#you ever write something and think it's really good

[sylusgworl]

ETERNAL VOWS ft. love and deepspace

you go in for a bridal fitting, but you don't expect their reaction, at all.

content: fluff, afab! reader but no pronouns used, slightly suggestive in sylus's part, dress fitting

a/n: the new banner is releasing soon, so i had to join into the fun too, i honestly enjoyed writing this one sm, although it took me more than three days to finish :( not proofread !! wc: 1.6k. rbs are very appreciated <3

m.list

Not even in Xavier's most hidden dreams did you look so... ethereal.

That morning he woke up because you kept tapping his cheek. As soon as he opened his eyes, he was greeted by raw excitement. 

“Do you remember what day today is?” you said in a squeaking voice, but still lying down because his arm pinned you to the bed and was too heavy to push. 

Xavier closed his eyes, amused, but still with a foot in the land of dreams. 

“I remember, starlight, you've been yelling in my ear for two weeks,” he faked annoyance while a smile tugged at his lip, shy, but daring enough to display. 

You patted his shoulder, scoffing, “c'mon, get up, we're going to be late!” 

Which takes you to where the two of you were, at this precise moment. 

Xavier, leaning back against the black sofa, looked around him, feeling out of place while being surrounded by an insurmountable amount of gowns—white wedding gowns.

With frills, no frills, ball gowns, mermaid, trumpet, lace corsets of any kind... he didn't understand much of it, after all, he knew you looked good in anything.

He couldn’t, however, deny this blooming feeling inside of his heart, the happiness of finally making a dream come true. Finally the two of you would be united forever.

“Sir?” a feminine voice shook him out of his thoughts. He glanced up, 

A long soft gown, adorned with little ornamental flowers, while the corset was covered by flowery lace. The dress fell off the shoulders, the contrast with your skin making Xavier gulp. His eyes hadn’t blinked ever since you arrived.

You made a small twirl, a grin plastered on your lips, “so, how is this one? I think I like this the most.”

Xavier thought he’d forgotten how to breathe. glancing at his cute reaction, you noticed his flushed cheeks and mouth agape. “Like unreachable stars, you shine above all,” he muttered, finally breaking the silence.

Then, to the shop clerk, “we’ll take this one.”

Xavier couldn’t wait for the wedding day to see you with the dress on. 

Sylus dropped the catalogue in his hands, Mephisto froze in place.

The latter wasn’t supposed to be with you at your dress fitting. At all. Except, he simply tailed the two of you, ignoring Sylus’s orders. And now, he just stopped moving altogether, as if his mechanical parts had been consumed by rust.

Then, a flap of wings, followed by several caws, to the point that Sylus had to pinch his beak to shut him up, even though he totally agreed with him.

You stood there, awkwardly at first. You were used to your fiancé—Sylus—being the type to never be intimidated by anyone and anything.

However, now his ruby eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t exactly pinpoint.

Was he disappointed? Did he not like how the dress fit you? After all, it was unlike any traditional wedding dress, the gown being an inch above the knee, while several feathers trailed along the corset, down to the skirt.

Sylus slowly got up from his seat, Mephisto, now silent and offended, comfortably leaned back in Sylus’s spot.

He walked, slowly, until he was right in front of you.

“The dress really suits you, kitten,” his teasing voice made a comeback. You sighed from relief, slapping his arm jokingly. However, you noticed how his serious expression clashed with his amused tone.

He raised a hand, subtly grazing your cheek, his gaze softening while never leaving yours.

“It captures your freedom perfectly. I know you like to escape the most,” then he lowered his head, his breath hitting your ear as you shivered.

“But I do think I can’t wait to take this off, sweetie,” your breath hitched.

Sylus pressed a kiss behind your ear, then backed slowly. His lips now stretched in his usual grin, but a blush was indeed tinting his face. 

It took Caleb a double take, before sprinting up, then sitting back down, his mouth ajar.

