.

It's been a couple of months and now, you can honestly say you two are nearly attached at the hip. You’ve tried to tone it down for the office, because you knew you would get teased, and clearly you were right.

But dating Hotch? Honestly, the thought had never occurred to you.

You’ve been single for over a year and you were okay with that, because at least the job kept you busy. And you know for a fact that Hotch hasn’t even thought about dating since Beth moved a couple of years ago.

The sudden thought of Beth, her pretty blue-green eyes and perfect hair, causes a sour taste to form in your mouth. You had never met her, having only technically heard good things about her, but every time you thought of her or someone mentioned her in passing, you felt… upset.

For no reason.

When you glance at Hotch from where he’s talking with the rest of the team on the patio, you catch his gaze for a brief second before he’s turning his head back around to chuckle at something Rossi says.

You feel your heart start to race, your blood rushing through your ears, because what the fuck did Derek mean when he said Hotch looks at you a certain way? You were telling the truth when you said you’ve only noticed him looking at you platonically and nothing more.

Sure, Hotch was conventionally attractive, handsome even. You guess he hit all your boxes in a guy; tall, capable hands, and pretty brown eyes. He was a good boss, a good man, and was always putting other people first before even thinking about himself. He had an intense sense of justice, loves children, and would do absolutely anything for his team and even beyond for Jack.

He has a nice laugh once you break down his walls. For all he’s meticulous at work, his house is absolutely chaotic and it takes you nearly an hour sometimes to get him and Jack ready for a soccer game. He doesn’t prefer to cook but he seems to enjoy it more when you’re in the kitchen with him, laughing at his technique and groaning about the lack of certain utensils.

The sudden realization that you like Hotch, your boss that is older than you by 20 years, hits you like a ton of bricks. You nearly snap the stem of your wine glass, something like panic and mortification climbing up your throat before you could help it.

It’s fine, you’re fine. It’s normal to have a crush on someone you spend time with on a regular basis and is conventionally attractive. You can deal with that.

But the absolute possibility that Hotch doesn’t want you romantically was very real. In fact, it had to be the only possibility. You were younger and less experienced, both romantically and professionally. The only reason that he’s been spending so much time with you was because you needed guidance and reassurance as the newest member of the team.

He doesn’t look at you any differently than the others. That’s it. Derek has no idea what he’s talking about.

You take a shuddering deep breath, quickly composing yourself because, hello, you work with profilers. Which meant you couldn’t avoid or hide from Hotch tonight, no matter how much you wanted to.

When you make your way out to the patio to join the others with a full glass of wine and you spot the only space left in the circle was between Spencer and Penelope, you internally thank whatever God was out there. The sound of them talking over each other about something inane was oddly comforting as your eyes met Aaron’s from the other side of the circle.

His eyes appeared golden from the numerous fairy lights strewn across Rossi’s backyard, making his face appear softer and younger. You’re not sure how it took you this long to realize he was so handsome.

He raises his eyebrows at you, silently asking if you were okay because, somehow, he’s grown to learn your facial expressions like the back of his hand, which means he most likely will catch on to you having a silly juvenile crush on him.

You give him a weak smile, raising your glass slightly before taking a large gulp of it. You’re glad that Rossi is Rossi and that he doesn’t spare any expenses when he throws his parties, the strong cherry flavor refreshing compared to your cheap boxed wine you’re used to. You don’t even remember what you were celebrating tonight, or if you were even celebrating anything at all and this was just another much needed get together after case after case.

You catch something soft in Hotch’s eyes that makes your chest pang painfully as he raises his own glass of whiskey before taking a sip. No one else has noticed, too enthralled by their own conversations, so the intimacy of the private moment doesn’t escape you, in fact making you even more anxious.

It was going to be a long night.

-

You are absolutely going to give Derek an earful on Monday morning.

It’s entirely his fault that you’re not enjoying Rossi’s party to the full extent, his words swimming in your mind.

Now, you’re psychoanalyzing and second-guessing everything Hotch does.

You had made sure to walk alongside Penelope on the way to the large round table for dinner, somewhat consciously as you continued to avoid Hotch but also because she was rambling about the show you suggested she watch. Spencer was on the other side of you, interjecting whenever he could, and you made a mental note that Hotch was still on the other side of the circle between Rossi and Tara.

So imagine your surprise when, after you tear your attention away from Spencer’s ramblings and back to Penelope, you’re met with Hotch’s pretty eyes and woodsy cologne instead.

“Oh, hi,” you say, hoping he doesn’t hear the shakiness that’s suddenly overtaken your voice as that familiar panic starts to crawl up your throat. This wasn’t going to be good.

“’Hi.” The corners of Hotch’s lips quirk up, eyes softening, and what the fuck is going on. “Can I sit next to you?”

You swear you’re going to have a heart attack. This man cannot be healthy for you. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

And then he’s pulling out your chair for you.

And it’s not anything new—he pulls your chair out for you all the time, in the conference room, in his dining table when you made not-pizza rolls, and even at restaurants the afternoons after Jack’s soccer games. You’ve never thought anything of it, but tonight, after your impeccably timed realization, your brain feels like it’s going to implode.

He’s just being a gentleman, that’s all.

“Thank you,” you manage out, heat starting to come to your face. Before Hotch, no one’s ever pulled your chair out for you. It’s nice.

Hotch doesn’t say anything, because of course not, just scoots your chair in closer to the table before he takes his seat on your right.

And he’s sitting really fucking close to you.

Have you always sat this close to each other before? You must have at least once during those late nights in his office, poring over case file after case file.

Not only could you feel the heat of his body just from sitting next to him, but his arm kept brushing up against your bare one while he ate, because of course you had to sit on the left side of a left-handed person. Every brush of the sleek fabric of his green button-up against your bare arm sent shivers down your spine despite the summer air, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

His hand kept brushing against yours as you ate and your eyes are drawn to how large his hands are as he handles his fork and the thickness of his forearms, having had rolled up his sleeves earlier. If you searched closely, you could find scars scattered over them through the dusting of hair, undoubtedly from his time on the job.

You don’t realize you’re staring at his Rolex and the way it glints underneath the lights, until Hotch is suddenly leaning into you. “Are you okay?”

Jesus Christ, hearing that smooth voice speaking lowly in your ear, breath warm as it fans over your cheek, causes all of the air in your lungs to escape. Has his voice always been that smooth, attractive?

When you risk a glance at him, conversations around the table slowly fading into the background, his face is merely inches from yours. His brows are pinched in concern and lips are pressed into a flat line. There’s something dancing in his eyes that you couldn’t quite put a finger on.

You clear your throat. “Sorry, I think the wine is just getting to me.”

He chuckles low underneath his breath. “Good thing I’m driving.”

And then he’s knocking the back of his hand against yours, the briefest brush of skin that causes electricity to zing up your spine, and then he’s back to listening intently to Derek and Emily’s bickering over who cheated at the last game of charades.

At this point, you think Hotch is able to read your mind. Why else would he be touching you, be sweet on you, if not to torture you?

You try to wrack your brain through these past couple of months, trying to find whether Hotch touching his hand to yours has happened before or any other sign that he actually is attracted to you. You come up short.

You chalk it up to him loosening up from his whiskey. He’s already moved onto water, because he was your ride, after all, so maybe this was a fluke. A one-off.

But it’s not a one-off. In fact, you think you’ve honestly died and gone to Heaven after suddenly tripping and breaking your head open in the entryway after Derek spoke with you. If you didn’t know any better, you would think you were actually on a date with Hotch, sans the rest of the team.

He must have noticed your distracted mood, because he’s making sure you’re included in almost every table conversation by glancing at you and giving you a smile that has started to make something flutter in your stomach. He’s participating minimally like usual, content to listen, but whenever he has a comment or thought he wants to share, he’s leaning in and sharing it with you.

He's leaning in to top of your wine, reaching over the table to get more of those green beans you like, and once even knocking his knee against yours underneath the table when you looked especially lost in thought while staring at your plate.

And then when the team has moved into the living room for charades, Emily wanting payback against Derek, it somehow gets even worse.

You’re quick enough to be the first to volunteer to not play due to there being an odd number of players, thus requiring Hotch to play. Everyone cheers teasingly, because Hotch is always quick to volunteer himself out of games, content to watch.

You blame the copious glasses of wine you’ve consumed and the decadent filling dinner, warmth thrumming through your entire body, when you poke at Hotch’s considerably firm bicep. “Show us what you got, old man.”

There are resounding oohs and aahs from the rest of the team. Something fuzzy settles in your chest when Hotch rolls his eyes good-naturedly at you and stands up from where he had sat next to you on the couch to JJ’s team.

You continue to nurse your wine, pleasantly buzzed, as you are thoroughly entertained by your team’s antics. Emily and Rossi argue at least 3 times, Penelope gets significantly close to having a private meeting with HR, and Hotch continues to stare at you.

Or at least, you think he’s staring at you. The alcohol has started making you second guess things even more than you already were. Because for some reason, despite JJ sitting on the other side of the living room and being on a team with her, he moved to sit in the empty spot next to you after the first round.  

He’s definitely participating in the game, even in second place behind Penelope and Derek, but you swear you feel his eyes on you now more than ever.

It’s distracting as you try to follow the game and guess along with everyone else. This time, the right side of him is nearly molded against your left side, pressing into you so hard that you’re starting to sweat from how much body heat he’s radiating.

When you glance at him to try and catch his eyes, he meets your gaze steadily. His hair is starting to come undone, a few strands falling against his forehead, and his dimple seems to have made a permanent appearance from how much he’s pretending not to laugh at his team’s antics.

It’s nice to see him enjoy himself—a flush rising up his neck and shoulders relaxed. Although you understand he has a certain image he maintains for his team, it’s become familiar to you.

By the time it dwindles close to midnight, there’s a chorus of yawns around the group. Penelope’s the first to call it, stumbling to grab a hold of Derek’s arm and dragging him with her out the door to drive her home, ruining your initial plans to catch a ride home with her instead of Hotch. After that, everyone starts to say their goodnights and exchanging hugs despite the chance you may get called on a case as early as tomorrow morning.

“You ready to go?” Hotch leans to whisper in your ear, his breath fanning over you again and causing heat to rise to your face.

“Absolutely,” you exhale, clutching the water bottle that Hotch retrieved for you in the middle of the game, hoping the breathiness in your voice could be blamed on how late it was.

When you get to Hotch’s car, heart full and warm after spending another wonderful evening with your makeshift family, he opens the passenger side door for you.

You think you’re going to lose your mind if he keeps this up. How are you supposed to stop having a crush on Hotch when he keeps doing things that justify that crush?

“Do you need to stop anywhere for anything? Are you hungry?”

You blame it on the wine despite the fact you’ve been drinking nothing but water for the past hour, thanks to Hotch silently getting you and only you a water. Your body and tongue feels loose, inhibitions naturally decreased, and it’s not your fault. It doesn’t matter if the soft lights of the driveway highlight the sharp angles of his face or the way his woodsy cologne has infiltrated your senses.

“Weird, you’re acting like my boyfriend or something.”

The silence that ensues is deafening. Your brain takes forever to catch up with you, but then you’re suddenly struck with humiliation and dread. You mind starts to race, as best as it could, when you realize that you may have just royally messed up the best job you’ve ever had and the best group of people you’ve ever met.

Before you can backtrack and say that you were just joking, Hotch carefully says “Do you want me to be?”

“What?” Wow, you really can’t hold your alcohol well, why did you drink so much wine?

And then Hotch is stepping closer, into your space, and you’d be worried that the rest of the team was going to see if the car door wasn’t shielding you from view from the front of the house. You get a whiff of whiskey on his breath again, but when you meet his eyes, there’s not a hint of the same full body dizziness you feel.

“Was I not being direct enough?” There’s amusement sparkling in his eyes, eyebrows raised. He looks like he’s politely trying to hide a fond smile. He’s teasing you.

This Hotch is the one you’ve grown to become familiar with over the past several months. Charming and unafraid to tease you when you’re away from prying eyes. Hotch is a private person, always has been, so it’s not a surprise that him essentially torturing you tonight was his version of being direct.

“You’ve been flirting with me?”

Hotch ducks his head bashfully to chuckle. It’s ridiculously endearing and you want to tug him closer and touch him all over. “I’ve been trying to flirt with you all month so I’m guessing I didn’t do a very good job.”

You stare at him as if he grew a second head, suddenly feeling much more sobered up than 5 minutes ago. Clarity sluggishly comes to you. The various invitations to spend the night or go out to dinner without Jack comes to mind. The touching had steadily increased, but you had assumed it was just due to Hotch getting more comfortable around you.

For a profiler, you weren’t very good at noticing what was happening right in front of you.

Hotch may be a ridiculously patient person, clearly since he’s been content to flirt with you for apparently a month while you didn’t notice, but you were not. You knew what you wanted. The wine still thrumming through your veins just gave you that little extra push.

You place your palms on his chest, relishing in the subtle firmness you can detect through his shirt, and you wonder if that’s his heart you feel thumping erratically or your own. “I promise I’m not that drunk and am fully aware of what is going on right now.”

Hotch hums and places his hands on your hips, the heat of him searing through the fabric of your dress. His eyes briefly flit to your mouth before back up at you. “I’m not sure if I believe you.”

Instead of providing a snarky response, and because you know Hotch wouldn’t make the first move since you did have some to drink, you finally lean in to close the distance between you two to kiss him.

It’s soft, chaste in a way that makes you feel pleasantly warm all over, the barest tendrils of electricity tugging at the pit of your stomach. The intensity of how much you like him, how much you adore him, nearly barrels you over, but Hotch’s grip on you tightens, steadying you. His lips only slightly move against yours, as if briefly testing the waters, but it does nothing to quell the sudden desire slowly twisting inside of you.

When he pulls back, chest only marginally heaving, you instinctively chase after him. He chuckles again, low and comforting, as his hands come up to hold you still by the shoulders. It shouldn’t feel as nice and soothing as it does. “I should take you home.”

“Are you coming with me?” You sincerely hope that Hotch doesn’t question you and your boldness tomorrow. Again, not entirely your fault.

“I’ll walk you to your door, how about that?” As if he already wasn’t going to do that.

On the drive back to your apartment, the tight ball of panic and uncertainty in your chest quickly unfurls and is replaced by affection, tenderness, and promises of the future. Hotch’s hand, large and protective, doesn’t leave your thigh the entire way home.

You make a mental note to send Derek a gift card and thank you note on Monday.

[kysstar]

RIGHT NEXT DOOR | SONG MINGI (requested 💕)

pairing : : song mingi x fem!reader

synopsis : : you and mingi have been dancing around your feelings for far too long—neighbors, friends, something more. neither of you says it. but everything else does. Eventually, something has to give.

genre : : friends to lovers, next door neighbours, slow burn (?)

warnings : : reader and mingi being fools, alcohol consumption. (lmk if i missed smth!)

word count : : 7.9k

author's note : : thank you @bananananana26 for requesting this <3 i had such a fun time writing it! hope you like it 💕

—There’s a click, the familiar metal rattle of a key sliding into your front door, and the slow creak of it opening like the house itself is still deciding whether it’s awake yet. You groan and bury your face deeper into your pillow. The sun is barely bleeding through the curtains—definitely not an acceptable hour for social interaction.

“Mornin’,” Mingi’s voice floats in, warm and unbothered. Too chipper for this ungodly hour.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He’s already crossing the room like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he almost does. Mingi is that kind of neighbor. The kind that becomes a fixture in your space, slipping into your life through shared dinners and inside jokes, and eventually, the spare key you gave him for emergencies. Now he uses it like an open invitation. Like it’s his right.

“Where’s that black shirt I left here?” he asks, already rooting through your laundry basket like a man on a mission.

You crack one eye open and squint at him. “What?” Your voice is gravel, soft and uneven from sleep.

“My black shirt—the fitted one, short sleeves, buttons down the front?” He turns to you, holding it up triumphantly. The fabric clings to his fingers like it recognizes its rightful owner.

You blink. “Why do you need that? It’s like... seven in the morning.”

Mingi shrugs, slipping off his hoodie right there in the middle of your room like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Got a date. Brunch.”

That word cuts through the fog in your brain like cold water to the face. You sit up slowly, heart tapping against your ribs, alert now in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine.

“A date?” you echo, trying to sound curious, not concerned.

“Yeah.” He pulls on the shirt, and you hate how well it fits him. The fabric clings just right at the shoulders, tapering slightly at his waist. He runs a hand through his messy, copper-tinged hair, trying to tame it as he leans toward your mirror. His fingers smooth over his jaw, adjusting the necklace around his throat.

“She’s someone I met through Yeosang. Cute, funny. Likes jazz, apparently.” He says it like it’s a fun fact. Like he’s not casually rearranging the architecture of your mood.

You hum something noncommittal and flop back onto your pillow. You don’t want him to see your face.

Mingi laughs, amused. “Why do you sound like I told you I’m going to war?”

“Because waking someone up to brag about a date is not exactly delightful,” you mutter.

He throws a pillow at you, but it’s soft, and you smile into the mattress when he’s not looking.

—You spend the afternoon trying not to think about him.

It’s not easy.

The problem with Mingi is that he’s everywhere in your life now—without ever really meaning to be. He’s in the smell of your laundry detergent (because he ran out of his own and now uses yours). He’s in the playlist that’s still looping from last night’s wine-and-rant session. He’s in the extra mug on the dish rack and the way your living room couch always has a slight dent on the right cushion where he lounges.

You’re trying to work—trying being the operative word.

Emails stack up, deadlines hover like impatient clouds, and you’re still stuck thinking about how easily he said it. Date. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

You picture him sitting across from some girl at a cozy café, laughing in that low, goofy way that always makes your chest warm. You picture her making him smile. Picture her reaching out to touch his hand across the table.

It makes something twist in your stomach—tight and jealous and stupid.

He’s allowed to date. Obviously. It’s not your business. You’re just neighbors. Friends.

And yet. You keep refreshing your inbox like it might distract you from the ache of wanting something that isn’t yours.

Evening slides in with a sky streaked in orange and lavender. You’re in sweats, finally letting yourself collapse onto the couch, when your door creaks open again.

Mingi walks in without ceremony, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You glance over. “So?”

He sighs and flops down beside you like he’s been holding in the weight of the world and just now decided to let it out in your living room.

“So, that was a bust.”

You try to school your face into sympathy. “Oh?”

“She talked about her ex for thirty minutes straight. No joke. I timed it after the first ten.” He scrubs a hand over his face, voice muffled. “I thought it was just nerves at first, but then I realized I was basically a placeholder for some dude named Jinwoo who cheated on her with her Pilates instructor.”

You wince. “Ouch.”

“And then she asked me if I thought it was weird she still texts him sometimes,” he adds, eyes wide. “Like, ma’am?”

Despite yourself, you start to laugh. “Okay, that’s... tragic.”

“I left before dessert. Just told her I had to feed my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

He grins at you, eyes finally lighting up. That boyish kind of smile that you can't help but smile back.

You know you shouldn't feel happy. Not really. You should sympathize, offer comfort, maybe even suggest he give the girl another chance. But instead, your heart feels lighter. Like someone just cracked open a window in a stuffy room.

Mingi stretches, then stands. “Come on. I need to wash the disappointment off me. Let’s do a movie night. Your pick.”

“You mean your apartment, your couch, and my movie taste?”

“Exactly.”

The movie carries on in the background, its glow flickering across the room like a lazy pulse. You’re half-watching, half-daydreaming, legs tucked under a blanket and Mingi’s stretched across your lap like furniture. It’s quiet, comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Just as a chase scene starts up on screen, you glance over—and freeze a little.

He’s fast asleep.

His head’s tilted slightly toward you, hair falling messily over his forehead, one strand caught against his lashes. His lips are parted in a soft pout, like he fell asleep mid-thought. The bowl of popcorn still rests on his chest, absurdly balanced, the kernels slowly sliding with each steady rise and fall of his breathing. You stare for a moment, then smile, amused and maybe a little fond without meaning to be.

You reach for your phone as quietly as possible and snap a quick photo, biting your lip to keep from laughing. The angle’s perfect. He looks ridiculous in the best way. You open the group chat and send it without shame.

Satisfied, you set your phone down and try to shift out from under his legs, but they’re heavier now that he’s completely out. You wiggle gently, hoping he’ll roll off or stir just enough to let you slide free. Instead, he shifts the other way—an arm slipping down across the couch, his body turning just enough to press into your side, his leg now fully across your lap. A soft sigh escapes him, content and oblivious, like he’s settling in for the night.

You pause, blink at the ceiling, and exhale. He’s not moving. At all.

You stare down at him, then at the blanket, then at the barely touched popcorn. This is your life now, apparently. Trapped under a snoring six-foot-something man who smells faintly like your detergent and still has crumbs on his shirt. With no other option, you shift down slightly, tuck the blanket tighter around both of you, and get comfortable.

And honestly? You don’t mind.

—You stand in front of the mirror longer than you need to, checking your reflection for the fifth time. The party isn’t anything wild—just a casual get-together at Seonghwa’s place, mostly mutual friends, people you’ve known long enough to not stress about. But still. You’ve put more effort into getting ready than you care to admit.

You’re wearing a black satin slip dress that hugs in the right places and falls just below mid-thigh. It’s simple, easy, but elegant in that effortless way. You threw a cropped leather jacket over it for warmth and balance, paired it with ankle boots that give you just enough height to fake confidence. Your earrings catch the light when you move, and your lips are glossed, eyes soft with just a little liner.

As you adjust the strap of your purse and reach for your phone, the doorbell rings.

Right on time.

You already know who it is. Your hand closes around the doorknob. You take a breath that feels too deliberate, then open the door.

And there he is.

Mingi stands in the hallway like a scene out of a daydream—black dress shirt tucked neatly into fitted slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show the curve of his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a hint of collarbone and a simple silver chain glinting against his skin. He’s wearing his usual beat-up boots that somehow don’t ruin the look—if anything, they make it more him. His hair is pushed back messily, like he tried to style it but gave up halfway, and it somehow works.

You blink, once, then again. Breathe out before you realize you’ve been holding it in.

Mingi’s eyes travel down, then back up, slower than he probably means to. His lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. For a second, it’s just the two of you standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing—just looking.

Like idiots.

You clear your throat, fingers tightening around your purse strap. “We should go.”

“Right,” he says quickly, nodding. You notice the faint blush creeping up his neck as he turns to head down the hall. “Yeah. Totally.”

Mingi’s car smells faintly like mint gum and that citrusy cologne he always pretends not to wear. You settle into the passenger seat while he starts the engine.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. There’s music playing low—some indie playlist he probably queued up for the ride. It’s chill. Familiar. You both sit in that silence that isn’t awkward, just... easy.

“Do you know if Wooyoung and Yeosang are going tonight?” you ask, adjusting the hem of your dress as you cross your legs.

Mingi nods without taking his eyes off the road. “Yeah. I think they’re already there. Wooyoung texted me like five times reminding me to bring that stupid portable speaker he left in my apartment.”

You laugh softly. “Of course he did.”

“Also said he has a new drink recipe and wants to test it out on people, so…” Mingi glances over at you with a smirk. “If we end up doing karaoke in Seonghwa’s backyard again, blame him.”

You roll your eyes. “That was your idea last time.”

“And you crushed a Beyoncé song, so clearly you didn’t hate it.”

The city lights smear across the windshield as he drives, flickering over his face in gold and white. You steal a glance—just a second too long—and wonder if he notices. If he ever notices.

He shifts gears at a red light, glancing at you quickly. “You look... nice, by the way.” He says it casually, like it’s nothing, like it didn’t just short-circuit your brain a little.

You glance at him, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. “So do you.”

And just like that, the silence stretches out again. The light turns green. The car rolls forward. And neither of you says another word.

The buzz of conversation hits as soon as you and Mingi step through the door—warm light spilling from the hallway into Seonghwa’s apartment, the sound of music underscored by clinking glasses, laughter echoing from the kitchen. The place is comfortably packed, full of familiar faces. People you haven’t seen in a while but fall back in with like no time’s passed.

Seonghwa spots you first. “Hey! You made it,” he says, pulling you in for a quick hug. He smells like aftershave and woodsy cologne, dressed in something sleek that probably shouldn’t work indoors but totally does on him. “Damn, you look good.”

“Right?” Hongjoong appears beside him, one hand holding a beer, the other casually tucked into his pocket. He gives you a once-over, then nods at Mingi. “You clean up well too, man.”

Mingi grins. “Tried.”

Seonghwa glances between you, a knowing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You guys come together?”

You nod without thinking, brushing a hand down your jacket. “Yeah, we carpooled. We live next-door, remember?”

There’s a flicker—too quick to clock unless you’re watching for it. Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchange a look, that subtle, shared language of people who know. But neither you nor Mingi catch it. You’re too busy scanning the room, looking for the next familiar face.

You find it in the form of Wooyoung crashing into you with the energy of a Labrador. “You’re here!” he says dramatically, like it’s some big surprise despite the fact that he texted you three times to make sure you were coming. He pulls you into a hug that rocks you on your heels. “And you look like a hot villainess. I love it.”

You laugh as Yeosang appears, slightly less chaotic, sipping something suspiciously bright green. “I tried to tell him not to make the drink neon,” he says, nodding toward Wooyoung, “but he’s impossible.”

The conversation rolls easily from there—catching up, teasing each other, talking about things you didn’t know you missed until they came back to you all at once. Mingi floats in and out of your orbit, sometimes close enough to feel the warmth from his shoulder when he leans in to say something, other times across the room laughing with San over something you can’t hear.

You get caught up in it—just the way people do when the right kind of music is playing and the drinks are cold and the conversations run just deep enough to matter but not so deep they get heavy.

At some point, Mingi notices you’ve disappeared.

He’s mid-laugh with San, hands animated in the air, when he glances to the side and doesn’t see you where you were just minutes ago. His smile falters, even if only slightly. It’s small, but San catches it. Mingi mumbles something vague about grabbing another drink, and San nods, too distracted to question it.

He starts scanning the apartment, weaving through clusters of people. He checks the kitchen, then the hallway near the bathroom. It’s not panic, exactly—just this pull in his chest that won’t relax until he knows where you went.

Then he sees you.

You’re by the window, a drink in your hand, laughing at something a tall guy is saying. Mingi recognizes him—Yunho. He remembers seeing him at a few other get-togethers. Friendly, always polite, the kind of guy people like instantly.

Apparently, you’re no exception.

You’re smiling wide, your eyes crinkling, one hand brushing against Yunho’s arm as you throw your head back laughing. Yunho leans in just slightly, saying something else that makes you laugh again.

Mingi’s stomach knots. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. You’re allowed to talk to whoever you want. But that doesn’t stop the irrational heat rising behind his collar. Doesn’t stop the way his jaw tenses when Yunho reaches out to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

You feel it first—eyes prickling, that inexplicable awareness of being watched. You glance up, across the room, and meet Mingi’s eyes. He’s standing still, his expression unreadable at first glance, but there’s something in his posture. Tighter than usual. His hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying too hard to look casual.

You excuse yourself from Yunho with a quick, polite smile. “I’ll be right back,” you say, though you know you won’t be.

As you cross the room, Mingi doesn’t move. He just watches you walk up to him, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s trying not to.

“Hey,” you say lightly, as if you didn’t just catch him staring.

“Hey.” His voice comes out lower than usual.

You grin, oblivious to the weight of his mood. “Guess what? Yunho just asked if I wanted to grab coffee tomorrow. Isn’t that cute?”

Mingi frowns before he can stop himself. It’s subtle, just the smallest dip of his brows, the barest twitch of his mouth.

You don’t miss it. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says too fast. Then shrugs, trying to play it off. “That’s cool.”

You tilt your head. “You sure?”

Mingi looks away for a beat, then back at you, and there’s something flickering in his eyes. Jealousy dressed up as indifference. “Yeah. Just didn’t know you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “That type?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish now. “I mean… tall. Smiley. Safe.”

You laugh. “Are you describing Yunho or a golden retriever?”

Mingi gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He nods again, almost to himself. “Yeah. No, it’s cool.”

But it’s not cool.

Not even a little.

—It starts with your closet door wide open and half your wardrobe already strewn across the bed. Tops hang from your headboard, dresses are tossed over chairs, and there’s a growing pile of “maybes” gathering on the floor like fallen soldiers. The date with Yunho is in two hours, and you’ve tried on five outfits. None feel right.

Mingi is on your couch, sipping a drink like he didn’t just invite himself over after lunch and then refuse to leave once he heard the words “I don’t know what to wear.”

You walk out in the sixth outfit—an off-the-shoulder baby blue top, short skirt, boots—and strike a pose in the living room. “Okay. Thoughts?”

Mingi glances up from his phone. His eyes flick down, then narrow slightly. “Too much leg.”

You scoff. “It’s a skirt, not a scandal.”

“Exactly,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes and disappear back into your room, already tugging the skirt off. The seventh outfit is a black cropped sweater and high-waisted jeans—safe, cute, not trying too hard. You step back out and do a lazy spin. “Better?”

Mingi tilts his head. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” you repeat. “You sound like I asked you to rate my tax return.”

He shrugs. “Just feels... like you’re dressing down for him.”

You stop halfway to the mirror. “What does that even mean?”

Mingi takes a sip of his drink, eyes steady on yours. “I’ve just seen you wear better stuff when we get coffee. He should get at least that level.”

You squint at him. “So now the jeans aren’t enough?”

“You asked,” he mutters, hiding behind his cup.

Outfit eight is a fitted midi dress—wine-colored, sleeveless, square neckline. You kind of love it. It's flattering without being loud. You walk out again, expectant. “Okay. This one.”

Mingi doesn’t even blink. “No.”

Your hands drop to your sides. “What now?”

He gestures vaguely toward your chest. “That’s not even trying to pretend it’s subtle.”

“It’s literally not even low-cut!”

“Still.” He shifts on the couch, suddenly very interested in the stitching on his sweatpants. “You’re going to be sitting across from him in that, laughing at his jokes, leaning forward, doing that thing where you—just—no.”

You stare. “Didn’t realize you were dressing me for a convent.”

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s not about that.”

Outfit nine is an oversized graphic tee tucked into leather pants, the vibe a little chaotic but maybe weirdly sexy. You emerge, posing like a runway model.

“No,” Mingi says immediately.

You throw your hands up. “Okay, what is the vibe you’re looking for here, Mingi? Sack of potatoes?”

He looks up at you then, something sharp and quiet in his expression. “Something that doesn’t make other guys stare at you like you’re available.”

The room stills for a second. You blink at him. You try to laugh it off. “Mingi, that’s literally the point of a date.”

He doesn’t smile. You go quiet. Something strange shifts between you—just for a breath, barely there. Then it’s gone. He looks away, tapping his fingers against the rim of his cup.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, softer now, “if he can’t like you in something simple, he’s not worth the time.”

You look down at what you’re wearing, then back at him. “So what’s your vote?”

“Jeans and the white sweater,” he says without hesitation. “You look like you in that.”

You sigh, disappearing back into your room one last time, this time pulling on the outfit he picked without protest. You’re tired of trying to read into his words. Tired of guessing where the lines are.

You return a few minutes later, fully dressed and adjusting your earrings. “Well?”

Mingi looks up. His gaze softens instantly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the one.”

You grab your purse, still catching glimpses of yourself in the mirror as you pass. You look fine. Better than fine. But a part of you still wants to ask him—Why did it matter so much what I wore?

And a louder part of you already knows the answer.

—Yunho is perfectly on time. He greets you with a smile that’s all teeth and warmth, holds the car door open, compliments your sweater. It’s smooth—thoughtful in that quiet, well-raised way. The restaurant is nice too. Not overly fancy, not a chain—something in between. Brick walls, soft lighting, a jazz playlist humming just under the hum of cutlery and conversation.

Objectively, everything is going well.

You know how these things are supposed to feel. There’s eye contact. The rhythm is easy. You laugh when he says something genuinely funny. He’s polite, attentive, says your name when he talks to you like it means something. But it’s strange how even when you’re here, present, smiling and nodding at all the right times—you’re somewhere else.

You’re with Mingi.

Not physically, but in the little corners of your brain that won’t shut up. Every time Yunho says something charming, you find yourself thinking, Mingi would've made a joke here instead. When Yunho talks about his love for hiking, you imagine Mingi groaning and calling him a “nature masochist.” You smile at that thought, then realize you’re smiling at someone who isn’t even in the room.

You nod along as Yunho tells you a story about a weird encounter at a subway station, and your first instinct is to think, Mingi would’ve absolutely dramatized this into a full two-act comedy skit. Your second instinct is to look over and catch Mingi’s expression reacting to it—except, of course, he’s not here.

You twirl your straw in your drink, pretending to listen, but your thoughts drift again.

Mingi would’ve ordered something off-menu just to see if the server could keep up. He would’ve slouched in his chair, gotten sauce on his shirt, made you laugh with his dramatic regret. He wouldn’t be this polished, this effortlessly perfect. He’s not the type to play dates cool. Mingi shows up with full heart and zero filter. It’s messy. Real.

But Yunho is here. Polite, calm, thoughtful.

There’s no reason you should be comparing them. And yet.

You catch yourself doing it again when Yunho leans in and compliments your laugh—says it’s “light.” You remember how Mingi once called your laugh “ridiculously loud” while laughing so hard he snorted. He said it like it was the best sound in the world.

At some point, Yunho asks if you want to go for a walk, and you say yes, mostly to clear your head. The air is crisp, the sidewalk quiet under your boots. He talks about music, then books, then something about a camping trip. You nod along, you even chime in—but nothing lands.

You should like this.

You do like it.

But it’s like watching a movie with subtitles slightly out of sync. Everything almost fits. But not quite.

He walks you to your door when the night ends. Says he had a great time. That he’d love to see you again. You smile politely and say, “Yeah, maybe,” even though you already know you’re going to lie awake tonight thinking about someone else entirely.

Because the truth is, Yunho is lovely.

But he isn’t Mingi.

—It starts with a group chat message from Wooyoung that reads:

"Emergency night out. Everyone shut up and show up."

You don’t argue. After the week you’ve had—awkward dates, annoying work calls, and whatever the hell is happening inside your chest when Mingi looks at you a second too long—you need the chaos.

You meet the guys at a cramped, slightly too-warm bar tucked into a side street, the kind with sticky tabletops, neon signs buzzing weakly above the liquor shelf, and a karaoke room in the back that’s barely soundproof. Wooyoung and Yeosang are already two drinks in when you arrive. Jongho shows up five minutes later with chips and something stronger than beer. Mingi slides in last, wearing a hoodie and a grin that makes your stomach flip even before he sits down next to you like he always does—without asking.

The drinks come quick. Rum, soju, a cocktail Wooyoung insists is “his signature” that tastes suspiciously like melted candy. The room warms up, volume rising with every song. You all start off ironic—bad 2000s pop, dramatic power ballads, Yeosang doing Beyoncé way too well, and Wooyoung trying to harmonize with literally everyone.

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, pressed against Mingi’s side on the low couch. His leg brushes yours and stays there. You’re not sure when that started happening—these subtle, unspoken touches. But you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

Then Wooyoung throws his arm around Mingi dramatically. “Your turn. Go. Impress us.”

Mingi groans. “No one asked for this.”

“Do it,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “Unless you’re scared.”

His eyes flash as he looks at you. “Scared? Of you?” He’s grinning now. “Okay. Bet.”

He stumbles over to the screen, selects a song with the confidence of a man who’s made questionable karaoke decisions before. The first notes hit. You recognize it immediately.

It’s a love song. A dumb, sappy, overly sincere one—the kind people usually only pick if they’re trying to make a point or drunk enough to not care.

But he sings it. And he sings it well.

His voice is rough in places, but there’s something raw about it. Something real. His eyes scan the room, playful at first. Then they land on you. And they stay on you.

You feel it like heat against your skin.

The room fades a little. Wooyoung and Yeosang are still howling in the background, probably off-beat clapping. Jongho’s filming it, mouthing lyrics under his breath. But Mingi is still looking at you.

When he hits the chorus, there's something almost serious in his expression. Not like he’s just goofing around now—but like he’s saying something without really saying it.

You hold his gaze, something caught in your throat.

The last note fades into the room like a secret hanging in the air. There’s a beat of silence before Wooyoung yells something unintelligible and dramatic applause breaks the tension.

Mingi laughs and sits back down, a little breathless, cheeks flushed—not just from the alcohol, you think. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip, avoiding your eyes now.

You lean toward him, voice low. “You sang that like it was personal.”

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Maybe it was.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. You want to ask for who, even though you think you know. But your tongue feels too heavy and the room too loud.

Later, a few more songs in, the others are busy fighting over mic control. You and Mingi are leaning into each other now, bodies drawn like magnets. You’re laughing at something stupid he whispered in your ear, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing worth focusing on in this chaotic little room.

There’s a lull. A quiet moment in the noise. He looks at your lips. You look at his.

It happens slowly. A lean. A breath. His hand brushing your knee, his face close enough now you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Your heart is beating in your throat.

And then—

“NEXT SONG, LOSERS!”

Wooyoung launches himself between you two, flopping dramatically across the couch with a mic in hand.

You jolt back. Mingi does too. The moment collapses like a wave that almost reached shore but never quite did.

You swallow hard. He clears his throat. Neither of you say anything.

The night carries on like nothing happened.

—Your head is pounding. Not in a dramatic, movie-style way—just a dull, persistent throb behind your eyes, made worse by the fact that the sun seems personally offended by your existence today. You sit on your bed for a few minutes, staring into space, before finally pulling yourself up with a groan.

You know if you feel like this, Mingi probably feels worse.

So you do what you always do when he's hungover: you go into autopilot.

Within an hour, you're walking down the hall with a plastic bag full of hangover cures—the good kind. A container of hot soup, two greasy egg sandwiches, cold soda, painkillers, and something vaguely healthy to make it look like you tried. You knock once, but you’re already digging out the spare key he gave you when he first moved in.

The apartment is quiet when you let yourself in. Dim, a little stuffy, and still carrying the faint scent of cologne, leftover snacks, and last night’s choices.

Mingi’s sprawled across the couch, hood pulled over his head, blanket tangled around one leg. His arm is flopped over his eyes like he’s trying to disappear.

You walk into the room, drop the bag on the coffee table, and clear your throat. “I come bearing salvation.”

He doesn’t move for a beat. Then, in a voice wrecked by sleep and dehydration, he groans, “I knew you'd come. You're too good to me.”

You laugh, kicking his foot gently as you sit on the floor beside the couch. “You say that every time and still don’t drink water when I tell you to.”

Mingi lifts his arm just enough to peek at the food, eyes lighting up slightly. “Is that soup?”

“Obviously. And sandwiches. And soda. You’re welcome.”

He sits up slowly, wincing like it hurts, and leans forward to grab one of the containers. His hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess, eyes bleary and soft. He looks like a half-drowned cat. You try not to find it endearing.

You both eat in silence for a few minutes, hunched around your food like hungover goblins, the clink of plastic containers and occasional sips the only sound in the room.

You steal glances at him between bites, the way he keeps rubbing the back of his neck, squinting slightly at the light, chewing like it’s taking his whole brain to coordinate. You wonder if he’s thinking about last night too.

Because you are.

You’ve been replaying it since you woke up. The music, the drinks, his voice. The way he looked at you like he meant every single lyric. The almost-kiss. The way your heart paused, then sped up, then did absolutely nothing, because nothing happened.

But the nothing is loud. Echoing through this quiet morning like it wants to be noticed.

You glance up. He’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet for a beat too long.

You look away, wiping your fingers on a napkin, trying to play it off. “You sang so seriously last night, by the way,” you mutter, reaching for your drink. “Didn’t know you were auditioning for a drama.”

Mingi grins, head dropping back onto the couch. “You dared me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to look at me like that while doing it.”

The words are out before you realize how they sound. He turns to look at you again, slower this time. His smile softens, fades just a little. “Like what?”

You busy yourself with the drink. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push it. You both go quiet again, finishing your food with the TV playing some muted weekend rerun in the background. The sun shifts through the windows.

When the food’s gone and the trash is gathered, you stay on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Mingi slides down until he’s sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, still silent.

It’s comfortable. It’s maddening.

You close your eyes, head leaning back, heart a little too aware of the space between you and the boy who almost kissed you last night.

—You’re half-asleep when the knock comes.

It’s light at first. Then louder. Then followed by an unmistakable voice slurring your name like a secret.

“Open the doooorrrr… I know you’re in there. I can hear the fridge humming.”

You blink, sit up on the couch, check the time. It’s nearly midnight. Thursday night. Correction: Thirsty Thursday, which you now realize must have meant a bar night for the boys.

You shuffle to the door, still in your old hoodie and bike shorts, and open it with a tired sigh.

Mingi is standing there, slightly swaying, cheeks flushed red, eyes shiny with poorly concealed mischief. His hoodie is unzipped, hair a tousled mess, and his lips are curled into that lopsided, too-proud grin that only shows up after two too many drinks.

“I was just thinking,” he says, dramatically pointing a finger at your face, “that you're my favorite person ever. So I came over.”

You blink at him. “You’re drunk.”

He gasps, like you’ve just accused him of something scandalous. You sigh, stepping aside. “Come in before you wake the neighbors.”

Mingi stumbles in, shedding his shoes with unnecessary force and immediately bee-lining to your speaker like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does—he knows your playlists better than you do.

“I’m playing something,” he declares, squinting at his phone like the screen is doing him dirty. “We’re dancing.”

“No, you’re drunk, and I’m going back to my spot on the couch.”

“You love dancing,” he counters, turning to you with wide eyes. “You always dance when you’re cleaning. Or when you’re happy. Or when I bring you cake.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to dance right now.”

He ignores you entirely. The song starts—something upbeat, obnoxiously happy. He starts swaying, arms moving like he’s swimming through molasses.

You cross your arms. “Mingi.”

He grabs your hand. “Dance with me.”

“Mingi, you can’t even stand straight.”

“I’m very stable,” he says confidently, almost falling into your coffee table as he tries to spin. “See?”

Despite yourself, you laugh. He’s a mess. A very affectionate mess.

Eventually, you give in. Just a little.

You let him pull you into a slow, lazy half-dance in the middle of your living room. He hums off-key, his forehead resting against yours for a second too long, his arms slung loosely around your shoulders. His grip is warm, clumsy, loose like he trusts the gravity between you to do most of the work.

“You smell like soju,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

“It's my cologne. Limited edition,” he slurs, head dropping to your shoulder.

You both laugh, and his breath hits your neck—warm and soft, closer than it probably should be. Your heart is doing something inconvenient in your chest, but you ignore it. This is Mingi. Drunk, clingy, harmless Mingi.

The song fades. He pulls back enough to look at you—eyes half-lidded, dazed and soft.

“You’re so pretty,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Okay, bedtime.”

“No, wait, I’m serious. You’re like… glowing.”

“Mingi.”

“Like a really hot glow stick.”

You snort and start steering him toward the couch. “You’re cut off.”

He lets you guide him with no resistance, but just as you reach the couch, he trips slightly, and suddenly, you’re both falling—an awkward, clumsy tangle of limbs, landing with an oof as his full weight collapses on top of you.

“Get off,” you wheeze, laughing as you squirm under him.

He groans dramatically. “Can’t. Too tired. You’re comfy.”

“Mingi, I am not your mattress.”

“You are now.”

You try to push him off, but he’s deadweight—already melting into you, head tucked against your chest like it’s the most natural place in the world. One arm is flung across your waist, his breathing already starting to slow.

You stare at the ceiling, frozen. “Mingi…”

Nothing. He’s out. Fully, deeply asleep. Just like that. You should shove him off. You should throw a pillow at his head or wiggle out from under him. But you don’t. Not right away.

His hair is soft against your neck. His hand twitches slightly, fingers curling against your side. And something about it—all of it—feels dangerously nice.

You sigh, let your hand rest lightly on his back.

Just for a minute.

Just until your heart stops doing this stupid thing where it thinks maybe this could mean more.

—Mingi wakes slowly, like he’s being pulled up from somewhere warm and far away. His body is heavy, his mouth dry, head faintly buzzing from the remnants of cheap soju and sleep. It takes him a second to realize why his shoulder feels warm. Why something soft is pressed against his chest. Why everything smells faintly like your shampoo.

His eyes open, hazy and unfocused, and there you are.

Still beneath him.

His breath catches in his throat as he lifts his head just enough to see you—eyes closed, face relaxed in the kind of peace that only sleep allows. Your chest rises and falls beneath him, slow and steady, like your body is somehow calming his without trying. His arm is still draped over your waist, one leg tangled with yours, and your hand rests lightly against his back like it’s always belonged there. You’re holding him.

And he’s never wanted to stay in a moment more.

He blinks, slow and disoriented, brain sluggish from the hangover and the fog of sleep. He takes you in like he’s afraid you might vanish. Like maybe he dreamed this, and if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up to an empty couch and the hollow space where you used to be.

Without thinking, he reaches up and gently brushes your hair out of your face. His fingers barely graze your skin, but the touch feels seismic. He watches the way your nose scrunches slightly in response, the way your lips twitch at the corner like you’re dreaming something good.

This close, it’s impossible not to feel everything. The heaviness in his chest. The tenderness blooming quietly behind his ribs. That low, aching want to stay like this—not forever, not even for long, just for a while. Just long enough to memorize the feeling of your heartbeat against his cheek. Just long enough to believe you’re holding him not by accident, but because you wanted to.

You shift slightly beneath him, and your arm around his back tightens in your sleep—barely, instinctively. It’s nothing. A reflex. But to Mingi, it’s everything.

He lets his eyes close again, just for a minute. Just to savor it.

Later, he’ll get up. Later, he’ll go back to being your best friend and neighbor and whatever else he’s supposed to be.

But for now, he stays wrapped around you, your warmth anchoring him, your breath brushing against his shoulder.

And in that stillness, he thinks—

If this is all he ever gets, he’ll carry it with him anyway.

—The next date isn’t much different from the first, at least on paper.

You say yes to a guy you met through work—Taehyun. Clean-cut, smart, soft-spoken in that effortlessly confident way. He texts back quickly, plans the evening with ease, and picks a place that’s just the right kind of trendy without being pretentious. The type of guy you’d be stupid not to give a chance.

You get ready without telling Mingi. That’s new.

He’s been quieter around you lately, more fidgety. He still shows up with snacks, still flops onto your couch like gravity insists he belongs there, still makes you laugh without trying. But there’s something in the pauses now. A tension in the space between his glances, like he’s holding something back he’s not ready to let you see.

So tonight, you leave without mentioning it. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But part of you is waiting for a text from him the whole time. It never comes.

Taehyun picks you up right on time. He compliments your earrings, opens the car door, makes easy conversation during the drive. At dinner, he asks thoughtful questions, makes you laugh more than once, and never interrupts when you speak. It’s easy. No red flags. No weird silences. No awkward fumbles.

And yet.

Every time he reaches across the table, your brain betrays you. Mingi’s hands are rougher. Warmer. When Taehyun leans in to tell a joke, you think, Mingi would’ve made a stupid pun instead. When Taehyun compliments your laugh, you hear Mingi saying “You sound like a cartoon character” with a grin on his face and fondness in his eyes.

You smile at Taehyun anyway. You nod, you laugh, you play the part.

But something inside you is quiet. Unsettled.

After dinner, he asks if you want to grab dessert somewhere nearby. You say yes, but you’re already picturing Mingi in your kitchen, raiding your freezer for ice cream you pretend not to keep stocked. You remember the way he always eats straight from the tub, standing barefoot, ranting about some dumb video he saw.

Taehyun suggests a walk before driving back, and you say yes again. The night is cool. The sidewalk is mostly empty. He offers you his jacket. You don’t take it.

He drops you off just after ten, walks you to your door. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t try to kiss you. He just says, “I’d like to see you again,” and waits.

You smile. “Maybe.”

And you mean it. But not in the way he hopes.

Inside, your apartment is quiet. Still. You drop your purse, kick off your shoes, and wander into the kitchen without really knowing what you’re looking for.

And then you hear the knock. You open it, and there’s Mingi—hoodie on, hands in his pockets, hair messy like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you.

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

He nods. “Hey.”

His eyes flick down—catch your outfit, the faint smudge of lipstick, the light perfume you never wear unless you’re going out. His jaw tenses, just for a second.

“You were out,” he says, like it’s a statement, not a question.

You shrug. “Just dinner.”

He nods again. “With a guy?”

You lean against the doorframe. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches between you, longer than it needs to be. You can hear the faint hum of your fridge behind you. The soft buzz of a streetlight outside.

Mingi shifts on his feet. “Was it good?”

“It was fine.”

More silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just stands there like he wants to say something but can’t figure out how to start.

You watch him, heart thudding somewhere between frustration and longing. You wish he’d just say it. Ask. Admit. Anything.

Instead, he glances at his shoes and mutters, “I brought the stupid ice cream you like. Figured you might want it.”

Your chest aches a little. You step aside.

“Come in.”

—The party’s already buzzing by the time you arrive.

It’s someone’s birthday—someone you don’t know well enough to hug, but well enough to show up for. The place is packed. Music is loud, lights are low, and the drinks are flowing too fast for how early it still is. You're not even halfway through your first cocktail when Taehyun shows up beside you, grinning like he’s already tipsy.

You smile back. Out of politeness. Out of habit. Out of something else you’re still pretending not to name.

At first, it’s nothing. Light flirting. A little too close when he leans in to talk over the music. A hand at your waist that lingers a second too long. You laugh—nervous, but letting it happen.

You don’t see Mingi watching.

He’s across the room, pretending to listen to Jongho tell a story, but his eyes are fixed on the way Taehyun’s thumb brushes against your arm. How you don’t pull away. How you tilt your head and smile like it doesn’t twist something sharp into his chest.

When he sees Taehyun lean in and whisper something that makes you laugh—really laugh—he snaps.

He’s moving before he can stop himself, cutting through the crowd, his heart slamming into his ribs like it’s trying to get out. You don’t see him until he’s already there.

“Can we talk?” His voice is low, clipped.

You blink. “What?”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just jerks his head toward the balcony. “Now.”

There’s something in his tone you’ve never heard before. You follow.

The air outside is cooler, quieter. Distant bass thuds through the walls, but here it feels separate, suspended. Mingi paces once, then turns to face you, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

“What the hell was that?”

You frown. “What are you talking about?”

“You and him,” he says, motioning back toward the party. “The hands. The way he was—you were letting him touch you like that.”

You cross your arms. “So?”

He scoffs, bitter. “So, nothing? Just a casual thing? Doesn’t matter?”

You straighten. “Why does it matter to you?”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes. You see him struggling—his fists clenching, his breath uneven.

“It’s not like you care who I date!” you throw at him. It’s defensive, sharp. You’re trying to hurt him before he can hurt you.

His voice rises, the words bursting out before he can stop them. “Maybe I do!”

Silence. The kind that doesn’t sit quietly. It rings.

He runs a hand over his face, frustration spilling from every movement. “God. I do. I care, okay? I’ve been trying so hard not to. Trying to be the friend, the neighbor, the idiot you vent to about your dates while pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.”

You stare at him, your heart thudding once—hard, loud, like a signal flare.

Mingi steps closer, eyes locked on yours now, chest heaving with everything he’s been holding back. “I hated watching him touch you. I hated how easy it was for you to smile at him like that. Because I’ve been right here this whole damn time, wanting you, and you never look—”

You don’t know you’re moving until you're already there—your hands in his hoodie, your mouth crashing into his mid-sentence.

His breath stutters, and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been waiting to—for months. Years, maybe. Like he’s been holding his breath every time you walked into a room, and now he finally gets to exhale.

His hands find your waist, your back, your face—like he can’t pick where to hold you first. You’re still pressed up against the balcony, and the city blurs behind you, lights spinning, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You don’t stop. Not even when someone opens the door behind you, lets out a laugh, and goes back inside.

The world can wait.

Right now, this is everything.

© kysstar

[tddyhyck]

our secret, right? [ s. jn ]

pairings ⇢ stepdad!johnny x fem!reader / side unnamed mom and johnny

warnings ⇢ 18+, stepcest, grooming, vaginal fingering, pet names (dad/daddy/baby/little one/kiddo/others), piss (swallowing, covering, wetting), gaslighting, oral m/f, public peeing, bra fitting??, naive reader, cum swallowing, feet stuff, reader has a bad mom, creep johnny, implied kidnapping, use of cunny and dad cock

word count ⇢ 17.7k

a/n ⇢ HIIIII

pt 2 ⇢ practice makes perfect

pt 3 ⇢ nobody baby but you and me

masterlist | ao3 | kofi

it didn’t take long for johnny to fully integrate himself into your family. you’d never seen your mom so happy and in love, she’d slowly started to trust you more even. you didn’t know that johnny had spent a while watching you seeing you out for church every sunday with your mom and on saturday for your errands.

most of your time was spent at home, your mom sheltering you from an early age. after your father died she became obsessed with keeping you inside, from homeschooling to limiting your time outside to once a week. when you turned 16 she upped it to twice a week and even let you spend a few hours home alone.

johnny noticed you at the park on a warm saturday, you and your mother were picnicking. he’d immediately been enthralled by your innocent face reeling him in like a fish to a worm. johnny was immediately drawn to you, his mind racing with filthy things he’d want to do to you.

he’d debated while he watched you from a park bench. would it be morally better to weasel his way into your life. probably better than just snatching you up and driving off with you. his mind wandered to a good way to sneak into your family life, did you need a handyman, maybe a father figure, or possibly a tutor.

that’s why he couldn’t help following you and your mother home. writing down her license plate and address to find more information about you two. he spent the next week researching and learning your habits or lack thereof. you stayed home everyday but saturday and sunday and your mother only left for exactly two hours each weekday.

it didn’t take long for him to find out her profession. that was how they met. johnny charming your mother until he married her a few short months later. you were so happy to have a father figure, especially one you liked so much. you warmed up to johnny easily he was kind and sweet and a lot more fun compared to your mother.

with him working from the home office your mother trusted him to watch you so she could spend more time out working with clients. you really didn’t need anyone to watch you do your university classes from your parental locked computer, but johnny didn’t mind. of course he didn't, he used that opportunity to spend more and more time with you.

johnny felt giddy the moment he pretended to enjoy kissing his wife goodbye hearing your exaggerated ewwws from the kitchen table. he’d shut the door, turn around and tease you. saying you were too grown up to care about adults kissing. you didn’t tell him you felt a little jealous wishing he’d kiss you the way he does your mom.

you’d even been practicing after their wedding and seeing them kiss. you stayed up past your bedtime lips mashing against your pillow as if it was your new dad. softly trying to mimic the way he had cupped your mother’s face before tilting her head and pressing his lips to hers. it made you frustrated.

it didn’t take long for you to feel comfortable with the new man of the house. quickly adapting to his routine so you could spend more time with him. you dreamed of finding a man just like your dad, soft but strong and very handsome. you’d never met a single boy who came close to your new dad’s qualities but you could dream.

soon enough johnny was no longer johnny he was dad or sometimes even daddy when you were really sleepy, and johnny didn’t mind. he cooed at you the first time you asked if you could call him dad. he sat you in his lap pouring praises at you for it. saying how much he loved you and this was another step towards your good father daughter relationship.

of course johnny didn’t mind it was all a part of his plan.

one morning during the beginning of the summer heat you came to the kitchen later than normal. your summer bedtime and alarm later by one whole hour. you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as you walked to the fridge bending down to grab your favorite juice. mumbling a good morning to your dad.

when you turned you woke up immediately, seeing your dad’s bare back as he leaned over the stove cooking eggs. large muscles on full display making you gasp.