“Pips…” was the only thing he managed to mutter, gulping dryly, like a man in the desert in a search to quench his thirst.

You giggled, clearly enjoying his reaction, and slowly stepped forward, twisting so that he could have a full view.

In Caleb’s head, the day of the wedding had already arrived. He was ready to make you his wife right then and there, how could you look so perfect in a simple piece of clothing?

His deep purple eyes beamed with realization. It was happening—what he dreamed of most was on the point of manifesting.

“Baby?” you called out to him.

He hummed in response, then sprung up on his feet, the necklace you’d gifted him years prior tingling against the zipper of his jacket.

With wide steps he was right in front of you in half a second, towering over you as you looked up and met his gaze.

Completely smitten, head over heels, you name it. Caleb wanted you more than anything, and he was finally going to have his long-time wish granted.

“This dress fits you perfectly,” he took a hold of a stray lock of your hair, and kissed it, before gently brushing it past your ear.

Then, with no prior warning, his lips were on yours, desperate, domineering, the boutique worker gasping and turning around, embarrassed.

His warm hands cupped your cheeks, as he leaned further in, the warmth of his breath hitting you with a familiar wave.

“Sorry Pips, I couldn’t resist,” he smiles against your lips, pecking them one last time, before letting go. Your cheeks warm up, conscious that you’d just made out in front of people without care.

However, you found no trace of your embarrassment on Caleb, who wet his lips with his tongue and turned to the woman you’d flashed.

“This one’s perfect.” 

Rafayel tried to feign uninterest, until he could not anymore, the sight of you too beautiful and perfect to ignore.

He was sitting, his arm slouched behind the backrest of the black sofa, eyes studying the interior of the shop with little interest while waiting for you.

You’d taken your time, clearly inexperienced in putting on a wedding gown.

Still, Rafayel was only pretending to be cool and alright, his heart thumping against his ribcage with brute force at the realisation.

He was finally going to be reunited with you, his bride, to never be separated again.

He honestly couldn’t wait.

As soon as you stepped out of the changing room, your white heels clicking against the marbled floor, Rafayel gulped, hard.

He’d loved you in each of your lifetimes, but the sight in front of him etched into his heart the desire he’d long kept unfulfilled—for external reasons.

You smiled at him, softly, a little twirl to show him the back of the dress. His eyes fell on the pearls that adorned it, his breath hitched.

Getting up slowly, there was no point in keeping the facade any longer.

You had had him imprisoned in your cage, lulled him in with your striking beauty, like a siren does as she sings to her prey—that was supposed to be his role, draw you in, into his grasp, stop you from slipping away. But oh, you beat him to it, and you did it every single time.

As he finally reached you, his reddish eyes fixated on you, like you were the only existing thing in that room.

“You look…”

“Nice? Horrible? Ugly?” you teased him, eyeing how his chest heaved, eyes checked your body from top to bottom, how he eased the collar of his shirt, feeling suddenly out of breath.

“Otherworldly,” he concluded. Your heart skipped a beat, a tint of red spreading over your cheeks. You weren’t expecting the compliment, that’s for sure.

Rafayel’s fingers hovered over your cheek, brushing it so lightly you’d thought it’d been a dream. 

“Oh,” you stupidly said, what could you have answered after all?

“Eight-hundred years… and I finally can make you mine,” he let out, the thumping in your chest got louder, faster.

Yes, he liked the dress alright. 

The way you looked made Zayne question why on earth didn't he propose earlier. 

The stoic and unfazed doctor, with an enviable reputation at Akso Hospital, was now at your mercy, his eyes drinking in every detail of yours until his mind swirled with thoughts, some of which he dared not tell anyone about.

“So, what does the gentleman here think of the dress?” the shop clerk asked politely, lips stretched in a wide smile as her gaze switched from you to your soon-to-be husband.

Zayne ignored her. Not that he meant to, he wasn’t the kind to dismiss basic etiquette. He would’ve said something, the point is he was unable to.