“what’s wrong, little one?” he turned, showing his chest making sweat form at the base of your neck.

“uh, your, where’s your shirt? mom doesn’t like us to be naked,” you stammer, pointing to his naked chest.

“oh sorry darling, i spilled some oil on it.” he points to his shirt draped over his chair at the table. “it’s okay for us though dads and daughters can show skin. your mom’s just more strict with herself.”

“oh, are you sure?” you feel almost dizzy having never seen a boy without a shirt on you didn’t even know what to think.

“of course, baby. dads and daughters can be naked together, but don’t tell your mom you know she’d think we were yucky,” he grins like it’s your little secret.

“really!” you loved having things that were special just you and your dad. “then can i take my shirt off too?”

“well i think it’s only fair since you have to put up with your old dad’s chest,” he chuckles, turning the stove off before patting his stomach brushing over a small trail of hair. he acted like he was some beast but he was so handsome.

“you won’t laugh?”

“why would i laugh, you’re so beautiful,” he coos walking over to you hugging you close. his bare skin is warm and envelopes you, you can even smell the nice cologne he wears.

“you think so, dad?” you look up at him.

“i know so i’m lookin right at ya,” he teased, tapping your nose with his finger. “do you want dad’s help?”

“please,” you mutter looking away as his hands go to the hem of your shirt slowly pulling it up as you raise your arms for him.

“atta girl, you’re so brave for me,” he praises, watching your skin slowly appear. “such a pretty girl.” you stand in silence for a moment as your hair falls from the collar of the shirt looking to him for more confirmation.

“now why were you worried,” he grins, holding your shirt in his hand as he pets your head fixing your hair.

“it’s just, they aren’t too small,” you mumble, reaching to squeeze your small boobs.

“they’re just right for you, kiddo,” he assures, eyes staring at your hands squishing the soft mounds nipples hard from the air.

“i know some people- well mom she has way bigger ones. mine are so small,” you pout.

“everyone has different things, yours will grow soon, but if they don’t you still look so perfect to me. my precious little girl. isn’t it so nice we get to share this time and be together,” he says, making your tummy heat up at the praise. you nod in response it is so nice to have a dad who’s so open your mom would scold you for even asking.

“now how about some breakfast, kiddo?”

you sit across from each other at the table, his shirt still draped over his chair, yours folded neatly on the island. you told him about how you slept and talked about your dreams. his were always so silly but yours were so normal.

“now, when your mom gets home we will have to put our shirts back on but for now we can just stay like this, okay?” you nod looking to the clock counting the hours until your mom would arrive. right at 4pm on the dot everyday.

“but it’s our secret right? you won’t tell mom i was naked?”

“oh no baby, it’s our secret,” he holds out his hand pinky lifted to you. this was something knew he’d taught you. when it was a secret just you had he called it a pinky promise. your twist your little finger around his and stamp your thumbs together sealing it between you.

the thing that you loved the most about your new dad was how he didn’t tease you if you didn’t know something. when you were a kid the others your age in sunday school would tease you if you didn’t know something or if you asked a question. johnny never made you feel dumb or silly, he just gave you a really smart grown up answer and you appreciated it. he treated you like a grown up girl compared to your mom who acted like you were still a stupid little baby.

the whole first summer you spent taking your shirts off at breakfast like it was a big secret. giggling at each other when you’d see each other bare. leaving your shirts at the table so you could grab them. johnny even set an alarm so you wouldn’t forget.

that summer you spent a lot of time with johnny mainly on the couch or in his office. he was showing you all these movies you had only ever heard about. it was another one of your secrets getting to watch movies your mom didn’t want you to see.

in johnny’s office you’d ask him lots of questions about his work and he’d let you sit on his lap while he sent emails. that was probably your favorite. his warm skin touching yours as you’d lay back against him. sometimes even his nipples would touch your back.

“this is our special father daughter time,” he whispered, rubbing his hands over your legs making your heart swell.

“i love spending time with you, dad,” you grinned, turning your head to see his face.

“you’re such a sweet girl, you know most girls your age are sick of their dads. they’d rather be out partying, but you are so sweet to hang out with me.” he pinched your cheek.

“what? no way! i’d much rather be with you than anyone else. i love you so much,” you grinned, lifting your arms to hug him, squeezing him tight. he loved when you did this, your small perky nipples pushing into his chest completely oblivious to the effect you had on him.

“aww i love you soooo much,” he cooed, relishing the soft skin against his.

between your time with him in the office or on the couch you read. your mother had a set number of words for you each summer and you didn’t mind really, enjoying the fictional worlds you could find yourself in. you used to like it more, before johnny came around. now you just wanted to spend time with him in the real world.

after you finished a few chapters you’d go to the kitchen and get something to drink. after a few weeks of summer you noticed something, the door to the bathroom was slightly opened. you couldn’t help curious eyes peeking in seeing your dad peeing. you’d never seen a boy pee or even their thing. your mom had told you boys have different parts and they use the bathroom differently but you never knew what she meant.

but now it was standing in your face. well your dad was. standing facing the toilet holding his parts as he shot yellow liquid from himself. his head tilted back relaxed as he emptied so much into the bowl.

you watched intently staring at his hand gripping his big thing. you wondered how he hid it in his pants. as his stream slowed he grunted using his hand to stroke himself slowly before he shook the last of the dribbles off of the tip.

as soon as he started putting himself back in his pants you’d scurry off. hoping not to get caught watching him during his private time. you knew johnny probably wouldn’t care he was so kind and open but you still felt like you weren’t supposed to watch him. you held your pinky to yourself making a personal promise to not bother him again.

it didn’t take long for you to see him in the bathroom again. the time he was taking a shower though. and you really didn’t mean to but the water was running and you knew your mother would hate if someone had left it on.

when you walked to the open door you stopped in your tracks. seeing johnny’s bare back and even his boy butt as he rubbed shampoo in his hair. the fresh smell swirling out of the room along with the steam and you couldn’t stop yourself. standing right in the doorway watching his every move through the glass.

you don’t know how long you’d stayed there, but it was long enough to see him rinse the suds from his hair. then he turned lathering his body with soap. you couldn’t help the wandering eyes seeing his boy parts again. he was so pretty and strong and the smell coming from the steamy room was so him. you stayed until he reached for the faucet before scurrying off to your room.

at some point you didn’t care about his private time he was leaving the door open anyways. peeking from behind the door watching him spurt pee into the bowl hard and fast and sometimes it made you have to go. not realizing you’d been holding your pee and now his warm yellow stream tempted you.

you probably watched him at least once a day. it made you curious about your own pee. holding yourself open so you could watch it spray out of you. you weren’t really sure how or where it came out of you, couldn’t really see it.

you had spent some late nights in front of your mirror the moon illuminating your girl parts so you could investigate. constantly looking over your shoulder anytime you heard a sound scared your mom would punish you for looking at yourself. you folded the skin back peeking at your privates looking and poking at the bits. it was really sticky down there so you used tissues to wipe before poking more.

you knew sort of what was going on but you never saw a hole where pee could come out of. so you’d crawl on the bathroom counter squeezing yourself close to the mirror spreading yourself to look. there was a slit there maybe that’s where your pee came from.

during one of your movie mornings a scene made you curious. a boy in the movie leaned against a wall and started making a puddle. your eyes widened surprised by such a private moment on tv. shy you looked over to johnny who watched the screen.

“daddy,” you asked, leaning over the cushions to him.

“what’s up, baby,” he reached for the remote pausing the movie.

“can i ask you a question?”

“well that was a question, do you need one more?” he grinned and you laughed now familiar with his “dad jokes.”

“silly,” you giggled. “you don’t have to answer but- when boys peepee where does it come out?”

“hmm well boy parts are different from girl parts you know, but boys have a hole and it comes out from there.”

“do girls have a hole too?” he nods at you, grinning and pulling you close to him.

“yes girls actually have two holes down there but one is for peepee.”

“why two?”

“well one is for babies to come out of way, way later for you,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. it’s quiet for a minute before he breaks the silence. “i know you’ve been peeking at dad while he pees.”

“i- i’m sorry i,” you babble apologies embarrassment filling your tummy and tears pricking your eyes.

“shhh, baby you are okay. dad’s not mad, you're just curious. i just wish you’d ask me so i could show you,” he says, soothing you by rubbing his hand over your arm.

“you aren’t gonna punish me?” you whimper sucking in the tears.

“of course not. you know i’m a cool dad.” he grins at you.

“i just never. i never saw boy parts before, i didn’t know it was so big.” you sniffle.

“do you wanna see dad’s parts? i don’t mind showing my curious girl.”

“can i? just you promise not to tell mom, she’d be so mad at me,” you look away shyly.

“this is our thing remember,” he lifts your chin to meet your eyes. “just a dad and daughter lesson special for us.”

“thanks for not being mad, i promise i won’t peek,” you assure him.

“it’s okay, kiddo. i’ll let you watch if you’re curious.”

“really, can i now?” you get a little giddy bouncing closer to him.

“mmm i think i could go now.” he nods, lifting himself off the couch and helping you up. it’s quiet as you walk down the hall just feet pattering on the floor as he leads the way. the tile is cold and he flips the light switch pulling you to him.

“do you wanna sit here?” he pulls you to the edge of the tub letting you sit, the cold material makes you jump, your boobs bouncing as you look up at him.

“how about you look at my dad parts first, so you won’t have to wonder,” he grins down at you using his thumbs to push his sweats down.

“oh wow, how do you-“ you pause, not forming any words as his big part is right in front of you. you reach a hand but stop yourself embarrassed. he lifts his shirt showing you a patch of dark trimmed hair over a long stick hanging down.

“you can touch it, my baby’s gotta learn,” he grins, ruffling your hair. you reach a timid hand toward him staring at the large shaft. your small hand shakes as you touch him, fingers barely wrapping around him.

“good girl, you’re so brave asking dad questions,” he coos, you stare at the slit where his pee comes from, eyes racking from the plush tip down the larger part lifting it in your hand to see the small seam on the underside.

“it’s really pretty, dad,” you grin, it really is something. your eyes trail farther seeing the two large sacks hanging loosely under him. you’d heard about that before when a boy got kicked in the balls and it hurt.

“thank you, darling,” he lifts a finger pointing to the slit. “this is where boys peepee.” you move your free hand rubbing your small finger over it, face close enough he can feel your breath. “mmm, right there. just between us dad usually calls his parts his cock, but you can call it whatever you want.”

“dad you have such a big cock. so heavy,” you murmur, eyes roving over him. the filthy word coming from your mouth makes blood rush to his heavy member.

“some boys are smaller or bigger. everyone is different just like you and your mom have different girl parts.” you nod at him but it’s hard to imagine any other cock but your dads.

“will you show me,” you bite your lip as you look up at him, feeling his shaft pump in your hand.

“yeah let dad relax a bit,” you let go as he turns facing the toilet. you lean your head over watching as he sighs and a thick stream pours out of the slit. he reaches for your hand letting you hold him as he keeps streaming.

“do you keep it all in there,” you ask, holding his balls in your hand making him grunt.

“no baby, that's where dad keeps his special stuff,” he coos, slowing his stream. you mimic his movements shaking his cock letting the drips fall into the water.

“do i have special stuff?” you let go of him softly letting his parts rest.

“yes you do, just in different places,” he grins.

“dad i kinda,” you squirm still looking at him.

“do you need to peepee too?” you nod at him.

“just when you went it made me need to,” you twist your legs together bouncing a knee.

“i can go, baby,” but you grab his arm before he can move.

“no, i wanna show you how i pee.”

“aren’t you sweet, dad can help you with your parts too,” he grins, helping you up as you squirm with need.

“unhh,” you moan gripping over your privates as you try to hold it.

“aww did you wait too long, baby, ‘s okay,” he coos.

“just, i can,” you pout, squeezing yourself before you slowly peel your panties down shifting awkwardly.

“doing so good, you’re so strong,” the praise melted into your skin like hot wax. you slide your butt onto the cold seat lifting your skirt and peeking at your cunt.

“let dad see,” he squatted in front of you leaning in and spreading your legs as you squeezed every muscle to keep your pee in.

“such pretty girl parts,” he smiled up at you.

“really? mom says they’re icky that’s why we have to wax them,” you nod, looking at your parts a chubby hairless mound with a long slit down the middle.

“mom is so silly.” he huffed a laugh, pushing your legs wider. “such a soft, pretty girl. can you show dad?”

“it gets really sticky lately, but i promise i clean it a lot,” you babble.

“that’s your special stuff just like dad has. sticky is normal, it’s okay you can keep it a little sticky. it’s healthy,” he stares as you pull your sticky lips apart. getting the perfect view of your swollen bud and the tightest little hole. he loves how aroused you are just from watching him piss holding his cock in your hand has you all wet for him.

“oh so it’s not icky?” he shakes his head leaning closer to you inspecting your most private parts.

“when you’re this pretty you know what we call girl parts?” he paused as you shook your head looking to him for reassurance. “i like to call it a cunny, and you have the most beautiful cunny dad has ever seen.”

“really,” you feel so giddy with excitement. it makes a small dribble of piss spill from you.

“does that make you excited,” he grinned at you holding your thighs open as the small trickle spilled. “when dad compliments your pretty cunny?”

“unhuh, i just like that dad likes me,” you mumble.

“you’re so cute, of course dad likes you. dad loves you and your cunny,” he grins, his large hand soothing over your knee.

“i love you dad. thanks for teaching me.”

“that’s what dads are for. now you see that little nub,” he asks pointing to the swollen raised bud on your cunny. you nod looking between your legs pulling the mound back to expose the swollen bud.

“that’s your clitty and right under there is a tiny hole for special girl pee,” you nod but you can’t see much below the swollen bump. “when you don’t have to go so bad dad can show you in the mirror all your parts.”

“yeah, i’d like that,” you grin, squirming again.

“go ahead and go you’ve been doing so good for your dad,” he coos, massaging his hand over your thigh. you relax into his touch whimpering as you let your pee go. hot splashing into the water already filled with your dad’s pee. you felt sort of warm and heavy at the thought of your pee mixing with his like it was special.

“let it all out, such a good girl for your dad,” you look down at him staring into his eyes as you empty all you were holding, craving more of his touch but you’re always too shy to ask.

that was the first time you showed your dad your cunny.

now almost every morning your dad would pull you into the bathroom letting you hold his dad cock. you’d hold him helping aim his yellow stream into the bowl before it was your turn. you hurry and tug your shorts down spreading your legs for your dad showing him your cunny over and over.

he even helped you see the tiny hole where your pee came out. held a mirror in front of you so you could see it. he was really the best. you still peeked at him when he was in the shower you couldn’t help it. you wondered if he watched you too while you left the door open.

most of the time he peed first but mornings like this where you really had to go he’d let you sit first.

“oh, baby, i don’t know if i can wait, can dad go with you?” he stood in front of you and you looked up at him nodding.

“how are you gonna do that?” you giggled.

“spread your legs for dad,” you did as he said, pushing your thighs back as his cock was in your face. he held it letting the hot stream aim right in front of your cunny.

you loved hearing the moan he let out when he really had to go. watching his pee hole right from the front was even better, his pee hitting the stream you were letting out. you reached up to hold his cock helping him aim as he shut his eyes releasing all he’d been saving up.

your stream was slowing but his seemed to keep going, spilling out and even hitting your thighs. you kind of liked it, warm drops of your dad’s pee on your legs. it made you feel so warm and close to him.

“such a good girl,” he pets your hair as you stare at his yellow pee starting to slow down.

“you have so much pee, dad,” you giggled, accidentally moving your hand making his pee hit your cunny.

“unhhh.” you whined, the sensation felt so good. so you aimed what was left letting it hit your cunny right in the center making you whine.

“mmm, thanks for helping?” you nodded as he dribbled the last of his pee between your thighs. he didn’t mention the way you had used his pee to feel tingly on your cunny.

you started doing that more often. your dad standing in front of you letting you aim his pee onto your cunny. he definitely saw you doing it, saw you spreading yourself and pointing his stream right on you. saw you rutting your hips and biting your lips.

you really felt so special having a dad like him. no one had ever paid so much attention to you and your needs but your dad sure did. he even helped you pick out your clothes for church on sunday. helping you go through your closet and finding the perfect pretty dress.

“you know, little bit, i think it might be time we get you a big girl bra,” he turned facing you as you sat on your floor rummaging through your dresser.

“really? i always wanted one, but mom says i have to keep them flat so they don’t distract,” you pout, shutting the drawer.

“well you’re a growing girl. your pretty tits are swelling now, we need to get you something to hold them.” he assures, squatting beside you nodding to your bare chest.

“but mom won’t let me,” you stare at your chest nipples puffy.

“it can be our thing. dad can take you and we can get you fit for one maybe even get you some pretty matching panties,” he grins, rubbing his large hand over your calf.

“oh really! dad you’re the best,” you squeal bouncing and hugging him close. you pull him off balance making him fall on top of you his hard chest pushing into yours.

“silly girl,” he grins, holding his hand on your cheek. you stay like that for a moment just staring at his pretty eyes and the shadow of stubble over his lips.

“dad can you kiss me? like you do mom?” you don’t even think before you ask, you’d stop doing that with him a while ago.

“aww you want a kiss? i know you get jealous when dad kisses mom in the morning,” he teases, lowering himself over you.

“i just wanna be dad’s favorite,” you pout puffing your lips up.

“you are dad’s favorite, just don’t tell mom,” he grins.

“our secret?” you hold your pinky up and he takes it.

“our secret,” he confirms linking his pinky with yours.

“i’m ready,” you push your lips out and shut your eyes. he can’t get enough of how precious you are. holding your pinky as he leans in and pecks your lips before pulling away.

“daddddd,” you groan, kicking your feet under him. “you use your tongue with mom.”

“even jealous of that? when we have some time dad will use his tongue, but your mom’s almost home we need to get ready,” his answer makes you pout craving his tongue.

“i wish she never came home. i like being with you.”

“i know, baby,” he coos, brushing your hair.

“can we pee before she comes home? i have a lot and your big dad cock is pushing on my tummy,” you squirm under him.

“mmm i think we have time.” he grins, standing up and helping you to the bathroom. he can’t help the blood pumping into his member, hearing you say things like that so casually.

before your mom got home dad promised to take you shopping tomorrow for a big grown up girl bra. you couldn’t sleep, you were so excited to go out. mom would be so mad if dad hadn’t asked her nicely.

but johnny didn’t ask mom.

that morning you felt so excited, giddy, and grinning and not sleeping in despite staying up late into the night thinking of your outing. you practically bounced into the kitchen grinning when you saw your dad.

“need me to help you get ready?” he smiled when he saw you still in your pjs.

“i’m so excited i couldn’t even sleep,” you bounced on your feet almost jumping over to him like a bunny.

“you’re so cute! been thinking about what you wanna get? maybe a color you want?” he smooths your messy hair.

“mmm i can’t decide i think pink would be so pretty but red is nice and mom always had those pretty black ones with lace.” you ramble on about all of your bra ideas.

“we can get whatever you want,” he confirms, tapping your nose.

“you’re the best dad ever.”

you felt so sneaky getting into johnny’s car riding in the passenger seat like a grown up. your mom always made you ride in the backseat saying it was safer, but now you were up front beside your dad and going out on a day you wouldn’t normally wouldn’t. you wondered what was so different on wednesday’s compared to saturday and sunday.

the weather was so sunny as you stared out the window looking at all the people walking or biking, even seeing some dogs. everything was so beautiful outside you didn’t understand why your mom didn’t like you going out.

you drove down roads you didn’t recognize taking in all the new scenery. you came to huge building bigger than any you had scene before and the parking lot was just as massive.

“wow,” you looked at the rows of cars in awe.

“now there’s gonna be a lot of people, okay? this is a mall and lots of people come to shop and hang out,” he tells you. you nod, taking in the expansive space.

“are there more stores? is it just one big store?” you questioned unbuckling your seatbelt and jumping out.

“lots of different stores, they have clothing shops, food, toys, all different stuff,” he smiles, he holds a hand out and you take it. “you don’t mind holding your dad’s hand, i don't want you getting lost.”

“i loveeee holding your hand,” you squeeze his large palm skipping down the parking lot towards the building.

the place is massive, with elevators and even moving stairs going up and down with loads of people. you feel like you’re in a movie and you’re the main character. there’s shops beside shops and rows of stores as you walk in. your dad leads the way keeping your hand in his.

“it’s so huge,” you mumble, taking everything in letting your head turn back and forth as you gawk.

“is it too much?” he stops beside you, making you look at him and you shake your head.

“i love it. i wanna live here,” you grin, tugging his hand to get him walking again. he just smiles, squeezing your hand and leading you again. you pass so many people and you smile at everyone, grinning when you see a chubby-faced baby or a dog in a vest. before long you get turned and dragged into a store almost tripping over your feet since you aren’t paying attention.

“hi welcome in,” a store worker says. you smile and wave looking around the room at all the neutral walls covered in racks with bright colored bras and panties. “do you need any help today?”

“we do actually, she’s wanting to get a fitting, but is it okay if we look around first?” johnny leads the conversation as you rake your eyes over the merchandise taking in all the patterns.

“of course, i will get my things together, you can come find me when you’re ready.” she smiles, directing her hand to the large showroom that you’re already immersed in.

“it’s amazing,” you coo, pulling johnny’s arm to the first rack you see.

“now don’t pick too much, let's start with three you like,” he instructs and you nod your head using your free hand to comb through the displays.

“wow, they even have sparkly ones,” you grin, holding up a sparkly padded bra.

“how cute,” he nods, helping you sort through. you meander through the different displays so many racks of so many different things. there’s small bras and different shapes, even strapless. there were bras attached to dresses and even one piece with panties. you and so many questions like how did you pee in that, or how does the bra stay with no straps, and did you wear the bra dresses as a dress.

“ok i like these two the most,” you grin, holding up two bras, one soft pink with floral swirling lace and the other a teal with lace and a bow.

“those are such good choices. what about the third one?”

“will you pick one i want one you like,” you bite your lip.

“aren’t you sweet, hmmm,” he says, glancing over the racks before pulling you to the one he’s set on. “this one would look beautiful.”

“wow, it’s so pretty,” you stare at the soft white bra, it was mesh with small lace details and you think you’re in love. “you think?” you ask him, holding up the small hanger to your chest.

“mmm, yep that’s the one,” he wants to moan in the middle of the store, his pretty girl posing in front of him, his cock starting to fill up.

“find anything you like?” the worker walks up again and you nod holding the three choices in your hands. “perfect, if you will follow me we can start the fitting.”

she leads the way and johnny lets you follow but stays close behind you with a comforting hand on your waist. she walks to the back to the store, opening a large curtain with other curtains along the walls, most of them opened.

“okay we will be in here,” she motions to the room and you enter. “have you ever had a fitting done?” you shake your head suddenly shy.

“can he stay with me?” you ask biting your lip and throwing a thumb over your shoulder to johnny.

“of course! since it’s your first fitting it’s good to have someone you trust,” she smiles politely motioning for you and johnny to go in. “if you want to get changed there is a robe right here and just let me know when you’re ready.

“thank you,” johnny smiles and you nod. she walks backwards, shutting the curtain behind her. you turn to johnny quickly pushing your head into his chest face heating up.

“shh, don’t be nervous, little one. you know how we take our clothes off,” he pauses and you lift your head nodding to him. “just like that okay, and she’s very nice. gonna use her measuring tape so it will fit perfect,” he soothes your anxiety by rubbing small circles with his big hands over your back.

“will you help me?” you grip his shirt pulling him somehow closer smelling his cologne to calm yours.

“mhmm, can you lift your arms?” you pull away lifting your hands over your head as his hand glide under the hem softly touching your skin before lifting the fabric and pulling it over your head. he had told you not to wear your training bra since you could get one here so you were bare. nipple hard in the cool store air poking out embarrassingly. your chest had started growing some more over summer slightly bulging out of your tiny bra.

“good girl,” he coos, tossing the fabric on the chair in the corner before turning back to you. “let dad get your shoes.” he kneels in front of you untying your white sneakers, letting you hold onto his large shoulder as you step out.

“you sneaky girl,” he grins up at you peeking under your skirt seeing your bare cunny. you grin back pushing your hands over your front trying to hide.

“just thought you said no bra so maybe none of these too?” you wiggle your hips in front of him. his large hands cover your thighs as he spreads your legs using his fingers he opens your cunny to him.

“hnnn,” you jerk as the cool air from the room hits your privates not aware that it’s your dad blowing a stream of air onto you.

“getting so excited aren’t you?” he teases, hands roaming higher before finding the zipper of your skirt easily. he slides it slowly and lets the fabric fall to the floor and pool at your feet.

“step back,” he instructs and you do, moving over so he can lift the skirt and toss it with your shirt. then he stands back in front of you grabbing your arms and turning you to the mirror.

“see how pretty you are, dad’s little beauty,” he whispers in your ear, making you shiver, his hands massaging your tummy. he turns to grab the robe hanging on the wall and helps you into it, tying it neatly over you.

“ready?” you nod your head the nerves in your tummy have calmed significantly. he leans his head out of the curtain summoning the lady back to the room.

“are you ready?” you nod to her facing her as she walks to you johnny takes a seat on the chair folding your clothes neatly beside him.

“okay, first let’s just loosen your tie just a bit and slip your arms out so you are still covered down there,” she helps you loosen the knot and slide your arms out of the silky sleeve exposing your small chest.

“now i’m going to use this to help measure you in five different places,” she smiles at you through the mirror.

“okay,” you agree, letting her lift your arms as she loops the yellow ribbon around you once, twice, and three times before writing in a small notebook.

“now we do the shoulders,” you nod, peeking over at your dad through the mirror and he’s already smiling back watching as her hand slides the tape over your skin. she pauses and right more in her notebook. “let’s get that back on.” she comments, helping you put your arms back into the robe.

“that’s it?”

“yep, easy peasy,” she grins. “i’ll go grab these in your size and be right back.” she smiles as she leaves, grabbing the three bras on the hook by the door.

“not so bad?” johnny says and you turn to him, cheesing at him as if you’ve just won first place.

“i thought she was gonna use like a big machine or something,” you say, standing in front of your dad.

“you were so brave,” he says looking up at you. “such a good girl.”

“thanks for helping me not be nervous,” you reach for his face touching his stubbly cheek with your small hand soothing him the way he does you.

“you know i love helping you, but you did it all yourself my brave little girl,” he coos, leaning into your hand. you hear a knock on the wall and pull away before the worker enters.

“so i have these in your size,” she hangs the bras on the hook. “i also grabbed these in your size but different styles so you can see what you like.” she smiles sweetly and you look at the new bras she brought in dark plums and emeralds. “i got the matching panties for you. if you need any help let me know.”

“want help?” he grins up at you as she leaves and you nod, pulling his hand to stand him up. he reaches to pull the tie of your robe, helping you out of it and laying it over the chair he had been sitting in.

“so pretty,” he mumbles, eyes grazing your body, making you shy.

“daddd,” you giggled pushing at his hard chest. he grabbed your hand and then the other pulling them away from your body so he could look you over.

“which do you wanna try first?” he asked, pulling you to the hooks on the way filled with bras. you pointed at the pretty pink one you had picked out.

“good choice.” he smirks, letting go of your hands and taking the bra from the hanger. he turns you around, moving you in front of the mirror while he looms behind you. he’s so much bigger than you, taller and wider as he lingers behind you.

he unclasps the bra and reaches around you holding the cups over your small breasts as you slide your arms through the straps. you can feel him breathing on your neck as his hands pull the clasps together and snap them closed. he uses a finger to lift the straps straightening them over your shoulders before his hands lower sliding over the skin of your tummy just about your cunny.

“mmm i like this one,” he coos, letting his chin rest on your shoulder.

“the color is so pretty,” you smile softly, watching him in the mirror more than yourself.

“does everything feel okay? no poking or too tight?” he smoothed his hands in small circles over your hips.

“nuhuh, feels okay,” you mumble distractedly.

“let dad feel okay?” you nod as he slips his hands higher softly passing your rib cage and cupping your small breasts over the fabric.

“unh,” you whimper as his large hands engulf you massaging your skin.

“feel good?” you nod stupidly, biting your lip and leaning into his touch. “fits you so good, kiddo. cute little tits sitting all perfect.” he compliments using his fingers to dance over the fabric covering your now hard nipples making you buck at the touch. he grins, lowering his hands back to your hips.

“more touch me more, dad,” you murmur, holding a hand over your own breast.

“mmm, feels really good huh?” you nod as he lifts his left hand again keeping his other hand on your hip as he touches you. you try to copy his movements but your small hand is nothing compared to his. “pretty girl, so glad you’re my daughter.” you whimper again trying to hide your face in his as he gropes you.

“makes me so,” you huff, his other hand now cupping yours helping you move over your breast.

“tell dad how it makes you feel.”

“tingly,” you puff, breathing harder as he grins at you watching you squirm in the mirror, hips jerking at every touch.

“where, baby?”

“my,” you pause letting his fingers push and circle your nipples poking through the fabric. “cunny.”

“mmm yeah? makes dad’s cock feel tingly too,” he says rubbing his hardening bulge against your small butt.

“unhhh, really?” you blink up at him, lips wet from spit that’s started spilling out.

“mhmm, i know it feels good baby, but we gotta try on these bras okay?” you pout at him wanting to stomp your feet like a brat. “how about dad makes a little deal with you?”

“what kind?” you ask, his grip loosening but still massaging you.

“if you be really, really good and try on all these pretty bras, dad will get you a few, then we can go to any stores you want,” he pauses and you nod as he continues. “then when we get home dad can touch you some more?”

“please,” you whine, pleading eyes looking up at him.

“mmm, now be a good girl okay,” you nod. he pulls his hands away much to your dismay but you think of the delicious reward that will await.

he takes his time helping you try on all the bras and letting you pick your favorites. you end up leaving with five bras and matching panties. you can’t help the grin that fills your face as you hold his hand the large bag in the other filled with goodies for you.

he lets you pick out some shops to explore and spoils you rotten. getting you new outfits that are mainly for his enjoyment, skimpy pajamas, tiny skirts, and a new church dress. he let you browse some stores and get new hair clips and some new stuffed animals for your bed.

you picked out a bear saying it looked just like your dad saying you’d hold it close every night. it makes his cock twitch, seeing his pretty girl sleeping with her legs wrapped around a big bear like her dad.

he even takes you to get a slushie full of sugar and something he called a pretzel but was way too big and soft to be a pretzel. but the cinnamon sugar and icing made it the best thing you’d ever had. your mom didn’t let you have sugar, caffeine, or dyes so this was like a sneaky birthday party.

you held his big hand as you skipped down the parking lot back to his car, giggling as you watched him try to skip beside you holding all the bags in one hand. you stand beside him as he loads all the items in the trunk when it hits you the sudden urge to pee making you squeeze your legs together.

“you okay?” he looks at you with concern on his face as he slams the trunk.

“pee, gotta,” you whine, cupping yourself as you jump.

“aww baby, did you get so excited you forgot?” he coos, holding your face as you pout to him nodding.

“sorry, dad,” you blubber, bouncing your legs making your skirt flash your butt to whoever was walking by.

“it’s okay, shhh,” he soothes, pulling you to him for a hug. he smirks over your head the idea of what he can get you to do. “hmm let’s see.”

“i dunno if i can hold it,” you whimper, squeezing a hand over your cunny.

“c’mere,” he pulls you between his car and the one beside it looking around to see who was walking by. “squat for me.”

“can’t ’s gonna,” you want to listen but the push on your bladder will make you spill.

“it’s okay baby, dad will keep watch, you can’t help it.” he holds your hand rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “go ahead, little one.”

you listen to him moaning as you bend your knees, the push on your bladder growing. you try to keep it in but a small gush comes out soaking your hand through your skirt as it hisses out onto the pavement.

“it’s okay,” he coos standing over you watching you slowly lower yourself lifting your damp skirt with your hand. you squeeze his palm before the stream pushes out of you hot piss arching from your cunny soaking your lips as it sprays out.

“good girl, spread your cunny so you don’t get wet,” he grins, he feels sick in the head. his cock hardening as people pass looking at you spreading your virgin cunt spraying piss over your own shoes and your dads.

you moan letting your head fall back as your stream continues, hot yellow liquid puddling all over the pavement and even if you wanted to stop you can’t it feels too good. you don’t notice the people walking by grinning at your accident.

“you had to go huh?” he pets over your head watching the piss start to trickle down the pavement flowing like a river. you nod stupidly overtaken by the pleasure of your full bladder emptying under you. your pretty white shoes yellow as you douse them with the flow. as you slow you open your eyes looking up at your dad who’s already staring back a small sweet smile on his face.

“oh no,” you whine, spurting out the last of the pee with a jerk of your hips. the mess is huge, a large pool under you and on your shoes dripped down the pavement and under the next car.

“you’re okay, baby,” he coos, helping you up. your dripping cunny is slippery under your fingers

“i’m dirty, dad,” you pout, showing him the drips hanging on to your mound and slit.

“i’ll help you,” he says, opening the door behind you, sitting you on the edge of the seat. he squats down in front of you spreading your thighs as you lift your soaked skirt showing him the golden droplets.

“dad’s gonna use his tongue to clean you up, okay, kiddo?” he says, leaning his face closer to you.

“ ‘s too dirty,” you whine, but he comes closer, opening his mouth and sliding his tongue over your cunny.

“oh, dad,” you gasp, melting back into the hot leather seat. his tongue dips into you sliding over the folds over your cunny collecting every drop and then some. he spreads your lips pushing his tongue into your sticky slit gliding it up and down swirling it over your pee hole and your clitty.

you moan out too naive to know what you’re feeling. johnny savors it the first mouth to ever touch your cunt and it’s your sweet dad’s. hips bucking chasing the foreign feeling you don’t fully understand just know it feels so good.

“dad, dad,” you mumble, jerking your hips into his face. he’s grinning between your thighs trying to close around him, slipping his tongue deeper not letting you escape. your taste is addictive bitter piss mixing with your sweet, sweet virgin juices making him dizzy.

he couldn’t stop diving into you like a cold pool on a hot day. his tongue slurping at your fluttering hole before finding your clitty and sucking it between his lips. your breathing growing ragged and uneven as you fall closer to some peak.

“so, oh my, dad,” you aren’t coming up with the right words leaning back against the center console as he slurps you up. your slick practically pouring from your hole drowning his tongue as he drinks you. the pleasure building in your tummy makes you whine and squirm craving pleasure but it’s almost overwhelming.

“gonna pee, dad, can’t,” you mewl, far too innocent to know this is an orgasm. squeezing your eyes as you jerk under him, gripping at the seat. his hot tongue flicking over your clitty as your legs shake muscles spasming as you squirt the last of your pee into his mouth.

he grins drinking you up the thought of your first orgasm in a parking lot on your dad’s tongue such an icky girl he has. his mind races and fills his cock with the ways he wants to ruin you. too naive to know you’ve just cum on your dad’s tongue in front of passersby.

he doesn’t stop lapping up the gushes of cum and piss from your cunny slurping it up like you were earlier with your slushy. your legs are vibrating around his head as he cleans the last of your juices before pulling away.

he watches you catching your breath, licking his lips tasting all of you. your cunny is slimy and swollen, still dripping from your slit, clit twitching as you come down. there’s another puddle under his car now from the juices you couldn’t help but drip, it’s a shame he didn’t get to savor them.

“you okay?” he whispers, rubbing his hand over your knee. you nod stupidly, your hair ruffling against the seat.

“so, oh wow, dad,” you mumble, lifting your lazy head looking down at him. “i felt so weird and so good.”

“mmm, you did good for dad, now you’re all clean,” he grins at you cum and piss glistening on his chin.

“sorry for making a mess,” you mumble looking away as you try to sit up. your whole body feels like jelly.

“no baby, dad likes when you make messes. you know i like cleaning up, and what better than to clean up my girl,” he grins, standing up and ruffling your hair helping you sit in the car before buckling your seatbelt. you fall asleep before he even starts the car overwhelmed and satisfied with your day cunny still dripping on the leather seat. as he drives off he looks back at the puddle you made wishing he got a picture so he could start that father daughter scrapbook.

you couldn’t help but crave the same feeling your dad had given you when he cleaned you up. every time you peed you wondered why it didn’t feel the same when you cleaned yourself up. you wanted his tongue to slurp over your cunny and get all the pee out of you.

you were sitting at the kitchen table just finished breakfast and squirming with the need to pee. you were being patient waiting for your dad to finish putting the dishes in the dishwasher. you were bouncing in your chair pushing your heel into your cunny to keep your pee in. the running water coming from behind you made it worse, thoughts of emptying yourself making you push your cunny harder.

“gotta go?” you turn your head seeing dad watching your squirming and you nod.

“think i had too much juice,” you pout, pushing yourself against your heel.

“how about we get all that pee out?” he turns the water off and dries his hands walking over to you.

“it’s so hard, dad, pushing on my cunny,” you wiggle, as he steps in front of you.

“you think you can make it?” he puts a hand on the back of your chair.

“dunno, i can try,” you whimper.

“c’mere,” he coos, wrapping an arm around your waist lifting your arms to wrap around him. he lifts you with one hand using the other to cup your cunny, helping keep the pee in. “so full your little tummy is swelling.”

“unhuh,” you mumble peeking at the bulge in your belly rubbing a hand over your taut skin. “kinda like how it feels dad. makes my cunny tingle when it’s all full.”

“mmm, yeah? dad likes it too makes his cock tingle,” he coos, rubbing his hand over your cunny keeping pressure on you as he walks down the hall towards the bathroom.

“really, so it’s not weird?” you ask, looking at his face, his fluffy hair bouncing with each step.

“nope, it’s good to feel good, and cunny tingles are really good,” he grins at you but walks past the bathroom.

“dad,” you ask, turning to see the door pass you by.

“going to mom and dad’s room. gonna be hard for you to get your panties off so i can help you in the tub,” he says casually and you nod your head, tummy sloshing. his warm hand feels so good on your cunny, rubbing softly and keeping the pressure as your bladder begs for release.

“so cunny tingles are normal and good?”

“so good baby, you know when dad helped clean you up?” you nod squeezing your legs at the memory. “made your cunny feel good right?”

“so good, would you clean me up again?” you ask shyly, leaning your head into his neck.

“of course baby,” he smiles, pushing open his bedroom door. the pictures on the wall of him and your mom getting married. she looked so pretty and your dad so handsome. he walked to the bathroom keeping his hand on your cunny as he let you down the gravity causing all the pee to push more making your bounce.

“let’s sit here,” he says, helping you to the tub and lifting you into it easily.

“can we pee in the bathtub? mom always said that was icky,” you say nervously.

“for dad and daughter time we can,” he grins, stepping into the large tub with you. his warm hand rubs against your cunny shorts damn but you don’t notice. “can you stand here.”

you follow his lead standing near the side of the tub. he squats in front of you using one hand to slide your shorts and panties down before sliding the other side. your cunny stays covered as he pulls the sides as low as they will go. then he slips his bare hand over your bare cunny holding you letting his finger push between your slick slit.

he grins to himself curling his finger slightly to feel your hole. letting your shorts fall to the tub before picking them up and tossing them out.

“are you gonna pee too?” you ask, staring down at his every move.

“of course, wouldn’t let you do it all alone,” he coos, standing up again his finger sliding through your virgin folds. “sit here baby.” he helps you sit down on the edge of the tub as one of his hands slides down his sweats letting his cock bob out fuller and heavier than you’ve seen.

“dad your cock is all bouncy,” you giggle, squeezing your legs around his hand.

“that’s cause dad’s cock getting tingly too,” he grins to you using one foot he kicks the sweats out of the tub. he stands bare in front of you, his heavy dad cock swaying as he moves the tip darker than you’ve seen it.

“dad you gotta go bad, you’re leaking,” you comment, noticing a dribble of what you guess is pee already sneaking out.

“happens when dad feels really tingly, like when your cunny gets sticky,” he grins, sliding his finger through the slick.

“wanna go,” you mumble the need overwhelming you suddenly.

“mmm, let it out baby,” he says, pulling sticky fingers from you staring as you spread your legs. it takes no time for a hot arch to spurt out of you making you moan in pleasure. tingling cunny mixing with the relief of peeing feels so good.

“good girl, get all that pee out for dad,” he coos, sticking his finger into his mouth tasting your juices. he’s been thinking about your taste for a week. dreaming about his teen daughter’s virgin cunt in his mouth, jerking off with thoughts of you and your little accident.

you use your fingers to spread your cunny pushing your pee out as you lift your knees showing off your stream. your head leaned back as you let go giving your dad a chance to lean in letting your stream hit his mouth. he moans at the taste as he pulls away hot yellow dripping down his chin as he savors you, keeping the liquid on his tongue.

“so good for dad, must have been so full,” he mewls, rubbing a hand over your inner thigh as he swallows. he leans closer letting your stream hit his chest and trickle down his filling cock. god he wants to jerk off right now get his cock covered in your piss and use it as lube. if only you knew how twisted your dad was.

“so full,” you pant, opening your eyes to meet your dads. his sweet soft face watching your cunny push out your pee as it splatters into the tub a large yellow puddle forming and flowing to the drain.

“so pretty baby, you pee so pretty for me,” he grins at you rubbing a thumb closer and closer to your center. your stream slows hissing quieting as you dribble the last bits letting it slide down your cunny and drip below you.

“felt so good,” you whimper.

“i know baby, dad’s gonna make you feel even better when he cleans you up,” he leans in, letting his knees hit the puddle you made but he doesn’t even care.

“thanks, dad,” you mumble, excitement bubbling in your tummy as his face comes closer, his breath hitting your dripping cunny. he uses his large hands to hold your thighs as he laps up your drips. you whine his hot tongue sliding over your cunny making you feel hot all over.

“mmmm, dad,” you call out, fingers gripping your knees as he grins into your cunt. his tongue fast and sloppy as he collects every golden drop savoring it on his tongue, your taste so addictive. slick and piss mixing in his mouth as he swirls over your hole licking up your pee hole to your clitty.

you can’t help but start panting, tongue falling from your mouth stupidly as he devours you. sloppy mouth slurping at you as he sucks your clitty into his mouth. you squeal, kicking your feet against his back at the pleasure, your eyes filling with overwhelmed tears.

part of you wants him to stop or slow down because it’s so much but another part of you wants more. that part wins. bucking hips into his face awkwardly craving more. he loves how stupid you get trying to grind against him begging for more as he sucks you in using his tongue perfectly.

“dad, more, more is coming out,” you whimper, slobbering on your chin as your legs start to shake. your tummy tightens until it lets go spraying into his mouth as you cum. legs shaking around him whining and moaning unable to control yourself. he drinks you up again letting his tongue linger on your gushing cunny flicking as he collects every drop.

he can’t help himself, he’s obsessed with the way you sound, your overwhelmed reaction to what you don’t know is an orgasm. he slows his flicks, lazily sliding his tongue up and down through your folds. your taste is addictive. he pulls away as you calm down lips and chin sticky watching your hips jerk in his hold.

“did so good for dad,” he praises, rubbing his hands over your skin.

“dad you clean me really good, get all the pee out,” you babble, looking at him with dazed eyes. “does it taste funny?”

“no baby, you taste so good. i think dads are made to like the taste of their daughters,” he tells you casually and you nod. “wanna taste?”

“i tasted my pee before, it’s kinda sour,” you admit, he’s sort of taken aback but the thought of your shy fingers collecting your piss to taste makes his cock bounce higher.

“gimme your fingers,” he says, holding his hand out and you give him what he wants. he uses your small fingers to rub over your slit collecting the last of your cum on your fingers.

“sensitive,” you whimper, eyes trained on where your fingers touch your cunny. he grins as he pulls your sticky fingers away, turning your hand and pushing it to your face. you open your mouth almost on command letting your fingers slide on your tongue. you don’t taste the same bitterness, it’s sweet and sticky like syrup.

“see, you taste so good,” he grins, and you nod, collecting all of the taste on your tongue.

“can i clean your cock when you pee?” he feels his heart race the thought of you using your tongue something he’s been dreaming of.

“wanna try?” you nod quickly letting your feet down, toes touching your puddle. his cock is even harder now bouncing bigger between his legs.

“yeah, i bet it tastes good too,” you smile.

“mmm, yeah daughters usually like how their dads taste too,” he grins standing up in front of you, his knees dripping from your pee as you lean forward.

“so big dad must feel really tingly?” you say, reaching to hold his standing cock.

“so tingly, especially when my pretty girl feels good,” he pets your sweet face as you look up at him, his cock still growing, your fingers not wrapping around him fully.

“dad why when i clean my cunny it doesn’t feel as good?” you ask.

“that’s cause dad’s doing it. feels so good when dad’s help their girls. it’s called cumming, dad made you cum,” he tells you and you nod stupidly.

“come where?”

“silly, when your cunny feels really good and you feel like you’re gonna pee it’s called cum.” he confirms, god you were so innocent.

“can i make dad cum?” you were really gonna kill him. his cock twitches at your words, more precum leaking from his tip.

“do you want to?” you nod eagerly, hand sliding over his shaft.

“such a sweet girl. let dad get his pee out first,” he pushes your hair back and you nod leaning closer to his cock.

“let it out dad, it feels so good,” you say, he groans above you pushing a small spurt of his out of his slit. it shoots up, your eyes wide following the high stream making you smile. “wow.”

“when dad gets hard and tingly it’s hard to aim,” he chuckles. you use your hand to angle his cock not pushing too far but it stands slit pointed to your tits.

“it’s ok dad, i got my pee on you,” you smile sweetly, coaxing him to let go again. he can’t help himself, thrusting his hips into your hand pushing his piss straight out letting it hit your chest. it splatters and you giggle hot liquid hitting you and dribbling down your tummy.

“do more, dad,” you beg, and he obliges, thrusting his hips into your hand forcing his pee onto you. your wide curious eyes watching the yellow liquid hit you. he bites his lip trying to keep himself from fully fucking your little hand.

“mmm, doing so good helping dad, you look so pretty with my pee on you,” he coos, you feel shy turning your eyes from his to focus on his spurting cock. “fuckkk.” he groans, thrusting into your hand.

“dadddd, language,” you grin.

“can’t help it feels so good,” he moans, his hand rubs down his chest and stomach, his fingers splitting holding the base of his cock.

“is it okay to say bad words when your cock feels good?”

“yeah, but just between us two. when your cunny feels good you can say it,” he hisses, his still thrusting slowly but his pee has mostly stopped gushing he’s too hard to go.

“are you all done?” you coo and he nods at you. “can i make you cum now, dad.”

“yeah baby, just use your tongue to clean dad up,” he says, you nod nervously eyes wide as you bring your face closer. you take an experimental lick over the slit collecting the drops of pee and something sticky. it tastes bitter but in a good way so you flick your tongue again.

“mmm, just like that baby, doing so good,” he moaned, watching your small mouth open using your tongue to swirl around his tip. he knows he’s gonna cum too fast, his fantasy coming to life right in front of him. his precious daughter tasting him using her mouth to make him cum.

you swirl your tongue like you would on a popsicle and that seems to make your dad really feel good. he groans above you watching as you do your best to clean him up. there’s more sticky stuff in your mouth and you like it so much and you can’t stop breathing in the musky smell from his cock.

“try using your mouth to suck the tip,” he directs, and you listen, opening your mouth and forcing his big cock inside, wrapping your small lips around the tip, sucking him like a straw. “unhuh, just like that, cleaning dad so good.”

you move your head back and forth taking as much of his tip into your mouth as you can, softly stroking the base of his cock. you’re so eager to hear more praise from his mouth so you speed up thinking that will work and it does. he calls out for you moaning your name and it makes your cunny tingle again but not with the need to pee.

“oh, baby, dad’s gonna cum,” he moans, stomach tightening as his release builds. “pull back, baby.”

it’s the first time you don’t listen to him craving more of his taste and working hard already. you want to make him cum making him feel like he makes you feel. so you keep your lips latching onto his tip as he tries to pull away. the pleasure fills him as he thrusts into your mouth making you choke hot liquid filling your mouth.

you pull back coughing and choking, spitting white onto his cock as more spills out. you watch in awe as white pee shoots from his slit hitting your mouth and chest. the taste is salty on your tongue as you catch your breath.

“didn’t listen to dad,” he groans, slowing his thrusts as the liquid slowly dribbles down his tip.

“just wanted to make you feel good,” you feel embarrassed and bad. your tummy filling with guilt for not listening to him.

“aww baby, is okay, just didn’t want to scare you,” he coos, petting over your head. you look back up at him, eyes watery and mouth dripping spit and cum and it makes a perfect image in his filthy head. innocent daughter, with her dad’s cum on her lips and chin such a filthy sight.

“sorry, dad,” you whimper.

“no baby, you did so good look at how much you made dad cum,” he grins. you see all the white puddling on the floor mixing with the pee and it makes you happy. his cock softening in your hand but you keep it wrapped in your fingers. “felt so good for dad. got all my cum out,” he says.

“is that the white pee?” you ask innocently, sliding your fingers on your lips and licking them.

“mhmm, that’s dad’s cum. boy cum is white and thick that’s the special stuff dad keeps here,” he tells you cupping his heavy balls.

“oh wow, tastes salty,” you smile, teeth sticky as white drips in your mouth.

“yeah? you did so good baby, dad came so much been so long since he felt so good,” he soothes your hair with some sticky white in the strands.

“really? i guess since you didn’t have a daughter until me it was hard to get it all out.”

“mhmm best when daughters do it for their dad’s,” he grins. sick mind swimming with lewder fantasies with you. “now let’s get cleaned up.”

johnny was falling deeper and deeper into his twisted desires, his mind swirling most of the day with what he wanted to do with you and to you. he thought you would be harder to crack harder to weasel his way to your trust, but you were much easier.

he’d wake up early cock hard as your mother slept beside him. his dreams full of your tiny virgin cunt he so desperately craved. thoughts of his fat cock shoving into you making you scream. when he first saw you he wanted to take you keep you locked in his house so he could fuck you whenever. this was working even better though.

it was harder though to get your mom to wear down enough to agree to a date. despite her desperation for a young cock and companionship she kept you under lock and key. he didn’t get to meet you officially until after he had proposed. sitting across from you at the table grinning and making you giggle at his silly jokes.

your mother liked how he paid attention to you but still “respected” her discipline. and you were worth it the long waiting game of getting her to crack and get into your family. he even had to wait to fuck her old cunt. their wedding night spent at home since you couldn’t be left alone.

she held a pillow over her face as johnny fucked her, saggy tits flopping, johnny imagined it was you. young and sweet and fertile. fucking his cum into his sweet new daughter filling her up while he took her innocence, but he was stuck with your mom for now. thankfully her libido was low so he didn’t have to struggle through too much sex.

he’d wake up and sneak to the bathroom for an early shower jerking his cock picturing your tiny cunt, now he didn’t have to imagine it he knew what it looked like. he spent his morning thinking about what he could get you to do while your mom was away. you weren’t too hard to convince.

innocent little girl, too sheltered to know normal dads didn’t lick their daughters cunny or help their girl pee. you didn’t know any better you were just happy to have the male attention.

he thought he’d still be grooming you to gain your trust but he was already three steps ahead of his plan. he thought he’d be waiting to make you cum until at least christmas, but he even got you to use your little mouth too. now he was onto his next step using his fingers.

he knew this would be harder but he had a few things in mind and whenever he thought too long about it his cock would fill too fast. luckily he had a sweet girl who was now obsessed with helping her dad like a good daughter would.

“dad, can i ask something?” you say, you’re sitting on your bed while your dad sits on the floor helping put together a new shelf for some new books.

“of course,” he puts his tools aside looking up at you.

“when you lick my cunny, why does it feel so good,” you ask, you’d been wondering for a while but felt too shy.

“that’s cause there’s lots of sensitive nerves all on and in your cunny,” he says, he sits up on his knees crawling over to your bed.

“inside?”

“yeah, you know dad told you you have two holes, a pee hole and one for babies?”

“yeah,” you trail, trying to imagine the inside of your cunny.

“the hole babies come out of has lots of nerves. it feels really good there too,” he puts his hands on your bed rubbing the sheets.

“do you put stuff in it to feel good?”

“mhmm you can, sometimes you use fingers or toys that are for that, and when you want to have a baby you use your dad’s cock,” he confirms, his cock growing now pressing against the mattress.

“that fits in there?” you can’t imagine your dad’s big cock fitting in anything.

“yeah but you have to get all stretched out for that.”

“so when people want babies they use their dad’s cocks?”

“yeah, when you want to have a baby in a long, long time you will need to use dad’s cock inside your cunny so he can put a baby in you,”

“oh wow really? so you’ll help me when i get married and want a baby?” he nods, rubbing his hand over your knee. the idea of you getting married to someone makes him sick. he will have to get rid of your mother so he can keep you and put babies in you.

“of course, that’s what dads are for, put as many babies in your little cunny that you want,” he coos.

“does it hurt a lot when you get cock in your cunny?”

“you have to stretch a lot, but that part feels good too baby. using fingers and rubbing all the nerves inside of you, you’d like it,” he confirms.

“can you stretch me some now? does it feel like when i cum?”

“i can if you want me to,” he smiles softly but his head is reeling. “feels like when you cum especially when dads use their mouth and fingers together.”

“oh i want you to please, will you dad. want your fingers in my cunny,” you beg, scooting closer to him.

“silly girl, you still want to, dad already made your cunny feel good earlier. can you handle it?”

“yes yes i can, please,” you whine, spreading your legs showing your slick cunny to him. he’d convinced you to keep your legs bare along with your top. saying this way when you held your pee too long it wouldn’t be so messy, but really it was so he could stare between your legs.

“okay, baby, tell dad if it feels uncomfortable or hurts,” he says, holding up his pinky for you to take. you nod your head, twisting his finger and pushing your thumb to his. he climbs onto your bed and you scoot back making room for him.

“so pretty, i love how curious you are baby,” he coos, making you smile, face heating up easily.

“just never had anyone i could ask you know,” you pout and he nods his head. he comes closer, his cock bouncing as he crawls to you.

“lay back for dad,” he rubs a hand over your arm as you lean back letting your head hit your pillows looking up at him. he reaches around you grabbing the stuffed bear he got you that you had named daddy after him. “in case it’s too much you can hold me.”

“thanks, dad,” you reach for the bear letting it curl into your arm like you do every night.

“now let dad see,” he uses his large hands to spread your legs. you’ve become familiar with this position spread open for your dad to peek and inspect your cunny.