The corset hugged your waist perfectly, the visible cleavage making him gulp dryly, and the soft tulle of the gown fell down your legs smoothly, perfectly.

You stood there, feeling shy all of a sudden, under Zayne’s clouded gaze, his lips parted while his cheeks were tinted in a soft, subtle pink.

The shop clerk coughed, awkwardly, and dragged Zayne out of his trance.

“So perfect,” he answered, renouncing the fact that she was asking about the dress and not about you.

You felt warmth wrap around you, a smile slowly shadowed your lips, and slowly stepped forward. Zayne met you in the middle, pulling his tie, stifled. His eyes, green and warm, full of affection, never left yours.

His head dropped, lips brushing your ear as your heart almost burst in your chest.

“I can’t wait to make you my wife,” he whispered, not an ounce of tease or amusement coating his words. He was dead serious, and you loved his confession, heart fluttering and hands quivering.

His lips kissed your forehead, softly, then a smile slowly crept up on his lips, his features softening. 

He squeezed your hand, subtly, until they stopped trembling, and turned to the clerk, coughing slightly.

“I like this dress,” he told her, his tone flat, back into the role of Dr Zayne of Akso Hospital.

© sylusgworl - 2025, all rights reserved / i don't allow anyone to copy, repost on other platforms or sell my works.

[yeyinde]

i'm sure it's been done 1000000x before but stripper!reader x John Wick would go so hard esp if you're not even a willing participant.

like maybe he's there to scope out the club (and maybe he ran into you at the museum earlier, and his interest was piqued the moment you started rambling about ursus arctos californicus and followed you to your second job. it's whatever), and your paths keep crossing. he's just the polite (weirdly so) older man in your bracket, always sitting in the shadows and drinking nothing but sparkling water. and that should be it.

but you can't stop staring at him. and that's quickly becoming a problem so you offer him a lap dance (because at the very least, if he's like every other man who pays for an hour of your time behind closed doors then you can give up on this confusing muddle of emotions whenever you feel his eyes on you), but it doesn't go as planned. instead of leaning back and grunting at you, he peels his jacket off, eyes politely averted, and slips it over your bare shoulders, unbothered by the glitter and the stench of secondhand smoke that clings to your skin, and now soaking into his expensive, Italian-cut suit.

he offers you lapsang souchong from a small thermos tucked inside his jacket, and seems content to just watch you drink tea and make idle conversation about your job, your boss, your life. Twilight Zone—he's never watched it, he confesses with his palms pointed skyward. you stumble just a little when the flashing neon lights catch the milk-white of his rough skin. he's a beautiful man—tall and lean and soft spoken—and sometimes you wish he'd just disappear because there's too much politeness inside of him, and it feels like battery acid on your skin. but you don't. don't ask him to leave. don't change shifts. you just tell him that's a travesty because sometimes you think you could listen to Rod Sterling talk about oddities for hours.

soul-soothing, you say, instead of what it really is: a mindless distraction from the feeling of unwanted hands on your skin—sticky with nicotine; leaving stains behind—but he looks at you—through you—like he knows what you refuse to say. brooding eyes fossicking through the lies you lay on the table until he chisels the truth from your glitter-stained head, cradling it like a precious gem as he nods, slow and measured, and tells you he'll watch it later on as he pours you another cup of tea. he always says drunk up when he does, but you swear that sometimes it sounds like he's saying i'll take care of it.

and it becomes a little bit of a gag, too, because he never, ever gets a proper lap dance despite paying for one each time. things come up—he has to leave only minutes after you walk through door, leaving behind food that he insists you eat, or comfortable clothes he makes sure you put on. ones he never accepts back, and that always fit you perfectly. or he just wastes his hour listening to you prattle on about whatever it is that has your attention that week, offering a small smile and a slow shake of his head when you try to give him more to make up for it. a little wink, too. a secretive this is just for us he keeps tucked inside the rucksack he carries, filled with homemade food, tea, and gifts you don't deserve. all crammed beside the bits and pieces you tell him about yourself. your life. your wants, dreams.

and it's weird. he's weird. a fifty-something widower who is much too good to be in a place like this, to spend time with a broken, sad little thing more than half his age. they'd write tragedies about this, you joke, flipping through an original print of The Idiot that you didn't believe he actually had. but he just shrugs, palms open, skyward, and says he's stopped believing in the desolate outcome of Russian romance a long time ago.