“mmm, such a pretty cunny.” he grins using his right hand he slides his fingers through the folds making you jump on the mattress.

“been so sticky lately, dad,” you mumble, your cunny had been extra slick lately making your panties stain when you slept. you’d had dreams so often of making your dad cum and you’d wake up sticky.

“i know baby, just part of growing up. can’t believe my big girl is already getting her cunny stretched,” he coos, he pushes your legs farther back stretching your thigh as you try to spread wider for him. johnny had noticed the sticky strings between your lips when you peed for him and he was obsessed claiming he had to clean you to get all the sticky up.

when he tucked you in he would do a nightly cunny inspection taking your sticky panties off seeing the thick layer on the center of them. he’d spread your legs after your mom was in bed using his fingers to open your lips and make sure you were all clean before bed. using his tongue to swipe through your folds before putting your sticky panties back on. he’d pat your cunny, making sure you felt the dampness before kissing your cheek and letting you sleep.

“mmm your little hole is so tiny, baby, such a tight cunny,” he comments. you can’t tell if it’s good or bad but he’s smiling so you think it must be good. his fingers are sliding over you getting coated in your wetness. “gotta make sure you’re all sticky so it feels really good.”

“feels good now, dad,” you whine trying to buck your hips against his fingers but his hand is keeping you pushed into the bed. his muscles flex everytime you move and he looks so handsome and strong.

“you know baby once dad stretches your cunny he will have to every night during inspections okay,” he looks at you and you nod excitement bubbling in you. you love the way your dad sneaks into your room and spreads your cunny to check you before bed. the thought of it being longer makes you giddy.

“i like my cunny inspections dad,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around your teddy.

“yeah, me too baby, dad’s gonna push in now okay? hold my hand,” you nod, lacing your fingers into his. you feel pressure, a soft prodding in a place you didn’t know existed. there isn’t much resistance for johnny, his finger easing into your begging hole.

“oh, dad,” you whine, closing your eyes as his finger pushes into you. hot sticky wetness surrounding his digit as he pushes all the way in.

“feel okay?” he stares at your young cunny palm flush against you as you take his single finger.

“yeah, feels so weird but i like it,” you moan, when he curls his finger in you, grinning at your dramatic reaction.

“yeah, feels good doesn’t it? so many sensitive spots in your cunny,” he coos, he eases his finger in and out of you with ease. he loves the warmth of your tight hole wrapping around him and he can’t help but let his mind wander to what his cock is gonna feel when he shoves it into you one day.

“oh, dad, that,” you moan, arching off the bed as he hits your sweet spot. he can’t help but grin, your reaction so cute and innocent as you grip your dad bear.

“yeah, right here is extra sensitive,” he leans in, watching his finger disappear into you. dribbles of slick spilling down onto your perfect sheets as he pushes in and out. your hand squeezes his every time he hits your sweet spot.

“doing so good, baby, taking dad’s big fingers so well,” he pushes your thigh farther back, mashing your hand against your own skin as he gets lower. he leans in, using his tongue to slide over your swollen clit.

“dadddd,” you whine, squirming in his hands but he just grins into your center. his wrist speeding up slightly as he tastes your messy cunny. the pleasure is overwhelming, sending you deeper into a space between real life and heaven.

“oh feels so good. really good.” you moan out gripping his hand tighter. he suckles your clit slowly as he pumps into you he can feel your fluttering walls as you get closer, but he needs to add more he needs to stretch you open.

“gonna add a finger,” he mumbles into your cunt making you vibrate. your legs shake tummy tightening as you nod your head. he feels giddy your reactions egging him on as he slides his middle finger to your entrance.

“good girl,” he pushes the tip of his finger into you slowly. looking to you for approval, but you’re lost in the feeling of being stretched open for the first time. head back mouth open gasping at the feeling and he thinks like that’s confirmation enough.

“taking dad’s fingers so well,” he praises curling his fingers letting the tips brush into you making your call out to him.

“good, dad, feels so,” you whine, gripping your bear and his hand tighter. he leans in again, flicking over your clit slowly letting you savor his fingers. he pushes them in and out slick, pouring down your hole to your sheets.

your walls flutter with each flick of his tongue and wrist, clenching around his fingers as he fills you up over and over. tiny cunt trying to suck him deeper and deeper, and he knows you’re close you don’t take too long especially with his mouth. the frantic bucking of your little hips and heavy panting tipping him off.

“is coming, dad, coming out,” you whine, spit spilling over your lips as you reach your peak, each one better and better. he flicks his tongue faster, letting his fingers feel each squeeze of your cunt as you cum around them.

“good girl, that’s it,” he coos, curling his fingers over and over in you.

“get all that girl cum out.” he fucks his fingers into you pumping all your stickiness along with his digits. you whine and your eyes start to fill with tears obsessed with the feeling as it washes over you.

“dad, dad,” you call, tugging his hand. he slows knowing he’s being too rough, sending you into overstimulation but he knows your sensitive little cunny isn’t ready for that. he slows before pulling his fingers out strings of slick attached them to your cunny.

“look how pretty baby, got so much of that girl cum out of you,” he grins, holding his fingers up. you whimper watching him suck them into his mouth swirling and tasting your orgasm.

“did so fucking good for dad,” he says, making you hot his use of a bad word twisting your tummy.

“felt so good dad, i like it so much,” you whimper, he lets go of your thigh resting it on the bed. his fingers stay in yours as you peek down and see his heavy cock hard between his legs and your mouth waters.

“you had so much cum even after this morning,” he coos, he climbs up the bed laying beside you letting his sticky fingers pet your teddy.

“dad is your cock tingly?” you stare into his eyes innocently.

“so tingly baby, seeing you all pretty,” he grins, his cock is heavy laying on your hip.

“can i get your boy cum out?” your lewd words make him dizzy.

“you don’t have to, i know you’re tired, little one,” he says softly.

“wanna, i can just use my fingers like dad,” you beg you really wanna touch your dad you love making him feel good.

“if you’re sure,” he rubs a big hand over your face. you nod letting go of his hand to slide it over your tummy to the head of his cock.

“wanna do it for you, dad,” you mewled, slowly tugging his cock in your hands. he was so thick.

“mmm, baby, you’re so sweet,” he coos, beginning to thrust his hips into your fist.

“lemme,” you pull away and he watches your small hand reach between your legs, scooping your slick from your cunt with a sigh. the casualness of your act makes him twitch. the sight of your sticky fingers causes you to giggle when you see them.

“you need to be sticky too,” you giggle, watching your fingers glisten as you move, spreading them and seeing the sticky strings. “here, dad.” you wrap your hand around him using your sticky cum to rub your dad’s cock. he can’t help but groan pushing his head into your neck.

“my smart girl,” he purrs, his breath tickles you making you squirm. you keep your hand sliding up and down his thick shaft trying to wrap around him fully.

“so big, dad,” you comment, watching your hand slide over him.

“yeah, gonna have to stretch your cunny so much before i put any babies in you,” he grins. you bite your lip focusing on his cock letting your thumb slide over the pretty, dark tip.

“gonna be so full,” you babble, entranced by the slick bubbling out of his tip.

“so full, but you’re my good girl, you’ll take dad’s cock so good,” he moaned, bucking his hips into your hand. he reaches around you using his arms to cage you in so he could angle his cock into your fist.

“yeah, baby, just like that, doing so fucking good for dad,” he groans, staring at your small hand as he fucks into your fingers. you hold your teddy in your other hand like it isn’t making johnny crazy. his pretty soft baby was all deluded with pleasuring her dad.

“wanna taste,” you whimper, looking up at him with pleading eyes, his hair falling in his face. he grins down at you and if you were so enthralled with him he’d look like a predator claiming his prey.

“i can arrange that,” he says softly lifting off his one hand he brushes his hair from his face. he leans back pushing himself against the headboard, his cock slapping his stomach before he spreads his legs for you.

“wanna lay on my tummy,” you say crawling over to him, bear still in your hand. you settle between his legs leaning your arm over his leg.

“you’re so tiny, baby,” he says and you wiggle your butt in protest. “mmm, cute.” he pets your face and you lean into his touch soft and safe. reaching up you take his cock in your hand.

“wanna taste your dad cum, please,” you whine, leaning in you let your mouth wrap around his tip. you had been practicing for a bit now taking more and more of his cock each time craving the praise and the taste.

“mmm, you suck dad’s cock so good,” he hisses, holding your cheeks as they fill and empty with his cock. you bob your head taking more and more but making sure to breathe like dad had taught you.

“yeah, taking so much now, getting so brave,” he comments. you love how he talks to you, filling your head with gushy things and your tummy with heat. he always knows how to make the words touch you deep inside.

“fuckkk,” he bites his lip watching your eyes start to drip as you swallow around him taking in all you can your cheeks hollow as you suck. “look at your pretty face.”

you feel your cunny tingle more it never seems to go away for long lately. anytime you see your dad it makes you shiver and crave him. he was just so perfect and he told you lots of daughters got cunny tingles because of their dad.

his pretty moans filling your room as you soak his cock in spit, letting it dribble out of your mouth and down the rest of his shaft using your hands to slip it up and down. he tasted so good filling your mouth like a summer popsicle.

“so close baby, gonna cum for my girl,” he groans, gripping your pillow to keep from fucking into your mouth. you feel an urgent need, bobbing your head faster, swirling your tongue more to make him cum.

“open baby,” he grunts and you pull off strings of spit as you stroke his cock. you open wide letting your tongue lay against the tip as he shoots boy cum in your mouth. you let it fill your mouth your favorite taste on your tongue.

“mmm, so good baby, made dad feel so good,” he moans, watching the pretty white pool on your tongue. he taps your chin and you swallow. he’d trained you so well. you gulp him down greedily savoring the taste before sticking your bare tongue out his thumb hitting your chin.

“atta girl, got all dad’s boy cum,” he praises, making your tummy turn.

“tastes so good, dad, i like it so much,” you admit leaning your head on his big thigh.

“cause you’re my girl,” he coos his hand sliding over your cheek wiping tears from under your eyes. you nod you are his girl.

you feel silly when you wake up in the night with a bad dream startling you awake. someone taking your dad away and never letting him come back. you felt so sad and scared but you were grown up you couldn’t go crying to your mom she would tease you.

you patter down the hall teddy bear in hand pushing your parents bedroom door opened. your mom snoring her face mask over her eyes beside your dad who is sitting up reading glasses on looking at a book. his head tilts to you, concern on his face as he puts his book aside opening his arms to you.

you shuffle over leaning into his touch, his warmth wrapping around you reminding you it was just a dream.

“you okay?” he whispers into your neck. you shake your head. he pulls back eyes searching your face seeing your tears.

“what’s wrong, baby,” he shuffles up his legs sliding off the side of the bed to wrap you closer.

“bad dream,” you sniffle trying to keep quiet.

“aww darling,” you soothes his hands over your making you calm down.

“can you come lay with me,” you ask, not sure of his answer. your mom would say you were too old for that and call you silly.

“of course,” he says, standing up as he puts his glasses on the bedside table, clicking the lamp off before turning to you.

“let’s get you to bed,” he says calmly, his hand on your back leading you down the hall back to your room. he helps you get tucked in making sure you have all the things you need before he slides under the sheets, hot body pressing to you.

“wanna talk about it?” he asks, petting softly at your messy hair.

“just,” you pause, trying not to blubber. “mean people took you away from me and i was all alone.”

“oh baby no,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you pulling you to him. “no one will ever take dad from you.”

“felt so real,” you whimper, trying to keep your eyes from filling with tears.

“i know baby, i know.” he coddles, keeping you close to his bare chest reassuring you. “it’s okay, dad’s always gonna be with you.”

“i love you so much dad,” you say and he leans down kissing your head. “will you kiss me on my mouth to make me feel better?”

“would that help my girl?” he brushes hair from your face as you nod, hoping he will kiss you like he does your mom with tongue and all.

“please,” you plead, still whispering. he smiles at you, his hand cupping your cheek like he does to your mom pulling you to him. his soft lips push against yours, melting you with relief. you put your hand on his shoulder trying to keep him close, but he pulls away.

“dad,” you pout big lips begging for more.

“was that not enough,” he teases you as the moon shines on his cheek bones making him sparkle.

“no, want your tongue. please, want to try it,” you beg trying to squeeze close to him.

“you know you must be a grown up now this is how grownups kiss,” he coos at you.

“i am a grownup silly, i want to kiss dad like grownups,” you try to get him closer but you just settle for a small hand on his cheek like he does to you.

“mmm, okay, dad will kiss you like a grownup but you can’t ew like you do when i kiss your mom,” he grins and you nod eagerly closing your eyes and puffing your lips.

he leans in again. he lips are so soft and warm he tilts your face somehow closer to you, opening his mouth to slide his tongue over your lips. you follow your instincts parting your lips letting his tongue in your mouth. he tastes like cinnamon and you think about the tea he drinks every night. the taste fills your body from tongue to your toes. he’s all over you.

he pulls you closer sliding his leg between yours as his tongue glides against your. it felt like you understood everything, why grownups kiss like this, it all made sense. it felt so special and you felt so close to your dad. you swirl your tongue with his like it was a game his lips pushing against yours. he pulls away but you nibble his lip to bring him back and he groans bringing his mouth back to yours.

you flick your tongue into his mouth craving more cinnamon letting him suck your tongue like he does your clitty. he pulls away catching his breath as he looks at you, chest moving fast.

“not so icky huh?” he grins, you pull him to you, sticking your tongue out to swipe over his mouth and he obliges, opening his lips letting you explore. gripping his shoulder you buck into him rubbing your cunny over his knee as you flip your tongue in his wet mouth.

he sucks your tongue, pulling it into his mouth, sticky sounds filling your room as your rut against him. he uses his hand to slide down your body settling on the curve over your waist, helping you move back and forth against him. you whimper into his mouth, head overloaded with his taste and tongue and the tingles filling your body.

“slow down baby,” he pulls away watching you jerking fast against him.

“feel so good,” you whine, rubbing yourself against him.

“i know but mom’s down the hall, don’t wanna wake her.”

“can you touch me i’ll be so quiet,” you plead, big eyes looking up at him and he can’t say no.

“c’mere,” he says, turning you on your back letting his arm wrap around you. he uses his knee to part your legs before putting his hand over your panty covered cunny.

“gotta be quiet so dad’s gonna keep his hand over your mouth okay?” you nod reaching for his wrist to hold as his palm covers your swollen lips.

“good girl, so sticky from kissing dad,” he coos, his hand hiding the entire bottom half of your face. he slides his fingers over your cunny rubbing your through your panties. soft circles as he feels your swollen clit through the thigh fabric.

“clitty’s all hard baby,” he whispers, using a finger he flicks it over the bud making you arch your back. his hands grip you tightly, keeping you in place as he continues. his fingers circle your swollen nub, your tummy tight and fuzzy.

“being so good for dad,” he presses his lips to your forehead, a thin layer of sweat on your skin. your tummy bubbles with pleasure, his words hitting you right where his fingers touch. your legs start to shake trying to close around his hand.

“keep them open,” he directs and you force them open, letting his leg lock you in place. “good girl.” every word he says hangs in the air heavy and hot and pouring over you drawing you closer. he knows, knows your close reads your body like his favorite book.

“cum for dad, you can do it baby,” he mumbles into your skin, eyes focused on his fingers swirling over your panties. you whimper spit soaking his palm as you jerk in his hold hips rutting into his hand the final heat pouring down your body as you cum toes curling and legs twitching.

“that’s my girl, get all that cum out for dad,” he coos, slowing his fingers but keeping steady pressure as your head lolls in his hold. your panties are soaked and damp against you his digits rub the fabric.

you whine the touch almost too much and he stops keeping his hand resting on your still twitching cunny. he releases your mouth letting you catch your breath and spit coats his hand.

“so quiet for me, such a good girl,” he kisses your forehead and then your cheek. you turn your head letting his lips hit yours again, pushing your spit covered mouth to his chasing his taste again. you pull away licking his cinnamon flavor from your lips.

“thanks for making me feel better, daddy,” you push your head into his neck curling into him.

“getting sleepy, baby?” you nod into his chest spent and satisfied and feeling safe.

“love you, daddy,” you babble, closing your eyes. he can’t help but stare at you, so soft and gentle in his arms like he didn’t just make you cum with your mom down the hall. so sweet and naive.

“love you, little baby,” he soothes his hand over you, tucking you into him. he pulls your covers up and gets you settled, letting you rest in his arms.

he stays up thinking about how far he’s come in his plan. not even the end of summer and he’s so far ahead of schedule. he might even get to take your virginity before christmas if you kept this up.

the summer was coming to an end and johnny had been trying to convince your mom to go on a family vacation. she was very against it, claiming you wouldn’t do well out of the house or out of town. you pouted and whined to johnny saying you would do really well and be very good.

he knew you would and the thought of you in a swimsuit made him throb. thinking of touching your cunny under the water while your mom grumbled about being away from home. sliding the tight material aside so he could push his fingers into your little hole.

“i just think it would be nice, she’s trapped in here all day everyday and it would be good to get away. relax on the beach,” he tells your mom you listen to them from your room. your door is open and so is there’s, as you pretend to sleep.

“she doesn’t need to go out, she's safer at home, and what is so relaxing about sand in every crevice,” your mom groans. she was such a fun sucker.

“but think how nice it will be, sleeping in, the pool, maybe even massages,” you can hear your dad’s voice slowing, trying to convince her. you can’t see him walking to your mom holding her hips squeezing her butt.

“you’re too charming for your own good,” she teases. your mom is right about that. your dad was so charming and sweet.

“i just think it would be so much fun. i’ll watch her so you can go do whatever you want,” he grins at his wife convincing her that he’s in love with her as he rubs the bulge he’s got for her daughter against her.

“that sounds tempting, but i don’t think it would be good for her. i don’t want her thinking she can just leave whenever she pleases.”

“i know, you’re so protective and that’s so sexy, but we can keep her inside the whole time. i’ll watch her while mommy gets some sun and rest,” he coaxes her. he knows he can break her, it's not too hard. she’s desperate and easy and she secretly likes her hot young husband shirtless.

“fine, but only 3 days,” she grumbles, you grin with excitement filling your belly. you wonder what sand feels like on your feet.

“yesss,” he cheers, “mmm you’re such a good wife, i’ll book it for us.” he rubs his hands over her hips before spanking her playfully.

“yeah i don’t want to bother with that.”

“i’ll take care of everything. does she have a swimsuit or beach clothes?”

“i want her fully covered out there. no one needs to see her skimpy body,” you pout again. you wanted a pretty bikini like you saw on tv, maybe you could convince your dad.

“i’ll see if we can find a suit for her,” he pauses and you hear lips smacking. you feel anger wash over your heating your belly with jealousy. you should be kissing him instead. “what about mommy.”

“i have a few,” she says, laughing. “shut the door.”

“she’s asleep, just come here,” he drags her to the bed despite her protests.

“just be quiet,” she mumbles, pushing a pillow over her face like she always does. johnny does the work not bothering to stretch her just pushing his half hard cock into her slit after dousing himself in lube. you could hear the squelching, your dad’s familiar grunting and you felt jealous.

he was probably touching her cunny and she was touching his dad cock like you did. so unfair. you want his fingers and his mouth on your cunny the thought made you tingle.

“ffff,” he groaned, you giggled thinking of him saying fuck with you but not her. he tried his best to enjoy it but she just wasn’t his teen daughter. he didn’t care about getting her off in a sweet way so he just mashes his fingers against your clit hoping she’d cum fast so he could jerk off after. he didn’t want to waist any cum on your mom.

her old cunt bored him. he craved your young tight cunny small and slick from just a word. he imagined you below him spread out, hips stretching to accommodate his large thighs. watching your cunny suck him in a bulge growing in your tummy from his size.

he felt your mom tighten her orgasm approaching so he sped his fingers, letting her cum flatly on his cock. no pretty soft sounds, no arching into his touch, no soft skin, no cunny flutters. he pulled out when she pushed his hand away he jerked his cock groaning pretending to fill the condom while she kept her face covered.

he groaned fakely before acting like he had to catch his breath as he tugged the condom off. he’d save his boy cum for his girl in the morning. he tied the empty condom before going to the bathroom, tossing it in the trash letting his wife roll over lazily. she could clean herself up he frankly didn’t care. he knew she’d be snoring when he went back in there.

he hated her. despised her even. evil woman keeping his princess locked in a suburban castle. he wanted to steal you away. keep you safe with your dad away from her grubby hold.

pt 2 ⇢ practice makes perfect

pt 3 ⇢ nobody baby but you and me

©️tddyhyck

[seungsoftly]

hey hey! can you please write an ot7 scenario where you're having an argument with the members and they say "do you every shut up?" i love your writing and it'll be wonderful to see how you make this. thank you <3

hey there! thank you so much for the request and the compliment! i really had fun writing from this standpoint (and made myself a little sad but oh well) and i hope you like it! apologies about the various lengths as well, some just got away from me.

꒰੭ genre: request/angst/fluff ꒰੭ wc: 5.14k ꒰੭ contains arguing, mentions of drinking, intoxication, toxic friendships, light slapping (oneself), mentions of weight and weight loss

➞ lee heeseung

it had been a long week for both you and heeseung. he’d been away working long hours, barely managing to even drag himself to bed at his own apartment, let alone getting a chance to do anything else.

you had a lighter workload, but it was still pretty hard for you not to be able to see your boyfriend for so long. the longest you two usually spent apart was maybe a day or two, but heeseung had just been swamped in projects that he absolutely had to get done this week at work.

but finally, the week passed, albeit the fact that it was slow as all can be. the last of what heeseung remembered on that friday night was that he’d made plans with you to come over and hang out the next evening, and then his head hit the pillow and he was out cold.

he’d gone to bed as soon as he’d gotten home, and proceeded to sleep later too. or at least later for him, because his weekend alarm was still set for 9:30 the next morning.

heeseung made himself a nice breakfast of ramyeon as bribery to his mind and body for putting up with the week that he’d just gone through, and in an hour, he was on his pc just like he’d hoped to be for the majority of the afternoon.

see, another drawback of such a hefty work schedule was that heeseung couldn’t get on his computer and play video games as much as he wanted to. he lived for the action, the clicking of his keyboard and mouse as he maneuvered his character around, and it was pretty much his biggest hobby.

if he wasn’t making some sort of ramyeon or wasn’t in bed, heeseung was playing video games. you’d always said that he needed to lighten up on his screen time, but he’d just chuckled and promised to you that the games wouldn’t come before you.

you’d been impressed that he’d kept his promise so far, not even touching the set up once any time you’d been over, but perhaps you’d thought about it too soon.

the two of you had made plans to eat dinner and watch a movie at heeseung’s apartment that evening, but you’d especially missed your boyfriend, so you figured that going over a little bit early couldn’t hurt, right?

unfortunately, you turned out to be very wrong.

the apartment was silent as you unlocked the door with your key and walked in, closing it behind you. except that silence didn’t last very long, heeseung’s shouts at his teammates while playing his game piercing through the closed door of his bedroom.

you made your way over there delicately, not before toeing your shoes off by the door though. the bedroom door creaked open slowly as you turned the knob, you finding heeseung with his headphones on and locked into the screen in a way that you’d never seen before.

gingerly, you walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. he flinched at first, not expecting it but offering you a short smile.

“hey baby, i’ll be off in a bit. just make yourself comfy on my bed for now.”

you did so, laying down among the soft pillows and blankets that laid there, smelling like him. except, you laid there for a while. like a long while.

heeseung still had one headphone off his ear from earlier, so you got the courage to muster up a request for him to finally get off the games and come spend time with you.

“hee? is now a good stopping point for you so that we can figure out dinner and our movie?”

“uhm just a minute or two and then we can, okay babe?”

you thought he actually meant it that time, until it had been several minutes and he showed no sign of logging off. so you asked again.

“oh my god do you ever shut up? i told you in a minute baby!” he responded back, sounding more frustrated with you than he had ever been.

“okay,” you mumbled quietly, looking down at where you were twiddling your fingers. tears were beginning to well up from your boyfriend’s outburst at you, and you felt lonely. all of this time you’d spent apart, and when you were finally together he didn’t want to spend any of his time with you.

and with the just greatest  timing ever, heeseung finally logged off his game and turned in his chair to look at you, heart sinking when he saw the tears beading up along your lash line.

oh he’d really screwed up and was just realizing it now. he had to figure out how to fix this and fast. fast meaning quickly but gently.

so he quietly slid into bed alongside you, hand rubbing up and down your arm as he murmured a long apology in your ear, taking responsibility for the feelings that he’d hurt and telling you that he’d made a mistake.

“baby, just please know that i don’t mean that about you. i love you for your caring self and i love spending time with you. and that’s the reason i don’t game around you. i feel like i become someone else while doing that, and that other person isn’t something i want to be around you. i’m so sorry for what i said, and you can hate me if you want to, but just please say something.”

“you really did hurt me with that hee. but i’m going to forgive you because you did the right thing in the end by apologizing,” you murmured to him. “but i better not see you touch that thing ever again in my presence.”

➞ park jongseong

some people would call jay a very overbearing boyfriend, and sometimes you did too, but in the end, you know he means well with all of the things that he does that other people call strange.

yes, your boyfriend has your location. yes, he checks it. but only on nights that you go out with your friends, when it gets late and he just wants to check in.

when you’d asked him before, he said that his two worst fears are something bad happening to you when he could have been there to help or save you and being called a controlling, horrible excuse of a boyfriend.

he wasn’t mad when he was called possessive though, because you were his girl. jay had every right to defend that fact from other men that had ideas that he didn’t like that involved getting close to you.

you honestly loved it when jay got possessive over you though. he’d pull you close, calling you all kinds of pet names that just made butterflies erupt in your stomach like you’d always get when you two first started dating.

jay was just the perfect gentleman, and you were so grateful that he’d chosen to ask you out of all people. you always felt so appreciated and loved when he was around you. but like all good things, they were never entirely good forever.

had you not gone out with your friends, this fight likely would have never ended up happening. but apparently fate wanted your little paradise to be interrupted.

your boyfriend had elected to stay home, watching tv boredly as he waited up for you to get home or call him if you needed him to come pick you up. you never asked him to do it, but jay always felt inclined to make sure that you were in bed, safe, after a night of drinking. he knew what some of your friends got up to if they got enough encouragement.

he hadn’t been too worried about you shortly after you left, promising that you’d only have one or two drinks and then your friend that wasn’t drinking would drive you home. he still pressed enough cash for a cab ride home into your hand and made sure you tucked it into your purse before you passed through the door. just in case, he always said.

but now several hours had passed by and there was no text telling him you’d be staying longer, so he was getting increasingly worried. there was a little voice in the back of his head that was telling him that he was being a little too possessive and overbearing when he checked your location and had a small freak out when he found that you’d turned it off, but the level of anxiety he felt about your safety seemed to smother it completely.

so he sent you a text, leaving a voicemail half an hour later when you still hadn’t returned. but he was still going to wait on you, not go out and scold you for staying out longer and drag you back home. you were an adult who could make your own decisions and he respected those boundaries.

finally, jay’s head snapped to the door as he heard a key turning in the lock, the noise telling him that you’d finally made it home safe. he felt hugely relieved.

“hey babe,” you mumbled, clearly having had several drinks over the hours that you’d been gone, but you oddly weren’t all over him like you usually were after consuming alcohol.

“hey baby,” he smiled warmly at you, pulling you in for a hug that you pulled away from oddly soon. strange, but jay wasn’t going to question you like a criminal just for some different behavior. “how was tonight with the girls?”

and that statement seemed to finally let everything that you were keeping in waterfall out.

“oh we had fun! and then my one friend started talking about how her boyfriend asked for her location to make sure she was okay and she thought that was so stupid and unnecessary and then i said that you did that exact same thing funnily…”

“she does know that it’s probably just for her own good, right?” jay interjected softly, irritated by the fact that your friends were planting outrageous things about him in your mind.

“well…” you then proceeded to go into a several minute long recollection of what your friend had to say about what you’d mentioned that jay did and how she’d “psychologically analyzed” your relationship and said that he was keeping you back from doing anything and that he was soooo toxic.

honestly, that just made him mad. he tried his hardest to be a gentleman, which included making sure his girl was safe but still letting you be you, and letting you make your own adult decisions because you were an adult just like him.

“baby would you just shut up about that? it’s so outrageously untrue.”

the fact that you’d been drinking didn’t help. you got emotional quickly and with his harsh tone, you’d burst into light tears at jay’s words.

“no, no baby don’t cry. i know she was just trying to protect you too, but i don’t think she understands. i only asked for your location for these times to make sure you get home safe and that you’re not ditched somewhere on the streets getting robbed or something horrible. i swear on everything i don’t look at it anytime else, and i’d never keep you from doing something that you wanted to do. i’d only advise against it if it was something that could hurt you.”

his words seemed to brighten you up a bit, the tears drying up and you now leaning into his arms fully.

“i get that you mean well jay. i really shouldn’t have listened to her about all of that. she’s not really a huge man person.”

➞ sim jaeyun

jake was running on about four hours of sleep and he still had three exams to study for. and that still didn’t include the studying/tutoring that he was going to have to help you with for your exams as well.

you were an amazing girlfriend, always remembering your dates and just overall being there for jake, but you couldn’t do anything science related to save your life. and of course, you had to take several science classes for your major, so jake was doing his best to help you through them bit by bit. it was only what a good boyfriend would do.

both of you were desperately trying to absorb as much information on physics as you possibly could, you moreso. the library had never seemed so full before, other students getting the same idea that you two had.

thankfully, jake and his wise physics brain had thought ahead and reserved the two of you a private study room. a few of your friends had popped in earlier to study for a bit along with you, but they’d left hours ago. they were lucky. all they had to study for was an open ended communications exam.

now, it was getting close to two in the morning, and you two still hadn’t let up on the constant practice questions and flashcard definitions of terms. it felt as if your brain was just trudging through sludge trying to remember even what a proton was at this point.

jake, on the other hand, seemed to be doing pretty okay, at least for someone who was sleep deprived and frantically studying and teaching you things at the same time. yes, you hadn’t fallen for him for only his brain, but it was certainly a perk in this situation.

“aughhh!” you groaned, fed up with studying, but knowing you needed to continue. “this is so stupid, i hate this!”

jake just sat there and ignored your moans and whines of frustration, instead running his hands through his hair and down his face in his own battle with the subject at hand.

he was just so exhausted and done with this, but he really needed to study even more for this exam. he had to do good on it. and your complaints weren’t helping his mental status.

“it’s just not fair!” you continued, oblivious to your boyfriend’s struggle. “you can just suck it up all like a sponge and are soo smart and…”

“do you ever shut up?” jake gritted out, the words that you’d been saying just adding to his pounding headache.

that sure did finally shut you up. but it also made you realize something. you were just whining and taking jake for granted while he worked away, trying to both be successful and be a good boyfriend by helping you.

“i probably should have a lot earlier,” you quietly chuckled, trying desperately to lighten the situation. “hey, you’re going to do fine. and so am i from your amazing tutoring. now how about we go get some good rest before test time.”

so jake reluctantly allowed you to pack up all of your things, grabbing all of your bags and guiding him by the hand back to his dorm.

mr. genius needed some rest.

➞ park sunghoon

it had become a routine for you by now. grab your favorite coffee from that cafe by your dorm, try and stay awake through that agonizingly long seminar on thursdays, and then go watch the end of sunghoon’s practice and cheer him on before you two went and grabbed a late lunch.

sure, that class was horrid and you had to physically make an effort not to fall asleep every week, but otherwise, thursday was your favorite day of the week.

and the part of your thursday schedule that really set the day apart from the six others in a week was indeed going and watching your boyfriend in his element during practice.

every time you saw him just glide around the ice, elegant and smooth as ever, it seemed as if time slowed down and it was just you watching him.

and so, here you were, rushing towards the rink building and cursing the fact that that long class had run later than usual, hoping that you hadn’t missed the last of your boyfriend’s practice.

it already hadn’t helped that you’d only been able to drink half of your coffee before accidentally spilling it all over the floor right when you got to the lecture hall. you’d been so embarrassed when you had to run off to the restroom and grab a whole handful of paper towels so you could rush back and mumble a bunch of sorrys as you crouched over your mess and mopped it up.

your face had been burning red the whole time. god even thinking about it again was making you uncomfortable. watching sunghoon would help get your mind off it for sure though, you reassured yourself.

thankfully his practice hadn’t quite yet ended, you realized as you saw him gliding around on the ice, practicing his jumps.

but as you got closer, something seemed off. each time he attempted a jump, lutz, axel, toe loop, it didn’t matter, he seemed to be falling or barely managing to make a shaky landing.

maybe he just needed some more encouragement. sunghoon was the type to not really ask for anything and just show what he was thinking through his actions, so he might have just been a little discouraged. hey, you were having an off day too, so you really did sympathize with your boyfriend.

it wasn’t as if you hadn’t shouted words of encouragement before, so you began doing so, offering a little shout between every few jumps.

sunghoon had turned his head at the first few, but he’d barely made any eye contact with you. that seemed fairly normal considering how he got when he was locked into whatever he was doing on the ice.

“it’s okay hoon!” you called out after yet another fall, “you’ve got this!”

this time he was almost right next to where you were standing at the glass barrier that surrounded the rink. sunghoon really didn’t know what it was, but he was sort of getting tired of your peppy sounding cheers when he just was so frustrated with the fact that he couldn’t do anything right.

“god y/n, do you ever shut up?” he grumbled, loud enough where you could hear him.

those words silenced your cheers of encouragement, the sounds of skates cutting against ice the only thing that could be heard in the echo of the large arena.

sunghoon wrapped up practice a few minutes later, packing up his skates and walking over to you with his bags. you didn’t meet his eyes as you stood up next to him, walking without the usual hand holding to your favorite lunch spot on campus.

you two took a seat silently, stiffly telling your drink orders to the waiter. once he left, you saw a napkin get pushed towards you with something written on it.

i’m sorry. i just couldn’t handle something so happy when i was struggling. i know you meant well and i took it too far. please forgive me?

you truly wanted to be mad at him, but you just couldn’t. everyone had days like that, and you should have known better that your cheers interrupting sunghoon’s bad practice wouldn’t help him in the way that you thought. you gestured for the pen so that you could write a message back, your boyfriend sliding it across the table to you.

i will. i should’ve thought about how you are on those days at practice. i love you, and i know that you’re amazing at skating no matter what happens during practice.

➞ kim sunoo

“sunoo, what do you mean?” you gasped, offended that your boyfriend had just told you that you were applying foundation wrong.

you were mainly appalled by the fact that there somehow was a wrong way to put it on, and it had to be the way that you’d been doing it for years.

“y/n, you have to do it in little layers. you can’t just pump a bunch on a brush and just spread it around!” sunoo scolded you lightly.

“but it works just fine either way, so why do i have to change it?” you whined back, not wanting to put the extra work into modifying a routine that you were so used to.

your boyfriend pouted at you from the chair he was sitting in, clearly not happy that you were questioning him about his makeup and skincare knowledge.

“because i care about you and your skin and i don’t want to have to deal with all your complaining when you break out from doing that.”

you let out another groan, still not wanting to budge on your way of doing things.

“well my friend went to cosmetology school and she’s seen me do this before and hasn’t said anything bad about me doing it this way so…”

in typical sunoo fashion, he rolled his eyes at your rebuttal and murmured sassily, “don’t you ever shut up about that when you are trying to prove a point against my vast collection of skincare knowledge.”

normally you would have laughed a snarky comment like that off, used to sunoo replying to you like that, but for some reason this was hitting you a little harder than normal.

maybe it was the fact that he’d used less of a playful tone when saying it, or maybe it was that you were just a little more emotional than usual today, but no matter what it was, you were hurt by it.

you went silent for a couple of moments, and that was when sunoo realized where he’d gone a little too far with his trademark sass.

“god sunoo, you’re so stupid and insensitive. what an awful boyfriend,” he muttered to himself.

you looked up when he said that, shocked as you watched him lightly slap his own cheek as a reprimand.

quickly, you stood up and rushed over to where he was sitting. you pulled him into you in a hug, clutching his head to your neck in comfort.

“aww, sunoo don’t feel bad. i know you didn’t mean it that way. i forgive you, i promise. i’m not upset or angry at you.” you cooed to your boyfriend.

he looked up at you with those big, now-teary eyes, breaking your heart that he felt this way over just a sentence that had accidentally slipped out.

you offered him a sweet smile as he pulled away and sniffed once or twice.

“well actually, you’re forgiven as long as you don’t say anything about my foundation application methods anymore.”

➞ yang jungwon

you should have listened to him. jungwon told you that being friends with those girls would come with the price of your self-esteem, and he was exactly on the money about that.

see, you’d been approached by the group of girls on campus that were super popular, instagram and tiktok get ready with mes getting tens of thousands of views, and social media was their whole personality. they’d claimed that they saw you from afar and thought you seemed sweet and invited you to hang out with them.

that was the start of it. at first, they seemed nice, always complimenting your outfit and giving you little free things that they got from makeup and skincare companies.

then, it turned more toxic without you realizing how bad it truly was. even worse, they distanced you from jungwon, telling you that no man should be that clingy and you only needed to see him like twice a week. foolishly, you listened, until it was a little too late.

they started helping dress you, saying that you needed a whole new wardrobe to look even more pretty and offering to take you shopping. but it was always clothes that seemed barely there, offering the world a view of your body that you wanted to keep hidden. you didn’t know how to tell them that you weren’t comfortable though, so you just kept quiet, not wanting to make them mad at you.

but trying on those revealing clothes led to them constantly telling you that it’d look so much better if you just lost a touch of weight. and when you did, they said the exact same thing yet again.

you’d mentioned a small fraction of this to jungwon, who’d surprisingly stayed with you despite you distancing yourself from him. in fact that was the exact reason that he stayed. he cared deeply about you and your health and knew that these girls were nothing but bad news for you despite what you thought about them.

it was finally during one of these biweekly meetings that you finally shed some more light on things to him.

“god, it’s just so hard to do it. i hate working out but i need to lose more weight so i can look better in those clothes that they got for me and not disappoint them,” you whined.

jungwon was a little perplexed by that. “why not just buy clothes that actually fit you now baby?”

“but they said this is what’s trending and looks best and all, so that’s what i’m going to try and fit into.” you responded.

you were still standing in front of the mirror that hung on your door, jungwon sitting on your bed watching you concernedly.

“ugh,” you groaned, “i look like i’ve gained more water weight from yesterday though. where’s my sweatsuit?”

finally, jungwon seemed to have had enough with this nonsense that these girls had put in your head.

“sweetheart, do you ever shut up about yourself?”

“huh?” you spun around, tears already welling up in your eyes.

jungwon had never raised his voice like that to you, nor had ever said something like that.

“baby, just stop. you are perfect the way you are, and these girls are just putting things in your head that aren’t good for you at all. clothes should fit you, you shouldn’t have to fit clothes. please, just listen to me this one time. you can hate me if you want, but at least you’ll maybe realize how toxic this has gotten.”

what your boyfriend said honestly did bring some light to what those girls had been doing to your head. were you really staring at yourself in the mirror and complaining about losing more weight than you already had? god this had gone way too far than you’d ever meant for it to.

and worst of all, you’d let it separate you from your amazing boyfriend. he was thinking of the best for you, while all those girls wanted was for you to just become another one of them no matter what it cost you.

you enveloped jungwon into a hug, his arms wrapping around you in that familiar warm, comforting way.

“i’m sorry i didn’t listen to you earlier. i hope you can forgive me won.”

➞ nishimura riki

you two had come to the dance studio as the sun had begun to set, choosing to spend your time together there rather than sleeping. to the both of you, rest was less important than getting the opportunity to dance and make memories together. it was even the reason that the two of you were together now.

the first time you two met was at this exact place, ni-ki entering quietly, wanting to let some emotions out with the best outlet that he knew, but instead finding that someone else had his exact thoughts and just got to the space before he did.

he was mesmerized as he watched you move your body fluidly to the music, waiting until you finished to speak to you. time flew by, and now you were here. all because your boyfriend had the nerve to ask you out before he even heard you speak for the first time.

things were good for so long. your chemistry meshed perfectly while dancing. you two were seen as the dance couple. but as all relationships go, you two didn’t agree on everything forever.

sure, there had been little disagreements on how a move or two should be executed about one every two weeks or so among your many studio sessions, but nothing like tonight.

“no y/n, you have to do it like this,” ni-ki coldly said to you, tone raising as he became more frustrated at the fact that you just weren’t getting the move right.

you kept claiming that it was the way that it should be expressed, but your boyfriend was having none of it.

“niki this is how it should be performed! i know what i’m doing,” you shout to him, also getting fed up with arguing over this one little move.

“well clearly you don’t because you’re wrong!”

this disagreement had gone on for so long that the music that you two had been dancing to shut off. now you two were just left in the echoing dance studio with the sounds of your shouts.

you were getting really upset. “ni-ki, how else am i supposed to do it while also keeping the correct storyline of the dance?! you have to kick on three, not four to make it more expressed to show that you’re fighting fiercely and not just doing a random wimpy looking kick! and then the arms have to…”

“god, do you ever just shut up?” ni-ki burst out. “you’re just overcomplicating things now!”

that one remark definitely did shut you up. yes, there had been petty comments during your short disagreements, but never any like this. and it really hurt you to hear something like that come from your boyfriend’s mouth.

tears began welling up in your eyes. you hated crying in front of other people, even ni-ki, but this just felt like it merited it. you sniffed a little bit too, feeling like tears were about to begin falling when you were suddenly swept into a familiar warm embrace.

ni-ki had dropped that nonchalant act that he always tried to keep up. he’d recognized that what he said to you was horrible, and he was going to try and fix it now.

“baby, i’m so sorry. i got carried away with what i wanted the move to be and didn’t realize that it shouldn’t be so important that i have an argument with you about it.”

he’d continued to cradle you in his arms, offering you that soft smile that nobody else got to see and wiping away the tears that he’d caused to fall.

you nodded shakily, “i forgive you ni-ki. i know i shouldn’t have gotten that into it about it either, and we just need to figure out how to communicate between us and find a way to compromise on the moves that we don’t always agree on. let’s not fight over something like this.”

“exactly,” ni-ki mumbled softly. “now how about you explain the move and its storyline connection to me again and we can go from there.”

© seungsoftly 2025 please do not copy, repost, or translate

this is a work of fiction and is not intended to depict any accurate representation of any members of enhypen. please do not take this as real.

divider credits to @hyuneskkami

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - under the checkered flag (part six)

warnings ; oral (f recieving), handjob kinda, lowkey breeding kink at one point, unprotected sex (18+)

prompt ; in which a girl who doesn’t believe in risks takes the biggest one of all—falling for a man who lives for the thrill.

note ; wow!!!! part 6: the final part :( guys i am SO sad about this. this is my first series for a bts member and the community that you guys have formed in my comments, all your love and feedback, means the WORLD to me. thank you so much <3 with that being said, please enjoy this chapter, it was so fun to write.

playlist here

series masterlist here

There’s no official conversation about it, no moment where you decide, Yes, I’m going to spend every waking hour at Jungkook’s house, making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while he heals.

It just… happens.

And he lets it happen.

Because somewhere between making sure he eats, fluffing his pillows, sitting beside him on the couch as he watches races he’s too injured to compete in, somewhere between all of that, something shifts.

It’s in the small things. Things that should feel normal, should feel harmless, but don’t.

Like the way you absentmindedly fix his hair, your fingers running through the messy strands without a second thought.

It happens the first time when you’re both sitting on the couch, him scrolling through his phone, you flipping through a book. His hair is falling into his eyes, and without thinking, you reach over, brushing it back, smoothing it down with gentle fingers.

Your hand lingers for a second too long, fingertips brushing the warmth of his skin before you realize what you’re doing.

Your eyes widen, pulling back quickly. “Oh. Sorry.”

But Jungkook just stares at you, his lips twitching slightly, before he hums.

“Nah.” His voice is low, unreadable, and thens softer: “I liked it.”

Damn him. Because that’s when it starts, like a landslide that was long overdue.

Then, there’s the hand thing.

Apparently, Jungkook has developed a habit of grabbing your hand whenever you walk by him. The first time, you think it’s an accident. The second time, it’s not.

You’re walking past the couch, heading toward the kitchen, and suddenly, warm fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging lightly. You stumble slightly, glancing down at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

Jungkook just shrugs, gaze too casual, too innocent.

“Dunno.” His thumb brushes against the inside of your wrist, barely noticeable, but you notice. “Just wanted you closer for a second.”

You swallow hard, the warmth of his skin buzzing against yours, and then you can’t remember why you were going to the kitchen in the first place.

There’s also the way he watches you when you cook.

It starts with little things, like him sitting on the counter, swinging his legs like a child, stealing pieces of whatever you’re chopping.

Then it turns into something else entirely.

One night, you’re standing in his kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta, and you feel it. The weight of his gaze. You turn slightly, meeting his eyes across the kitchen island, and your heart is in your throat.

Jungkook isn’t just watching you. He’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon, like he’s never seen anything—anyone—more captivating.

You try to play it off, clearing your throat. “Why are you staring at me?”

Jungkook leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his palm, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Because you’re cute when you cook,” he says simply.

Your hands fumble on the spoon, nearly dropping it into the pot. You glare. “Shut up.”

Jungkook laughs in response, soft and warm.

Despite your best efforts, despite the walls you’ve built and the sharp edges you’ve wielded like armor, you feel it. The way your pulse stumbles every time Jungkook looks at you like that. The way your mind stops moving when he leans in too close, his voice curling around your spine like smoke. The way your hands clench into fists, desperate to feign control when all you want to do is give in. And really, there’s no denying anything after the moment that shatters your last defense.

You’re half-asleep, stumbling into the kitchen early in the morning, yawning and stretching as you open the fridge. You’re not thinking, noteven remotely aware, until you hear, “Baby.”

Your blood runs cold. You turn slowly, only to find Jungkook sitting at the kitchen table, completely still, eyes locked onto you like you just did something illegal. And that’s when you realize you are wearing his hoodie.

Not just any hoodie. His favorite hoodie.

Oversized, drowning you in fabric, sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing against the middle of your thighs. It was the first thing you found in the dark of his room yesterday as you were going to bed.

Your face erupts in flames. “I—”

Jungkook just leans back, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip, eyes dark and unreadable. “You look good in my clothes,” he murmurs.

You squeak, turn around, pretending to be extremely invested in the contents of the fridge, because you are not equipped to deal with this right now. Jungkook just laughs, shaking his head as he sips his coffee.

The movie is playing, yet neither of you are watching.

The volume is low, voices murmuring from the screen, but the real story—the real gravity of the moment—is here, on the couch. Jungkook is stretched out, his head resting in your lap, his body completely at ease beneath your touch. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and steady, like he could drift off at any second. Your fingers are in his hair, lightly threading through the dark strands, brushing against his scalp in soft, lazy motions. You’re not even thinking about it.

It’s automatic now—something so natural, so easy, that it barely registers.

"You like taking care of me, huh?" His voice is low, teasing, and you feel it vibrate against your thigh where he’s resting.

Your fingers freeze mid-motion. You scoff, shaking your head, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

"You wish," you mutter.

Jungkook grins, his eyes still closed, completely unfazed by your weak attempt at denial.

"You do," he hums, tilting his head slightly. "I can feel it in your hands."

Your fingers are still in his hair, but now they’re trembling slightly. His smirk grows, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he sighs, stretching slightly against the couch.

"You should be working," he muses. "Not playing house with me."

You huff, finally snapping out of it, rolling your eyes. "You’re making it sound like I’m skipping work entirely."

"You’re here a lot."

You pause.

He’s not wrong.

You’ve been here every day since the hospital. And the thing is, it hasn’t even felt like an inconvenience. It’s just where you want to be.

Still, you try to play it off.

"I’m still working," you insist. "I answer emails, take calls. Plus, Jisoo’s been covering a lot of my work. It’s fine."

Jungkook hums, like he’s not fully convinced. "You should quit and take care of me full-time."

You snort, flicking his forehead lightly. "Yeah, that’s exactly what I want. Becoming Jeon Jungkook’s personal assistant."

"You already do everything for me anyway," he murmurs, voice dropping slightly. "Might as well make it official."

You roll your eyes. "Shut up and watch the movie."

But Jungkook doesn’t watch the movie.

In fact, he opens his eyes and his gaze finds yours, deep, dark. His smirk fades, his expression softening just slightly, like something unspoken is hanging between you both.

The room feels smaller, the air heavier, and you realize you’re still touching him, still stroking his hair, still so close.

Jungkook notices it, too. His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip, and your eyes catch on the silver ring piercing through the skin.

Your stomach flips. Your heart pounds. And before you can stop yourself, you lean down and kiss him.

The moment your lips meet, Jungkook goes completely still. For a second, you think you’ve ruined everything. For a second, you panic, about to pull away, and then Jungkook reaches up, his fingers curling around the back of your neck, and pulls you deeper.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, filled with everything you’ve both been holding back since the hospital.

It’s soft at first, like you’re memorizing the way he feels, the way his lips move against yours. Jungkook sighs into your mouth, his fingers tightening slightly against your skin, and it’s hungrier, needy, dangerous in the way it completely ruins you.

His lip ring is cool against your mouth, the sensation sending shivers down your spine, and Jungkook must noticebecause he groans softly, pressing closer, deeper, like he can’t get enough.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime. All you know is neither of you want to let go.

When you finally pull away, breathless, wide-eyed, Jungkook’s gaze is locked onto yours, his lips still parted, swollen, pink, wrecked.

"Shit," he breathes, chest rising and falling too fast.

You don’t know what to do. Your pulse is a war drum, relentless and deafening, each beat crashing against your ribs like a tidal wave. The world around you blurs, drowned out by the rush of blood roaring in your ears like the aftershock of something unstoppable, something you can’t take back. and you don’t know if it’s from the kiss or from the realization that you just did that. You kissed him first.

Jungkook: your friend, your maybe-something-more.

He just stares at you, his lips still parted, still pink and wrecked from your mouth, like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly, his dark eyes tracing every inch of your face, and his voice comes out soft, teasing, but careful. “Did you just kiss me because you feel bad for me?"

You blink, stiffening, “Excuse me?"

Jungkook’s lips twitch, and you immediately recognize the mischief forming in his expression.

"I mean," he hums, stretching slightly, lazy and smug, "I am injured. It’s possible you’re just doing a good deed, you know? Kissing the wounded, lifting morale—"

Your face erupts in flames. “Jungkook," you hiss, shoving at his shoulder.

He laughs, tilting his head back against the couch, completely unbothered, and you want to die.

You bury your face in your hands. "Oh my God."

"Don’t be shy now," he grins. "You started it."

You groan. Technically, he’s right. You did start it. You kissed him. And even worse? You don’t regret it, not even a little bit.

Still, you struggle to recover, clearing your throat as you attempt to calm the wildfire spreading through your chest.

"When do you stop being annoying?” you mutter, shaking your head.

"Never."

You glare, but your face is still burning, and you know he can see it.

His grin softens, the teasing flickering into something warmer.”So, what is it then? Why’d you kiss me?"

Your stomach twists, a knot pulled too tight, unraveling something you can’t control. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that betrays you. And for once, you have no words, because the truth is, you don’t know when this happened. You don’t know how it happened.

All you know is that it did. Somewhere between the stolen glances and the sharp-edged banter, between the push and pull, the lines blurred. And now it feels like the ground beneath you is cracking, like the world you built so carefully is crumbling at his feet.

All you know is that Jungkook is in every part of your day now. That he’s the first person you think about when something funny happens at work. That you check your phone more times than you should, waiting for his name to pop up. That being around him feels easy, but missing him feels unbearable.

So when you finally speak, the words fall out of you before you can stop them. “I don’t know when I started needing you in my life this bad."

Jungkook stills completely, his expression flickering, his eyes searching yours.

Silence. Hanging between you like a thread stretched too thin. Your chest is rising and falling too fast, your heart pounding so loudly it’s all you can hear.

He’s just staring at you, like you just said something that knocked the breath out of him.

You panic. Because what the hell did you just say?

"Oh my God," you blurt, words tumbling out too fast, your brain unable to stop your mouth from running. "I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—not in a weird way. I just— I don’t know when it happened, okay? I wasn’t planning on it, it just—God, I don’t even know why I’m talking so much right now, I just—"

Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. He’s just watching you with that stupidly fond, breathtaking expression, like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I mean—shit." You run a hand through your hair, completely spiraling now. "I don’t know when it happened, okay? I don’t know when I— when I started wanting to be around you all the time, when I started waiting for your texts, when I started feeling weird about you hanging out with other girls. I don’t even know why I agreed to go on that stupid date because the whole time, I was thinking about you—"

Jungkook’s grin stretches wider. You don’t see it, too caught up in your spiral.

"And I know you’re bad for me," you continue, voice rising. "I know you’re reckless and impulsive and you drive too fast and hang out with models who have legs for days, and I don’t—I don’t do that. I don’t do guys like you. I’ve never done guys like you—"

Jungkook just hums, tilting his head. "Like me?"

You groan, exasperated, flustered, absolutely losing it. “Yes! Like you! Stupid race car drivers with tattoos and piercings and, and who flirt with me when I’m trying to eat cheese!"

Jungkook bursts out laughing.

You want the ground to swallow you entirely. Your entire body is on fire.

"Forget it," you say immediately, shaking your head, embarrassment consuming you whole. "I’m leaving—"

But before you can even attempt an escape, Jungkook moves, sits up, grabs your wrists, pulls your hands away from your burning face.

Then he grins, sowide, so sudden, it could split his face in half. “You want to leave?"

You groan, immediately hiding your face in your hands. "No."

Jungkook laughs, a low, delighted sound that hits you like a slow-moving car crash.

"Baby," he murmurs, soft, warm fingers cupping your face, tilting your chin up until you have no choice but to look at him.

It’s ridiculous, really. One stupid word, rolling off his tongue like it belongs there, turns your spine to jelly and your brain to static. Baby. Soft, easy, like he doesn’t even think twice about it, while you’re over here barely holding onto the last functioning brain cell you have left. Every time he says it, warmth floods your veins like a slow burn, creeping up your neck, curling into your chest, making your knees feel just a little too weak for comfort.

It’s infuriating. Unfair.

And if he doesn’t stop soon—if he doesn’t quit with that lazy smirk and the way he drawls it out like he knows exactly what he’s doing—you’re going to collapse right here, dignity be damned.

His eyes are burning into yours, intense, overwhelming, like he’s been waiting for this moment forever.

He kisses you. But this time it’s different. No hesitation from either of you, no fear, no holding back anything anymore.

It’s slow, deep, and sure, the kind of kiss that takes its time, the kind that says you have me, you’ve always had me, I’ve been waiting for you to realize it.

And when he finally pulls away, when his forehead rests against yours, when his thumb brushes over your cheek like he never wants to stop touching you, he smiles.