(he leaves his rare copy of The Idiot behind despite giving away a small fortune.)

but it's difficult to escape the fatalistic nature of your relationship. one built on debt and obligation—a transactional affair. services rendered. money deposited. and it doesn't surprise you much when the financial elephant in the room moves, shattering the illusion of choice when the man holding the end of your leash says he's sending you to Europe. a business partner thought you were a pretty little bird, and you're easier to giftwrap than a couple of Lamborghinis.

and it comes to a head when you catch him killing your boss—and maybe it's your fault for letting it slip that he's giving you away, but you thought you could trust him to keep that secret—and reflectively, you grab the gun lying on the floor, but he's just as unbothered by you shakily pointing it at him as is he by the gurgling man lying at his feet, staining the bottoms of his expensive leather loafers with blood. even calmly corrects your form, a little "hold it like this, honey," slipping out as he instructs you how to handle a gun to his own potential detriment. and the that's it, that's my good girl that follows when you obey his instruction is almost too much. so you run. and he follows—straight to the stage where your boss' men stand around, guns drawn, and try to take him down.

futilely, of course, and all you can do is stand there—wide-eyed—on stage as the gentle, polite man who refused every sly attempt of yours to seduce him takes down every man in the room until it's just the two of you remaining in a bloodsoaked room. neon lights slipping through the mess until it glints like the glitter they slathered over your skin. music blaring. smoke dissipating. if your feet didn't ache from the heels they picked for you, you might think it was a dream. a nightmare, maybe. except the monsters are the ones being slaughtered, and you can still taste the faint curl of smoke from the cup of pu'erh between your teeth. hear the buzz of his voice in your ear—i won't let them take you from me, honey.

and when he's finished, he sits at the end of the platform in the "throne," your leash held in his pale hand, and asks if you'd like to dance for him. only him.

(and he'll tuck you into bed later on that night after bathing you—refusing to let you lift a single finger as he gently scrubs the glitter from your skin, thumbs sliding over the indents in your wrist, the marks of your shackles the only remnants of the club that was burned to the ground, no survivors—the Twilight Zone theme playing softly in the background as he curls his lean body over yours, murmuring into your ear to sleep before leaning over to tuck your leash into the drawer of his bedside table.)

[aloeverawrites]

"... well that's still not fair."

"Of course it's not fair, we are enslaving you! tremble before us!" They declared, blue arms waving angrily over their heads.

I think for a minute and excuse myself, heading back to my group.

"Okay so I have a game plan."

My group was a human rights organisation fighting for universal basic income across the globe. We call ourselves UBI-Iseeyou because, well we were mad at the billionaire class okay. Also we wanted a name that could almost be a pun, anyway-

"Guys, they want to enslave us. They think they're harming us, they clearly don't have our best intentions at heart." I say and Zoe pipes up with,

"Yeah but maybe their translators just say that and they don't mean it? Also like even if they do mean it, they can't all think the same things right? Should we judge them all because a few members of their species are jerks?"

"Okay, true that's a really good point actually. We won't write them off entirely. But still, if they mean what they see then they mean to hurt us. It's only a matter of time before they realise that those things don't hurt humans and they pivot to something else. Plus, they've shown they have no harm killing cows and they have about as much in common with cows as they do us. Who's to say we're not next if they find a better use for us? If another species they enslave wants people steaks?"