“I’m crazy about you." He murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhale sharply.

"Since the first day I met you in that stupid VIP box."

You pull back slightly, blinking. "What?"

Jungkook grins, his fingers still cradling your jaw, his thumbs brushing lightly against your skin. “I was pretty much a goner for you the moment you ignored me."

Your lips part, heart skipping a beat.

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head. "You were standing there in your little corporate suit, sipping wine and nibbling on cheese. And I—" He exhales, tilting his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. "I was hooked. Right there."

You just stare at him. He’s dead serious. He’s not teasing, not flirting just to get a reaction.

"You…" You swallow. "You were really into me back then? It wasn’t some plot to get in my pants?"

Jungkook scoffs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

"Baby," he murmurs, voice low, smooth, his hands still holding your face like he’s afraid you’ll run if he lets go. “I’ve been obsessed with you since day one."

You thought you were in control. You thought you could keep this contained, keep whatever this thing was locked behind a confinement in your brain, something you could observe from a safe distance without ever letting it touch you. But you were wrong.

Somewhere along the way, he seeped into the cracks. Slowly, insidiously, until there wasn’t a single part of your life untouched by him. He was in the way your mind wandered at the worst possible times, in the way your pulse quickened at the mere mention of his name. He was in the spaces between your thoughts, lingering like an unfinished sentence, a song you couldn’t stop humming.

Maybe, just maybe, you denied yourself because you thought you didn’t deserve it. Because somewhere deep down, you convinced yourself that happiness wasn’t meant for people like you—people who built their lives on control and ambition, who never asked for more than what they could handle.

But now, sitting here, with the weight of everything crashing down on you, you realize the truth.

This is so much bigger than you ever let yourself see.

And you think you’ve been obsessed with him, too. For a very, very long time.

The words settle between you, heavy and certain, like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged there. You swallow hard, eyes flickering down to where his thumb brushes slow circles against your cheekbone.

"You—" Your voice is barely above a whisper, the syllable trembling in your throat. "You have not."

Jungkook huffs a soft laugh, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. "You think I’m lying?"

You nod, because what else can you do?

Jungkook is Jungkook. Gold medals, renowned driver, flashing lights, fangirls screaming his name. You are none of that.

Jungkook watches you for a beat. Then another. Then he leans in again, his nose brushing against yours, his lips just barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

"You really have no idea," he murmurs, voice like gravel and honey, "how deep I’m in this, do you?"

Your pulse jumps, your fingers tightening slightly against his sleeves. “I—"

But your voice dies in your throat as he closes the distance again.

Another kiss. Completely consuming you. This one rougher, hungrier. Like something inside him snapped, like holding back isn’t an option anymore. His hands find your waist, grip tightening like he needs to feel every inch of you against him.

You fall into it, into him, clutching at his shirt, nails digging into his skin, because this time it isn’t just heat. It’s need. A craving neither of you know how to control.

You make a small, startled noise against his mouth, and Jungkook groans softly, deepening it, his fingers slipping into your hair like he never wants to let you go.

His lip ring is cool against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his skin, the way he kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s claiming you, piece by piece, second by second.

And between kisses and shared breaths, he murmurs, “You were the first girl to ever make me feel something real.”

A soft press of his lips.

"And I wanted to ruin you for it."

A deeper, slower kiss, leaving you lightheaded.

"You were so shy, so put together,” He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "and I wanted to see what you’d look like completely wrecked for me."

Your breath shudders, your entire body buzzing, warm, overwhelmed. Jungkook just smirks, because he can feel the way your heart is pounding against his own.

"Too much?" he teases, voice low.

You shake your head quickly, embarrassingly eager. "No."

His smirk grows, but his eyes are so, so soft.

"You don’t have to be shy with me, baby," he murmurs, pressing another slow, lazy kiss against your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips.

You whimper, gripping onto his shirt as he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper.

And between another breathless kiss, you whisper, “I don’t know what to do with you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkens, his thumb still stroking over your lip, his touch featherlight but devastating. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement flickering in his eyes at your quiet confession.

"You don’t know what to do with me?" he echoes, his voice low, rough with something dangerous. His other hand slides down your waist, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against your hip. "That’s okay, baby."

His lips brush yours again, just barely, a teasing ghost of a kiss. “I know exactly what to do with you."

Your breath stutters, your fingers clenching against his shoulders as he tilts his head, his lips skimming along your jaw, down to your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you shiver, just enough to make your knees weaken.

"You’re so sweet," he murmurs, his voice a silken taunt against your skin. His hand drifts lower, over the fabric of your shorts, his touch possessive. "So innocent.”

His fingers curl around your chin, tilting your face back toward his, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his expression drenched in something dark, something hungry.

"But not with me," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "With me, you’re gonna let go, aren’t you?"

Your pulse pounds, your chest tightens, the heat in his stare making it impossible to breathe. You can’t think, can’t speak, can only feel.

His smirk deepens, his grip tightening just slightly as he speaks softly, “You wanna know what to do with me, baby?"

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his next words sending a shiver down your spine. “Let me show you."

You don’t know what to do. Your mind is still a mess, still overwhelmed by all of this—the weight of his hands on you, the heat of his body, the way he kisses you like he never wants to stop.

You pull away from him, cheeks burning, lips flushed, “I don’t want to—"

"Hurt me?" he finishes, amused.

You nod, because of course that’s what you mean. He was just in a car crash, for God’s sake.

But Jungkook just hums, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your jawline, his hands tracing soothing circles over your waist. “You’re cute when you worry about me."

You huff, but your fingers tighten slightly against his shirt. “I mean it, Jungkook."

"And I mean it too," he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck for a second before pulling back to meet your gaze again.

His expression shifts, turns serious, tender, something so unlike his usual teasing self that it makes your chest ache. “I’m fine."

You blink, hesitant. “You’re sure?"

Jungkook smirks, before suddenly, his hands grip your waist firmly, and you barely have time to react before he pulls you onto his lap in one swift motion. You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your thighs now straddling either side of him.

Jungkook just grins, watching your reaction closely, his grip on your hips tight, warm, steady.

"See?" His voice is low, playful, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Totally fine."

You’re still too stunned to respond, completely frozen in his hold, hyper-aware of every inch of him beneath you.

"Though…" He tilts his head, pretending to think. "I might have been playing it up a little."

Your brows furrow, breath still uneven. “Playing what up?"

Jungkook’s hands slide down to your thighs, fingertips teasing the bare skin just beneath your shorts, and you shiver.

"My injuries," he admits, smirking. "Just a little."

Your jaw drops. “Jungkook—"

"I mean, come on," he laughs, completely unbothered by your glare. "Do you know how nice it’s been? You taking care of me? Fussing over me? Cooking for me? Sleeping in my apartment?"

Your stomach flips. “You— you lied?"

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. "Only a little."

Before you can respond, Jungkook’s grip tightens on your hips again, pulling you closer.

Your irritation melts into something else entirely. The second you shift against him, you feel it. The undeniable truth that he’s wanted you for so long, for so, so long, and now you’re finally here, finally his.

"Baby," he murmurs, softer now, his voice dipping into something more real.

You swallow hard. "What?"

His eyes search yours, tracing every detail of your face, like he’s memorizing you, like he can’t believe you’re really here straddling him.

"You have no idea," he breathes, "how bad I want you."

Your heart stops in its tracks. Because neither did you—or well, you had convinced yourself you were delusional. Not until now. Not until this moment, until the weight of him beneath you, until the soft press of his hands against your skin, until the way he looks at you like you’re something out of a dream.

You don’t know what to do with that. So instead, you do the only thing you can.

You kiss him again. This time, you let yourself feel it all.

It’s overwhelming the way he wants you. You’ve never been wanted like this before. Never been touched like you’re precious and ruined all at once. And the way Jungkook holds you—fingers digging into your hips, lips trailing soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, breath uneven as he tries to keep himself together—it’s undoing you completely. Because he’s not just any man. He’s Jeon Jungkook: reckless, untouchable, the best in the game, the kind of guy people worship from a distance. But right now, he’s under you, beneath you, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go. Like he doesn’t just want you—he needs you. The thought of that, of him, the man who could have anyone, losing himself for you, it’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s something you never saw coming, but now you don’t know how to live without it.

You’re melting like putty in his hands, soft and pliant, your body responding to every single touch, every lingering press of his lips.

Jungkook groans softly into your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Fuck, baby."

His voice is low, wrecked, like he’s losing control, like you’re unraveling him piece by piece. He’s always so composed, always the one with the upper hand, cocky, teasing, untouchable.

Now, he’s desperate. Now, he’s pulling you closer, his kisses getting deeper, slower, messier, his need for you spilling into every single movement. Now, he’s breathing your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You whimper softly, hands sliding into his hair, tugging slightly, just to see what he’ll do, just to hear that soft, low groan rumble in his chest again.

His grip on your thighs tightens, his lips moving against yours hungrier now, like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s been waiting for you.

Jungkook’s hands roam your body like he needs to memorize every inch of you, like he can’t believe you’re real. His fingers trail over your waist, gripping your hips before sliding lower, tugging at the hem of your shorts, his touch both reverent and desperate.

"Fuck,," he rasps again, his lips brushing against your throat, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your shorts, feeling the heat of you, his movements slow, teasing.

And then he feels it.

The dampness pooling between your thighs, the evidence of just how much you want him, how much he’s affecting you without even having to try.

Jungkook lets out a groan, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his fingers tease along the seam of your panties, just barely touching, just enough to make you whimper.

"Shit, baby," he mutters, his hands tightening on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles against your skin. He tilts his head back, his dark eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown with something dangerous. “You’re soaked."

Your face burns, your breath catching in your throat, but Jungkook doesn’t let you shy away. His hands squeeze your thighs, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you, on top of him, right against him, right where you belong.

"All this for me?" His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something softer beneath it, something almost in awe, like he can’t believe you want him like this.

You nod, biting your lip, your hands gripping his shoulders as he presses you down against him, letting you feel just how hard he is beneath you.

"God, baby," he groans, his head tilting back, his lip ring catching the dim light as his hands slide over your ass, keeping you flush against him. His voice drops even lower, “You already feel so fucking good."

His fingers dip lower, playing with the waistband of your shorts, teasing, waiting. “Can I take these off?" he asks, his voice softer now, more careful.

The way he asks—so patient, so unlike the cocky playboy everyone else knows—makes your heart pound even harder. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. And because right now, there’s nothing in the world except the heat between you and the way his hands are shaking from how bad he wants you.

Jungkook doesn’t wait. The second you give the smallest nod—silent permission, quiet surrender—he moves.

One moment, you’re perched in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders, your body still trembling from how badly you want him. The next, you’re on your back, legs spread wide over the plush couch, your pajama shorts and underwear long gone, discarded somewhere neither of you care to find.

Jungkook kneels between your thighs, his big hands gripping them, spreading them wider as he settles himself lower, his dark eyes locked onto the sight of your glistening core.

And fuck, he looks wrecked.

His lips part, a quiet, almost awe-struck groan slipping past them as he takes you in, his tattooed fingers tightening around your thighs. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and you realize he looks hungry.

"Baby," he breathes, his voice thick, reverent, dangerous. He leans in, so close you can feel his breath against your slick folds, his nose barely brushing the inside of your thigh as he exhales a slow, shaky breath. "Look at you."

You whimper, your hips shifting instinctively, your body aching for his touch, for anything, but he doesn’t give it to you. Not yet.

Instead, his hands wander, sliding up your thighs, tracing the soft skin with slow, teasing strokes. His fingers spread you apart, just enough to make you squirm, his eyes locked on the way you glisten under the dim glow of the room.

"So fucking pretty," he mutters, almost to himself, almost like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His thumbs trace along your inner thighs, inching closer, teasing, torturing.

"Jungkook—" Your voice is a breathless plea, a soft, desperate sound, and his smirk deepens at the way you need him.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his lips hovering right there, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. His fingers press into your thighs, grounding you, holding you open for him. "I got you."

And then, without another word, he leans in. His tongue flicks out, the first slow, deliberate lick making your whole body jerk, your breath catching as a strangled moan slips past your lips. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you in place, pinning you down as he devours you, slow and deep and messy

Jungkook is relentless.

The second his tongue continually flicks against you, slow and teasing, a sharp gasp spills from your lips, your fingers flying to his hair on instinct.

He groans, low and deep, like he’s never tasted anything better, his grip on your thighs tightening as he pulls you closer, buries himself between your legs. His tongue moves with purpose, savoring you, teasing you, then faster, filthier.

Your entire body jolts, a choked moan escaping you as you arch off the couch, hands yanking at his hair, but Jungkook doesn’t let up. If anything, he goes harder, tongue working you over, lips sucking, devouring every ounce of wetness you’re giving him.

"Fuck, baby,” he groans against you, his voice wrecked, almost feral, his fingers digging into your thighs. "You taste so good. So sweet, so messy for me."

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in sharp, broken pants. No one has ever done this to you before, no one has ever made you feel like this, so completely overwhelmed, so utterly ruined just by their mouth alone.

"J-jungkook,” Your voice is a trembling plea, your fingers trembling in his hair, but he just smirks, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot, making your whole body tremble.

"Too much, baby?" he murmurs, his lips dragging against your skin, but his tone is mocking, almost cruel, because he knows you don’t want him to stop.

His lips wrap around your aching clit, a desperate, filthy pull that makes your legs shake, your back arch, a helpless cry spilling from your lips as pleasure crashes over you, too much, too fast, your vision blurring.

Jungkook moans against you, his hands spreading you wider, holding you there as he drowns in you, his tongue moving sloppier, hungrier, completely insane on the taste of you.

"That's it, baby," he groans, his voice thick with need, with something bordering on obsession. "Give it to me. Let me taste all of you."

You’re gasping, whimpering, unable to handle how good it feels, how intense it is. His tongue keeps working you over, lips sucking, his groans vibrating against your heat, dragging you through wave after wave of unbearable pleasure. You don’t think you’ll ever recover.

Jungkook can feel it, the way your thighs tremble, the way your body arches, the way your breath stutters like you’re teetering on the edge, right there, so fucking close. But he’s not done with you yet.

"Can’t get enough of you," he murmurs against your heat, his tongue flicking one last time before his lips part and, without warning, he slides two fingers in.

Your gasp is sharp, your body clenching around him immediately, and Jungkook groans, his fingers sinking deep, stretching you open as he feels just how tight, how warm you are.

"Fuck," he hisses, pressing his forehead against your inner thigh, his fingers stilling for just a second as his other hand grips your waist, holding you down. "So fucking tight."

You whimper, your hands flying to grip at the couch, your fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as he starts to move, slow at first, deep, deliberate thrusts, letting you feel every inch of his fingers. You look down at him, watch the way his dark hair falls over his face, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he pumps his fingers in and out of you.

He curls upwards, and you’re certain he’ll have to peel you off his couch tomorrow morning.

"Oh!” The sound escapes you before you can stop it, your body spasming, heat flooding your veins as he finds the spot that makes you see stars.

Jungkook fucking smirks like the little devil he is. And you knew he’d be good, knew he’d be more experienced than you, but you don’t even care as long as he doesn’t stop.

"There it is," he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, dangerous. His fingers work into you harder, faster, his thumb rubbing slow, tight circles against your clit, and you’re losing it, your legs shaking so bad you think you might collapse in on yourself.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he coaxes, his breath hot against your core, his lips right there, teasing, pressing soft, fleeting kisses against your swollen heat between every filthy thrust of his fingers.

You’re barely holding on, your mind spinning, the pleasure too much, but the way he talks to you, the way he touchesyou, the way his fingers move with such perfect precision, has you losing all control.

"I— I can’t, fuck, feels so good—" Your voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, your body fighting between holding on and letting go.

"Yes, you can," Jungkook growls, his pace relentless now, his fingers fucking into you with deep, slick strokes, his thumb rubbing your clit faster, harder. "Be good for me, baby."

He presses his lips to you again, tongue flicking in perfect sync with his fingers, sucking hard, and you break. A choked, helpless cry rips from your throat as pleasure crashes over you, so sharp, so intense, your entire body locking up before you’re shaking, your release hitting you like a tidal wave.

Jungkook moans against you, his fingers not stopping, working you through it, dragging every ounce of pleasure from your trembling body as you come undone beneath him.

Your chest heaves, your fingers weakly clutching at the couch, your skin burning as the aftershocks pulse through you. You can’t even think, can’t even process how good it feels, your whole body humming with warmth, satisfaction, something that makes you dizzy.

And then, Jungkook looks up at you.

His eyes are wild, his lips wet and swollen, his jaw tight as he drinks you in, your blissed-out expression, your shaky limbs, your lips parted as you try to catch your breath.

"Good?" he teases, his voice thick with pride, with something darker beneath it. He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, watching the way you squirm, the way your cheeks burn as you try to look away.

But he doesn’t let you. His hand grabs your chin, tilting your flushed face toward his, his fingers still teasing you as he whispers, “Bet it feels even better to be inside you."

He stays between your spread legs, watching you like he owns you, like he’s still memorizing the way you look right now, completely spent, your body stretched out along the couch, your chest still rising and falling from the aftermath of what he just did to you.

With a low, deep exhale, he finally sits back on his knees, his hands moving to the waistband of his sweatpants, dragging them down in one smooth motion. His cock springs free, hard and aching, tip flushed and leaking, the very picture of desperation.

You swallow, your throat dry, your lips parting slightly as your wide eyes take him in. Jungkook doesn’t miss it.

"Like what you see, baby?" he murmurs, amusement flickering in his dark gaze as he wraps his tattooed fingers around himself, giving a few slow, deliberate strokes. A shiver runs down his spine, his head tipping back slightly, his breath coming out in a low groan.

Fuck, he’s mesmerizing. The way his muscles flex, the way his chest tightens, the way his lip ring glints as he bites down on his bottom lip. You can’t look away.

And maybe it’s the post-orgasm haze still clouding your mind, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re still so desperate to make it up to him, but before you can stop yourself, your voice comes out, soft and shy, “I can do it."

His eyes snap to yours, his hand stilling around his length as his breath catches, like he can’t believe you just said that, like he wasn’t expecting it from you.

"You wanna touch me, baby?" he asks, voice lower, rougher.

You nod, chewing on your bottom lip, heat crawling up your neck as you shift to sit up slightly, your fingers hesitating in your lap before reaching for him.

Jungkook doesn’t make you wait.

He stands up, takes your wrist, guiding you, wrapping your soft fingers around his cock, sucking in a sharp breath the second you touch him.

"Fuck,” he groans, his head falling forward, his hand tightening over yours as he helps you set a rhythm, slow at first, letting you feel him.

You swallow, watching his expression, watching the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw clenches, the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Just like that, baby," he rasps, his voice strained, almost pained from how good it feels. His hand falls away, letting you take over, his head trained on your movements, his lips parting in a moan.

"Shit, you’re so good," he praises, his voice breathless. His fingers dig into his thighs, his stomach tightening as he watches you, his eyes burning in a way that makes your whole body shiver.

"Thought you were so innocent," he murmurs, his voice laced with something almost in awe, his breath coming out in sharp exhales as you continue stroking him, learning him. "And yet, you wanna take care of me like this?"

You nod, your fingers tightening slightly around him. Jungkook groans, his hand flying to your wrist, stilling you for a moment as he pants, “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me."

Your soft hands wrapped around him, your shy little glances up at him, your fingers trembling slightly as you try to please him—he’s never been this affected by anyone before. But he needs more.

With a sharp inhale, he stills your movements, his tattooed fingers wrapping around your wrist, gently pulling you away before he does something reckless like cum in your hand instead of inside you.

"Come here," he rasps, his voice rough, wrecked, his hands guiding you back down against the couch.

Your breath stutters, your body trembling as he hovers over you, his broad frame towering above you, his toned arms caging you in. His dark eyes flicker down, watching the way your chest rises and falls, the way your thighs part instinctively, welcoming him closer.

"You want to?" he murmurs, his voice softer now, more careful but beneath it, there’s still that same hunger and desperation.

You nod, a shiver running through you as you feel the thick, heavy weight of his cock drag through your folds, teasing, spreading your wetness as he positions himself at your entrance.

When he finally, achingly, pushes in, the first inch has you screaming. Your back arches off the couch, your fingers flying to grip his biceps, nails digging into the solid muscle as your body stretches around him, struggling to accommodate his size. “F-fuck, Jungkook!”

Jungkook groans, his head dropping forward, as he feels you, so tight, so warm, your walls squeezing him like you’re not used to this, like you’ve never taken anything like him before.

"Shit,” he grits out, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he forces himself to stop, his own body trembling from the sheer restraint it takes to keep from slamming into you.

"You’re—" His breath is uneven, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to be still. "You’re so fucking tight, baby.”

Your thighs tremble beneath him, your hands clawing at his arms, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how intense the stretch is, from how full you feel.

"Jungkook,” Your voice is helpless, your chest heaving as you try to adjust, try to take him, but it’s too much, too big, your walls clenching around him so hard he nearly loses it.

"Fuck, I—" He stops, his body shaking as he hovers over you, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath coming out in sharp, uneven pants. "I gotta—fuck, I gotta give you a second, or I’m gonna cum right now."

Jungkook has had experience, more than enough. He’s been wanted, worshiped, pulled into the heat of fleeting moments by women who knew exactly what they were doing. He’s kissed with confidence, touched with certainty, learned every unspoken language of desire and indulgence. He’s seen it all, had it all, lived it all. It’s stupid, really, how easily you unravel him, how the years of experience amount to nothing under the weight of this. Of you.

Your body pulses, your breath coming out in short, desperate whimpers as you struggle to breathe through it, your hands gripping his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him.

Jungkook stares down at you, his expression torn between awe and agony, his cock twitching inside you, begging him to move, but he can’t, not yet.

"Baby,” His voice is strained, his fingers brushing your hair out of your face, his lips pressing against your forehead, trying to soothe you. "Breathe. Let me in, just a little more."

You nod, your body shuddering beneath him, your walls still fluttering around him, so tight it’s driving him insane.

And when he finally, slowly pushes in deeper, you both break.

The second he feels you start to relax around him, your walls fluttering, adjusting, he loses the last shred of control he had left.

"Fuck, sweetheart," his voice is low, guttural, completely wrecked as he pulls out halfway before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt.

The sound that escapes you is filthy, a high-pitched, gasping moan, your body jerking beneath him as the force of his thrust sends shockwaves through you.

He sets the pace, relentless, devastating. The wet, slick sounds of him fucking into you echo through the room, mixing with your choked moans, his ragged, heavy breathing. His cock drags against every sensitive part of you, the lewd slap of skin-on-skin filling the space, so loud it makes your face burn.

"Listen to that, baby," Jungkook groans, his lips hovering over yours, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

“So fucking wet for me,” He grinds deeper, pulling another moan from you, "Making a mess all over my cock."

You can barely breathe, barely think, the pleasure so intense it’s turning your limbs weak, your nails clawing helplessly at his arms, his back, anywhere you can hold onto as he ruins you.

"You hear that?" he murmurs, his lips dragging along your jaw, his hips snapping against yours at a brutal pace. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, angling you just right so he can hit deeper, harder. "That’s all you, baby. That’s this pretty little pussy taking me so well.”

You let out a choked cry, your head tipping back, exposing your throat to him.

"Shit!" he groans, his lips latching onto your neck, sucking, biting, leaving marks he wants you to wear for days. His hand slips between you, fingers pressing against your clit, rubbing in tight, perfect circles.

Your whole body shudders, your walls clenching so tight around him that he hisses, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he pounds into you harder, pushing you right to the edge.

Before either of you can catch your breath, he pulls out suddenly, completely, leaving you empty, a little gasp escaping your lips at the loss. But before you can even process it, he grabs you, his strong hands flipping you over onto your stomach, guiding your knees up, your body instinctively responding to him.

"Nah, baby," he groans, his voice low as he grips your waist, spreading you out beneath him. "Not done with you yet."

His hands drag down your back, fingers teasing along your spine before gripping your hips, tugging you up slightly, pressing your chest down against the couch cushions.

He slides back in. The stretch is even deeper like this, his cock sinking in at a new angle that has you screaming into the cushion, your fingers clutching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Jungkook snarls, his head dropping back for a second, the tight heat of you making his entire body shake. "You’re squeezing me so tight.”

His hands grip your hips hard, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he starts to move, his strokes slow, deep, deliberate, making you feel every inch of him, every ridge, every twitch.

"God, baby, could fuck you all day," he groans, his voice thick with something dangerous, something utterly possessive. His palm slides down, pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down against the couch. "Taking me so fucking well, so perfect for me."

You can barely breathe, your body so wrecked from how deep he is. You swear you feel him in your stomach. You can hear the obscene mix of your slick and his movements, the wet sounds filling the space between his groans and your helpless little sounds.

"Jungkook,” You choke out his name, your voice muffled against the couch, your body shaking with every relentless thrust. “F-feels so good, please k-keep going,”

"Shh, baby," he coos mockingly, his grip tightening as he snaps his hips forward, dragging another high-pitched cry from you. "Let me take care of you."

His free hand grabs your jaw, turning your head slightly so he can watch your face, his other hand still pressing you down, keeping you in place, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Too deep?" he taunts, a smirk in his voice, his thumb stroking your cheek as he watches the way your brows furrow, your lips parting, your body writhing beneath him.

You nod frantically, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, but your hips still push back into him, still chase the feeling of him splitting you apart.

"That’s my girl," he groans, rewarding you with a rough, slow grind, making sure you feel every second of it. His fingers tighten around your throat, his breath hot against your ear.

His body is trembling, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he slams into you, chasing his release with reckless, desperate thrusts. He’s so close, he can feel it, heat coiling tight in his gut, every nerve in his body burning with the need to let go.

"[Y/N]," he groans, breathless, his fingers digging into your waist as he pounds into you. He’s barely holding on, his control slipping with every second, every pulse of your tight, soaking heat around him.

"Where do you want me to cum, baby?" he grits out, his head dropping forward, his jaw clenching as he fights to hold himself back, to wait for your answer.

And when you give it to him—when you turn your head just slightly, lips parted, voice trembling, breath hitching— “Inside me."

Jungkook snaps. In an instant, he pulls out, his hands gripping your waist as he flips you over, not caring how weak your limbs are, how spent you already look. He needs to see you when he finishes, needs to watch your face, your expression, your body taking it all.

His lips crash against yours, messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth as he slides back in, groaning so loud it vibrates through your entire body. His hands grab your thighs, spreading you wide, holding you open for him as he thrusts into you, deep, perfect, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you.

"Yeah?” he groans, watching you, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. "You’re gonna let me fill you up, huh? Gonna let me fucking ruin you? God, I’m going to give you kids one day.”

You nod, barely able to speak, your voice coming out as a helpless little beg. "Please.”

Jungkook grunts, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, and you can feel the way he’s shaking, the way his cock twitches inside you, so fucking close.

"Can I finish too?" Your voice is so soft, so breathless, so utterly wrecked, and when he looks down, when he sees it—the cream collecting at the base of his cock, the mess of slick covering where you’re both connected, dripping down onto the couch— he’s a goner.

"Yes, baby, fuck, yes. Cum for me,” He babbles out, almost incoherent.

His entire body jolts forward, his grip on your thighs tightening as he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as his release crashes over him, spilling inside you with a helpless groan. His head tips back, his body shaking, his fingers gripping onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

He feels it, the way your walls pulse around him, milking him, pulling everything from him as your own orgasm rips through you, your thighs trembling, your body convulsing beneath him. There’s nothing but heat and skin and the dizzying rush of pleasure crashing through you both, stealing the air from your lungs.