"Plus, what will the planet look like if we're farming beef, waygu beef for 8 billion people? We're gonna cook." Tina said and I grimaced thinking at what the methane output of that would look like.

"Plus, like why strawberries?"

"You're right, we have to do something about this." Joey said and we all nodded.

"Don't worry guys, like I said, I have a plan."

One good thing about a person always being awful to you, is that they're predictable. The ruling classes started a war against the aliens, because how dare they take their wage slaves and turn them into slaves with a better work life balance and access to waygu beef.

They used all the best weaponry and tech they could, stuff only the billionaire classes have access to. (Stuff we didn't even know they had like, what the hell is a matter destabiliser. Who the hell were they developing that to use on- well obviously us but like damn.) And that's about all they used. See the insistence on replacing humans with AI meant that most of the 'fighters' were robots, ai, machines and computers. The humans weren't really included. Except for the ones who really believed the billionaire classes had their best interests at heart. There were way less of those these days. Especially since my group, and others like it, had been encouraging each other not to fight. We used our funds to support those who would have been pressured into fighting otherwise, gave them an income and the chance to join our fight instead, and most took it. Yeah instead of fighting 'the blues' as humanity called them we came up with our own plans. (Also guess how we fuelled our mission? That's right, blackmarket strawberry trade with aliens. Oh and strawberry tarts? They would sell out their own in a heartbeat for those things and I honestly can't blame them.)

The minute they won the war against the aliens, the one percent sat down to celebrate, resources depleted, expecting the praises of humanity. Instead that's when the real war began. The class war.

See we had spent all our time planning against them, forming our own armies and adding our own programs into their tech. So when they returned, tired from their intergalactic battle over who gets to be humanity's overlords, we seized our chance. Their robots turned against them, their wealth was redistributed into our communities, democracies were propped and laws about investing and finances were enacted so no one could ever use the system to own more wealth than a country ever again. We took total control, and you know what? It was bloodless. No one saw it coming, the bots and the rest of the planets now united population turned on them overnight. We refused to kill or harm them, because we didn't want to start a new dawn of human rights like that. Their punishment was living on a planet full of people that resented them for their greed in the before times. Also good luck going to mars, there are aliens living there now and they don't like you either, so ha.

It turns out that divide and conquer strategy, the make your enemies turn on each other thing that they had been using on us really worked. Our competing overlords spent so much time fighting each other, they couldn't focus on us anymore. Kind of like how they used bigotry and started wars in other countries to keep the working class divided, too busy hating each other to unite and fight for better.

Thanks for the tactic guys.

The aliens retreated to their ships, exhausted and hurting from their war. They too were angry about the outcome, and turned on their leaders creating a huge regime change. We don't know exactly how their political systems work, but, well we wanted to.

The international galactic representatives of earth offered to meet with 'the blues'. To our joy, our message was received by their smaller political group that cared about blue rights, and to some extent, our own.

We gave them some of our tech, very hesitantly, (there was a lot of international debates about that) and they managed to take power as well. So now two planets were govern by a commitment to the rights of sentient beings.

They gave us alien technology, medication, ideas and tech beyond our wildest dreams that helped us progress faster than ever. With this stuff, two day work weeks was all we needed for full time work, if that.

So that's how we entered into the new age of hope, of no illness, no poverty, no bigotry, no harm to animals and no climate change or environmental destruction. UBIs and no forced work, a common two day work weeks and finally, after all this time, world peace. World peace that included all species, that extended past the cities into the forests, the oceans. Finally, the whole earth sat in contentment, no lifeforms suffering for the first time since life had begun.

And all it took was some cooperation, an intergalactic war.

And a whole of strawberries.

"Dear earthlings, prepare to be my slave!" Announced the alien. "You will have to work 3 entire days from Monday to Wednesday, you will only get A5 wagyu steak for meals, and if that isn't cruel enough you'll have to work 2 entire torturing hours of picking strawberries every single work day!"