The room is filled with the filthiest sounds—his breathless groans, your high-pitched cries, the obscene mix of both your releases between your thighs.

He just stares.

"Damn, baby” his voice is barely a whisper, his eyes blown wide, completely wrecked as he watches his cum spill out of you, seeping from between your legs, making an absolute mess of both of you. “So fucking pretty."

Jungkook eventually collapses next to you, his chest still heaving, his body still thrumming with the aftermath of what you just did to each other. His skin is flushed, damp with sweat, his muscles trembling from the sheer intensity of it all. But the second he catches his breath, the second his brain starts working again, he reaches for you.

Strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into his body, pressing you flush against his overheated skin. His lips find your shoulder first, soft and lingering, before trailing up the curve of your neck, then your jaw, then your lips.

The kiss is slow, tender, so different from the frantic, desperate ones from earlier. This one is filled with something else, something deeper. His fingers smooth over your back, up your spine, soothing you, keeping you close.

"Hmph," he breathes against your mouth, his voice raw, reverent. His hands roam your body, gentle now, no longer gripping, no longer taking, just feeling, holding. "You okay?"

You nod, still trying to find your voice, still floating in the haze of him. Your body is gone, your limbs weak, but with the way he’s touching you now, with the way he’s holding you, you could stay here forever.

Jungkook hums, pressing another soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "You were so good for me," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, his hand rubbing slow circles into your hip. "Took me so well, baby. My perfect girl."

His words make warmth bloom in your chest, your face heating, your fingers instinctively clutching onto him, like you need to hold onto something real.

You melt into him, bury your face into his neck. You smell the scent of him, musky and sweet and familiar.

"So beautiful," he whispers against your skin, his lips finding your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. His fingers trail up your spine again, his other hand tangling in your hair, tilting your face up so he can kiss you again. “Don’t even know what you do to me."

You’ve never had a man want you like this before, and you don’t think you’ll ever want anyone else ever again.

The next few days pass in a soft blur of stolen moments: whispers exchanged in the quiet of Jungkook’s living room, fingers brushing absentmindedly over each other’s skin, laughter spilling into the air delicately, something fragile but unbreakable.

You’re not dating, not technically. He hasn’t asked, and you haven’t said anything, and yet…

He still grins when you walk into the room, still pulls you into his side when you sit next to him, still leans in just a little too close whenever he speaks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low murmur meant just for you.

You let him tangle his fingers through yours when you’re watching a movie together, let him play with the hem of your sweater when he’s feeling restless, let him kiss you, lazy and unhurried, in the middle of a conversation just because he can.

He’s letting you take your time, giving you the space to ease into this, to figure out what it all means.

God, you appreciate it.

Because with Jungkook, there’s no rushing. No expectations. No pressure.

Even though neither of you have said it yet, you know.

There’s a weight of his upcoming race, his comeback race, that lingers between you, unspoken but heavy, pressing against your chest like a storm waiting to break.

You know what it means to him. How much this race matters. How much winning it would mean for his career, for his legacy.

Yet, you can’t shake the fear coiling deep in your stomach, the memory of his last crash seared into your mind like a scar that refuses to fade. The sound of metal colliding, the gasps from the crowd, the way your entire world had tilted on its axis, throwing you into a free fall of panic and helplessness.

You don’t know if you can do that again.

You don’t know if you can sit in the stands, heart in your throat, watching him push himself to the very edge of danger, knowing that one wrong move could take him from you.

He knows. Even before you say anything, even before you have the chance to voice the tangled mess of emotions inside you, Jungkook notices. You catch him watching you when you think he isn’t, his sharp gaze softening whenever he sees the crease between your brows, the way your fingers absentmindedly fidget with the hem of your sleeve, lost in thought.

And then one night, while you’re curled up next to him on the couch, his voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re not gonna come, are you?"

You hesitate for too long, and that’s answer enough.

Jungkook exhales, tipping his head back against the couch, his jaw tightening for just a second before he looks at you again, eyes searching. Not angry. Not upset. Just… knowing.

"Baby," he says, voice quieter now, like he’s picking apart every thought racing through your head, "Talk to me."

You swallow, staring down at your lap. "I just— I don’t know if I can watch."

He doesn’t speak, waiting.

"Last time…" You inhale sharply, voice barely above a whisper. "Last time, I thought I lost you, Jungkook."

His eyes darken, his features softening in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"I know."

"You don’t," you murmur. "You don’t know what that felt like. Watching you crash. Not knowing if you were okay. Having to stand there, completely helpless, while everyone else ran to you."

Jungkook’s jaw flexes, his hands clenching into loose fists before he lets out a slow, measured breath.

"I get why you’re scared," he finally says. "But I need you there. I need you in my corner."

His words send a sharp pang through your chest, and when you glance up, you find him watching you so intently, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, like he’s trying to make you feel how much he means it.

"I know how dangerous it is," he continues, softer now. "I know what you’re afraid of. But I also know that when I look up from that track, and I see you there, nothing else matters. I race better when you’re there. I race smarter when you’re there."

Your throat tightens.

"You’re my good luck charm."

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Jungkook reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Please."

And how the hell are you supposed to say no to that?

(pause! authors note: turn on ‘the alchemy’ by taylor swift for this part. thank me later.)

The energy is electric, the kind of palpable excitement that sits thick in the air, buzzing through the massive crowd gathered around the track.

Engines roar in the distance, mechanics make last-minute adjustments, reporters weave through the pit area with cameras flashing, and yet, none of it matters.

Because all eyes are on you. Or rather, on Jungkook, and the way he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.

The moment he spots you, draped in his jacket, his VIP lanyard with his name hanging around your neck like a permanent claim, something flickers in his expression. Something proud, you think.

Then he’s walking straight toward you, completely ignoring the cameras, the crew, the other drivers waiting for pre-race interviews.

His manager clears his throat. “Uh, you have press, Jungkook.”

Jungkook doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just reaches for you, hands settling firmly on your waist, his grip warm, grounding, and before you can even react, he kisses you. Loud. Unapologetic. Completely and utterly certain.

You’re melting into him, hands gripping his racing suit, your heart hammering as his lips move against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to brand you into him before the race even begins.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes over your cheek, a cocky little grin stretching across his face. “You look so fucking good in my jacket. Can’t wait to get home and rip it off you.”

You swallow, dazed, heat blooming across your skin. “You should focus on the race.”

“I am,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. “I’m gonna be thinking of you the whole time though.”

And then, just like that, he’s gone, disappearing into the pit area, leaving you completely breathless, your lips tingling, your heart somewhere on the track with him already.

You hear a low whistle behind you.

One of his crew members, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Yeah, we’re just gonna start calling you his girlfriend now.”

You stammer. “I—I’m not—”

“Sure,” his manager cuts in, grinning, arms folded across his chest. “And I’m an astronaut.”

Laughter ripples through the pit crew, but before you can come up with some kind of defense, the announcement blares over the loudspeakers.

You’re with his crew, standing in the VIP pit box, his manager beside you, engineers monitoring real-time data, the pit crew ready for anything.

You’re also clutching onto his manager’s arm like your life depends on it.

“Relax,” he mutters, chuckling under his breath. “You survived the last one.”

You exhale sharply. “That was before I knew how dangerous this actually is.”

His manager glances at you. “You’ve been paying attention, huh?”

You don’t respond, eyes locked onto the massive screen displaying the race track, the live coverage cutting between Jungkook’s car, the cockpit camera, the overhead shots.

Before you can prepare yourself for the impact, the signal goes off. The engines roar to life. And Jungkook is off.

Your heart jumps into your throat as his car flies forward, cutting into position effortlessly.

He’s fast—you always knew that. But watching him like this, seeing him maneuver through the chaos of the starting lap, weaving between other drivers with a confidence that borders on reckless, it’s something else entirely.

“You know he likes to push aggressive in the first few laps, right?” The voice beside you startles you. His engineer, watching the data on the monitor, tapping his chin in thought.

You nod. Of course you know.

Jungkook’s racing style isn’t just speed. It’s strategy, it’s unpredictability, it’s sheer talent that makes him one of the most feared competitors on the track.

Still, something feels off.

You bite your lip, eyes narrowing at the positioning of the cars ahead. The driver in third place is blocking the inside lane, forcing Jungkook to take a riskier approach.

If he goes outside, he’ll lose too much time.

But if he waits too long, he’ll lose the gap entirely.

You can’t stop yourself. “He’s not gonna make that pass on the outside.”

The engineer raises a brow, surprised.

His manager glances at you, amused. “Yeah?”

You nod, suddenly certain. “He needs to bait him into thinking he’s going wide, then cut inside at the last second. It’s the only way he’s getting past clean.”

The pit crew stares at you like you just grew a second head.

His manager laughs under his breath. “Damn. She really is his girl.”

And then, as if he heard you through the screen, Jungkook makes the move.

The driver in third takes the bait, moving to cover the outside and Jungkook cuts inside, passing clean, just like you said.

You exhale hard, your entire body untensing at once.

“Holy shit,” one of the crew members mutters, blinking at you. “You actually know your stuff.”

But you don’t respond, because you can’t take your eyes off the track, can’t take your eyes off him.

Jungkook is still in it, still pushing, still dominating the race, still looking absolutely unstoppable. For the first time since you got here, since you stepped into his world you finally realize: you’re not just watching anymore. You’re a part of this now.

The final lap feels like an eternity.

Your fingers are clenched so tight around Jungkook’s manager’s arm that you’re sure you’ve cut off circulation, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, your breath coming in shallow bursts as the cars blur past the final turn.

He’s in first place but barely.

The driver behind him is closing in fast, their front wing nearly grazing Jungkook’s rear tire, and it’s too close, too reckless, too much.

Your nails dig into your palms, your legs swaying restlessly. You can’t stand still, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but watch, helpless and desperate, as he flies toward the finish line.

The crowd is screaming, his crew is yelling stats into the comms, but it’s all just noise, buzzing around the only thing that matters: him.

"Come on, Jungkook," you whisper under your breath, hands tightening around the edge of your jacket. "Come on, come on, come on—"

The checkered flag waves.

The moment his car crosses the finish line, the world tilts, the tension shatters, and your breath finally, finally releases.

You don’t even realize you’re grinning, shaking, nearly collapsing from the sheer relief and overwhelming joy of it all.

The stadium erupts the second Jungkook’s car flies across the finish line.

The sound is deafening—a rush of cheers, of voices screaming his name, of reporters scrambling to capture the moment. Confetti bursts into the air, flickering under the bright stadium lights like a million tiny stars. His pit crew is going wild, throwing their arms up, chanting, celebrating the biggest win of his career.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop for any of it.

He barely lets the car roll to a stop before he’s unbuckling, pulling his helmet off, his eyes already searching.

He sees you.

Standing in the VIP pit area, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders. Suddenly, everything else fades.

His team? The cameras? The press waiting to get their headline? None of it matters.

All he can think about is you.

So, he runs. Straight past his team, straight past the cameras, straight past the screaming reporters, straight to you.

Before you can even say congratulations, before you can fully comprehend what’s happening, you’re in his arms.

He lifts you clean off your feet, arms tight around your waist, his laugh breathless against your cheek, giddy, boyish, unfiltered joy.

Then he kisses you. Right there, in front of thousands of people. In front of the flashing cameras, in front of the roaring crowd, in front of his crew and the entire racing world. He kisses you like there’s no one else but you and him.

It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It’s pure feeling, pure adrenaline, pure Jungkook.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it, like he couldn’t have gone another second without making sure you knew.

Your fingers clutch at his racing suit, your heart pounding harder than it did during the race itself, your body sinking into his like it was meant to be here, like it’s the only place you’ll ever belong.

Somewhere in the background, you hear the cheers get even louder, hear the reporters frantically calling his name, hear the cameras capturing every second of this moment.

But none of it touches you.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless, lips swollen, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins, bright, wide, unstoppable. “Told you I needed my good luck charm."

You let out a shaky breath, laughing softly, hands still gripping his suit. Still holding onto him like you’re afraid to let go. “Jungkook, that was in front of—"

"All of them?" He grins shamelessly, still so out of breath. "Yeah, I know."

You giggle, pressing your forehead against his chest for a second. "Oh my god."

"What?" His voice is teasing, his fingers toying with the hem of his own jacket wrapped around you. "You didn’t like it?"

You open your mouth, ready to fight him on it, ready to pretend like you weren’t just completely, devastatingly ruined by that kiss but the words don’t come.

Because when you look at him, really look at him, you realize you’re done pretending. Suddenly, it’s not scary anymore. Suddenly, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You swallow. "So am I your girl now?”

His breath halts, his fingers tighten just slightly on your waist, and for the briefest second, you see it. The relief. The realization. The pure, undeniable certainty that he’s got the girl.

He exhales, grinning so wide it could split his face in half, and tugs you in for another kiss, this time softer, slower, like he’s sealing the moment between just the two of you.

"You always were."

And as the celebrations explode around you, as the cameras flash, as his crew cheers, as Jungkook beams like he just won something even bigger than this race, you know, deep in your chest, in your bones, in every fiber of your being, there is no escaping this man.

You realize something with absolute certainty. This was never just about luck. It was always meant to be him.

extra extra note!

i wanted to thank you all again for reading this story <3 this OC means so much to me. with that being said, i never want to leave you guys hanging, so i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh)

send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and I’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-) click here to send em in! [THIS IS NOW CLOSED, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVELY REQUESTS]

love you all… catch ya on the next fic <3

masterlist + request

taglist ; @yooniepot @bookstoread199 @pipipipiiiii @someonegoood @vintagemoonsstuff @kittisuuuuu @ttanniett @loonareads @jincapableoflove @jkxlvrr @taekrve @jenniebyrubies @senaqsstuff @somisarchive @somehowukook @mysjammy @busanbby-jjk @mimi1097 @mikrokosmosellen @indyuhhhhh @vantelover1306 @haru-jiminn @sky-23s-world @minimoninini @bighitfics

@outofworldvy @smartkive @dontcallmeelle @beomluvrr @tatamicc @seokout @ashslight @avawants2havefun @bjoriis @jjeonjjk7 @mar-lo-pap @parkinglot-nights @coletaehyung @mellyyyyyyx @magicalnachocreator @royalguk

[ashonheavenscloud]

would you maybe be down to write headcanons abt making out with p1h 🤭

Need nothing more then to be laying in bed, lazily making out with keeho 😞

making out with p1harmony members!

warnings: none, a little suggestive but nothing explicit!

a/n: thank you so much for the request!! it was kinda fun to think about🤭 hope you enjoy <3

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

☆ keeho:

he is soooooo obsessed with kissing you that make out sessions happen almost anytime, anywhere. he knows when to read the room, but isn’t against pulling you to the side or finding a more secluded room/hallway/etc to spend a bit of time kissing you and feeling you up. what’s he supposed to do when you look so good all the damn time??

i am however a biggggggggg enthusiast of keeho loving to make out with you in the car. will make “detours” or even just ask you to drive out with him somewhere where he can park and make out with you for a while. doesn’t need to go any farther than that (although he’s not against it🫣) but will not settle for less than like. an hour of kissing you. he will complain otherwise

makeouts start out slow and full of back and forth teasing. he loves holding the back of your neck for a bit of control (again, helpful with the teasing) and sliding his other hand up and down your waist. PLEASE straddle him he will die of happiness and excitement and will need you sooooo bad

lowkey loves it when you try to take the lead but 1) will never admit it and 2) won’t let you take it so easily

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☆ theo:

makeout sessions will most likely happen at home, just cause theo lovessssss taking him damn time with you and sees any kind of physical affection/touch as deeply intimate and personal. 90% of the time they happen in bed, either in the mornings or evenings.

will cup your face and hold you close, focusing on your lips with slow, languid, deliberate kisses that leave you out of breath and your mind completely empty. is a very very very good kisser and knows it. often smiles and whispers against your lips

favourite thing in the world is hearing you sigh into a kiss. literally lights his body on fire

most of the time these don’t escalate, or if it does, the whole thing is very soft love making. most of the time though, he’s content to bask in the moment and take you in. finds kissing you so relaxing and makes him feel at home

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☆ jiung:

similar to theo, jiung finds kissing you makes him relax, so he would likely loveeeeeeee making out with you after long stressful days or in the studio between working on projects. pulls you onto his lap or between his legs and holds you close with both his hands either under your jaw or behind your neck.

50/50 chance on it escalating. 100% chance if you tease him in any kind of way, either by saying his name in a certain way or pulling at his hair. he loses the game very very fast and needs your skin on his IMMEDIATELY

doesn’t spend the time only on your lips, often drifting across your whole face and neck while he’s at it. talks a lot during the whole thing, cause he likes to hear your breathy responses and know he’s driving you crazy.

makeout sessions could be a couple minutes or a couple hours and there’s no telling with him until you glance at the clock and both realize he’s missed a meeting and you’re late for an appointment. whoops.

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☆ intak:

like keeho, intak wants to kiss you ALL. THE. TIME. it’s getting him to stop and focus on anything else that’s the problem

is incapable of both keeping the makeout session short and keeping it from escalating. he gets excited easily and the second your hands find his chest and you sigh against his mouth it’s so, so over. hands on your waist, body leaning over yours, caging you in. LOVES holding you against a wall or just about any surface tbh

sloppy kisses. everywhere. focuses mainly on your lips but gets distracted sometimes at your neck when he wants to hear you a little louder for him. but your lips are his kryptonite and he wouldn’t really rather be anywhere else

on the flip side, he also really enjoys when you wake him up with lazy kisses. could die of happiness

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☆ soul:

makeouts with soul are spontaneous and giddy! usually gets the urge to kiss you the most when he’s excited or you’re being extra cute, and the kisses start all over your face before focusing entirely on your lips

and once he’s there, he’s THERE. lots of fast kisses, pulls at your lips a lot and holds your waist to keep you close to him. prefers to stand between your legs while you’re sitting in front of his, say, on a counter; OR he likes having you beneath him on the couch

teases a little but kinda can’t keep it up cause he just wants to kiss you so bad and it feels just as hard for him to maintain as it is for you to endure. but he sure does love the dazed expression and the faint voice you have when he does

doesn’t often escalate but when it does it does FAST

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☆ jongseob:

like theo, jongseob also sees kissing you as a personal, intimate show of affection, so makeout sessions almost always happen at home. he loves coming back after a long day, holding you in his arms and kissing you slowly, smiling and relaxing into it, knowing he’s where he belongs.

loves laying between your legs, hands around your waist or under your thighs, and slowly kissing you. nibbles on your bottom lip and often trails kisses down under your jaw before heading back to your lips. often goes back and forth between kissing you and talking about his day and yours, taking all the time in the world with you.

50/50 on whether it escalates, and when it does, his grip on you gradually tightens and his kisses turn from slow to hurried and needy. is a big whiner.

murmuring against your lips with a smile… yeah.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

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[glowettee]

✧ how i stay productive during summer break (while still having fun!) ✧

hey lovelies! ✨

summer break is finally here and honestly? it's my favorite time to both relax and get things done. i know that sounds contradictory but trust me, finding that sweet balance between productivity and fun is totally possible! after years of either doing absolutely nothing or burning myself out, i've finally found my perfect summer rhythm.

first things first: the morning routine ✨

i've learned that my day flows so much better when i start it intentionally. i wake up around 8 or 9 (not too early because we deserve some extra sleep!), make my bed immediately (small win!), and spend 15 minutes journaling before checking my phone. this tiny habit has literally changed everything for me.

my summer morning essentials:

iced coffee with oat milk and a tiny bit of vanilla

a cute journal that makes me excited to write in it

10 minutes of stretching by my window

a super quick skincare routine (sunscreen is non-negotiable!)

creating a flexible structure 🤍

the secret to summer productivity is having just enough structure without feeling trapped. i divide my days into three parts:

morning: productive focus time (2-3 hours max) afternoon: flexible time for errands, friends, or projects evening: pure relaxation and fun

this way, i never feel like i'm missing out or falling behind. the key is being realistic about what you can actually accomplish in a day. i used to make these impossible to-do lists and then feel awful when i couldn't finish them.

my productivity non-negotiables:

i always make sure to do at least one productive thing each day, even if it's small. some of my favorites:

reading 20 pages of a book

organizing one small area of my room

working on a creative project for 30 minutes

learning something new for my blog

planning content or taking photos

balancing productivity with summer fun ✨

here's my little secret: schedule your fun just like you schedule your work! this sounds silly but it actually helps me look forward to both. some of my favorite summer activities that feel refreshing but don't derail my productivity:

morning walks with an audiobook

afternoon picnics where i can also read or brainstorm

coffee shop work dates with friends

sunset swims after a productive day

weekend day trips that recharge my creativity

my favorite productivity tools:

a paper planner (something about writing things down just works better for me)

the forest app to stay off my phone when focusing

aesthetic notion templates for organizing my projects

time blocking in my calendar with cute colors

lo-fi summer playlists that help me concentrate

remembering the why 🤍

summer isn't just about getting things done or having the perfect instagram moments. it's about growing, reflecting, and creating memories that will make you smile in december when it's freezing outside. productivity should support your joy, not replace it!

i've found that my happiest summer days are when i accomplish something meaningful in the morning and then have the freedom to be spontaneous in the afternoon and evening. balance isn't perfect every day, and that's okay too.

what are your favorite ways to stay productive during summer break? i'd love to hear your tips too!

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[sunbeamlessreads]

Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

my masterlist

request guide

You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag. 

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21 @missprolog @vanteel @idontknow0704 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @andawaywelando @yeahnahalrightfairenough @whatsitgonnabeangelina @missprolog @emily-b @number-0-iz @vhkdncu2ei8997 @astrlape

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

© Copyright, 2025.

[witchbitchlovesdilfs]

Pain Relief Pt. 3

Jack Abbot x chronically ill f!reader

series masterlist, pt 4

synopsis: jack immediately regrets asking you to paint him when you leave him a blushing, stuttering mess

warnings: fluff! some angst? reader has chronic illness, jack lost his leg in the war, suggestive

words: 1.2k

a/c: i was going to write this tomorrow but got too excited. let me know what you'd like to see next!

“Nice place.”

You blush as you step aside so Jack can enter. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious,” he says, taking off his shoes as you lock the apartment door. “It’s a nice area.”

Nodding, you take his jacket and hang it on the coat rack. When you turn, you take in Jack’s appearance. “No scrubs today, huh?”

He shrugs, looking down at the white t-shirt and loose pair of jeans. “It’s my day off.”

“Oh,” you realize that of course it is - he usually works at this hour. “Well, thanks for choosing me to spend it with.”

“Anytime,” he smiles, studying the way you squirm under his gaze and taking in the pale blue button-down you’re wearing, the way it falls over your shorts, spotlighting your legs. When he tilts his head back up, slowly, you’re smiling so brightly it lights up your eyes.

“What?” he asks, crossing his arms self consciously.

You bite your lips to hinder the smile. “Nothing.”

A door further in the apartment shuts, and a woman about your age with light brunette hair struts out. “So you’re the famous Jack,” she says, stuffing her phone into her purse and plucking her car keys from the key bowl. 

“Keira?” Jack guesses.

She nods and slips on her shoes. “I gotta go out, but we have to invite you over for dinner sometime to chat. I’ve heard lots of good things.”

You blush, and Jack grins. “I sure hope so.”

“I’ll make lasagna,” Keira decides, scooting between the two of you and heading out the door, but not before telling you to “Have fun, Lovebirds” and winking goodbye.

You lock the door behind her, bracing your back against it like you’re fortifying a wall.

“She seems nice,” Jack says, still grinning.

You chuckle, pushing yourself from the door and past him. “She’s a terrible cook. I’ll order a pizza or something.”

Jack chuckles, following as you give a tour of what you call home. The living room is spacious despite the massive couch taking up space across from the tv, and the kitchen, while small, is pristine and homey. “You’ve caught me on a good day,” you tell him. “I did the dishes and everything. Very productive.”

When you lead Jack to your room, he gulps with anticipation as you push the door open.

It’s very you, and Jack means that as the biggest compliment. Your room is welcoming, artsy, and decorated by various posters and figures representing your interests. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say nervously, holding your arms out like you’re Tony Stark. “This is where the lovemaking happens.”

Jack startles, and you bend over with laughter. “I’m just joking,” you assure him, wiping tears from your eyes and moving to riffle through the art materials at your desk. “Where are you most comfortable?”

“What?” he chokes, looking up from the floor.

You nudge your chin in the direction of his leg. “Where do you want to sit? My bed’s got a super fluffy mattress, so maybe the chair out in the living room? It’s a lot sturdier. But my desk chair is higher and stiffer if you want the support.”

Jack blinks. He’s not used to being accommodated like this. “I should be fine in the living room,” he decides, watching in awe as you collect your tools, oblivious to his staring. 

“Alright,” you say, dropping your stuff onto one of the chairs beside the couch before heading back to your room for an easel. Jack takes the seat across from you as you come back.

“Full body or just head?” you ask, and Jack chokes. You’re setting up your canvas, watching him expectantly. 

Oh, to draw. “What’s easier?”

“Do you want to take your leg off?” You’re very to the point with your questions, and Jack feels like you see directly through him.

“Is it okay?” he asks shyly.

You nod like it’s obvious. “I want you to be comfortable.”

He softens at this, and then he’s leaning down to pull up his pants leg and take off the prosthetic. You watch silently as he sets it to the side, massaging the skin it was once attached to. 

Jack looks up at you, scared of what expression you’ll have on your face. Pity? Disgust? But he is met with nothing but love and understanding. “Full body or just head?” you ask again, and Jack understands the deeper meaning. Is he ready to accept that this is who he is and let you paint all of him in his vulnerability? Meeting your soft gaze, Jack makes his decision. “Full body.”

You smile at him, almost proudly, and pluck a paintbrush from your pile. “Sit however you want. But remember you can’t move.” Your eyes flicker mischievously. “Or I’ll have to tie you down.”

Jack blushes, looking down at your hands as you take out several paints, waiting patiently. He moves into a position that feels right and nods that you can start.

You’re quiet as you paint, the brushstrokes against paper lulling him into a daze. Jack watches your face as you concentrate, noting every time you scrunch your nose or squint your eyes. When you meet his gaze to study him back, he blushes. This repeats several times before you’re speaking up.

“If you keep blushing, I’ll have to add more contrast,” you note. Your voice is monotone, but you’re grinning.

Jack can only nod.

You call for a break after forty minutes. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water will do just fine,” he says, adjusting in the seat and pulling out his phone to see a text from Robby.

How’s the date going? Is she painting you like one of her French girls?

Shaking his head in exasperation, Jack puts the phone back down just as you come back in. You hand him a glass of cold water, and he drinks it gratefully before setting it on the coffee table. “Can I see it so far?”

“Not until it’s finished! Don’t rush perfection.”

Jack huffs, but there’s a smile on his face. He settles back into position and lets you do your magic.

Twenty five minutes later, you proudly set your brush aside and step back to check for any errors. “I guess it’ll do,” you decide, standing to approach him. “It doesn’t capture all of that handsome ruggedness you’ve got going on, but it might just be one of my best works.”

Jack takes the canvas from you, and his jaw drops when he slides his reading glasses on so he can see your painting. You’ve detailed him and the chair with such care and precision, blurring the backdrop like Jack’s all that matters. As he stares in silence and awe, Jack realizes that this is how you see him. And he looks good. When Jack lifts the canvas closer to his face, he sees the worshipping way in which he looks back at you.

Jack’s falling for you, fast. And he doesn’t want to ever stop. 

Taglist:

@miraclesabound @qardasngan @mads198-9 emma8895eb @celiacallsitcausal @interestellarprincess @kmc1989 @wisps-writes-fic