[elliotsgrl]

somebody's watching me ♡

pairing: jinu x f! reader

synopsis: the sexual tension between you and jinu finally snaps in the bathroom of a nightclub.

warnings: smut, possessive! jinu, tiny bit of toxic! jinu (sorry), degradation, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, overstimulation, forced creampie (PLEASE stay safe. wrap it before you tap it!) will proofread later lol

a/n: i'm SOOO down bad for jinu it's insane... i would give up my soul so quick (and my virginity) i got carried away at the end cause i'm currently ovulating ok bye

thank you to @angelltheninth for originally writing the idea i had commented under their post! this is just my own spin on it :)

divider creds: @anitalenia

ever since you and the huntrix girls had seen the saja boys perform soda pop, things felt... weird. not only were these boys secretly demons in human form, but you had felt yourself being weirdly drawn to the group's leader, jinu. maybe it was their demon charm? this must have been the same way they got so many fangirls and fanboys gushing over them.

you were even more weirded out when you felt jinu's gaze focused on you after they finished performing their song. for your own good, you chose to ignore the chills that went down your spine and how hot your body was getting from his intense stare. you knew getting involved with a demon of all people would never end well. he could devour your soul at any moment, for fuck's sake!

nightfall had arrived, and the girls had come to a consensus that they would like to let loose at a nightclub. this nightclub was highly exclusive, which meant you would not have to worry about getting bombarded by crazed fans. you were all getting ready at rumi's place so you could leave together.

you had put on one of the hottest outfits that you had in your closet, pairing it with platform heels to give your outfit an even sexier vibe. you felt like you needed to change things up a bit and do something out of the ordinary for once. mira and zoey were usually the crazy ones, but you decided to join them in their craziness this time.

before leaving, you had taken some pictures of you and the girls as well as taking solo pictures to post on your story on your secret spam page on instagram. it was public, but only a certain amount of people knew about it. you liked it that way. you had posted a picture of yourself on your story, adding the song i wish you roses by kali uchis with the caption "goin to (clubname) <3", while trailing behind the girls who were already by the door to get to rumi's personal driver waiting outside.

you all got in the car, with rumi in the passenger's seat. you, zoey, and mira were in the back seat, talking amongst each other as the driver made his way to the nightclub. even though you ignored how you felt earlier because of the way jinu was looking at you, you still felt like you could talk to them about it, but you were going to make sure you would conveniently leave that part out.

zoey was right next to you, laughing at something silly that mira said. you lightly thwacked zoey's shoulder, snapping her out of it.

"hey, what the heck was that for?!" zoey whined, grabbing her shoulder. mira looked over at you, while rumi turned around to see what was going on.

"you'll be fine, zo. i had to get your attention somehow-" you shrugged, making mira stifle a laugh.

"anywho, was it just me or is there something really off about the saja boys, i mean, other than the fact that they're demons, of course..."

the girls were silent, staring at you like you were some kind of conspiracy theorist. "guys, hear me out. did you guys not see jinu staring at me very oddly after they were done performing soda pop?!" zoey pretended to think, while mira scratched her head, and rumi was looking around like she was being pranked.

"i was too busy staring at abby to even notice what jinu was doing, to be honest with you." zoey chimed. "those abs..." zoey began to drool, reminiscing what abby looked like when his shirt popped open. right then and there you gathered that zoey would be no help.

"i don't understand, what do you mean he was staring at you "very oddly"?" mira asked, with her eyebrow raised. she looked very confused with what you were saying.

"what i mean, is, he was staring at me like he wanted to devour my soul! how did you guys not notice this?!" you felt like you were going insane. rumi had broken her silence by letting out a quiet chuckle. "y/n, do you have a crush on this guy or something? because we're all so lost trying to understand you.."

you felt your cheeks heat up. there is NO way you have a crush on that demon!! although you have to admit he is very attractive. not to the girls, obviously. you did not want to give them another reason to tease you further.

"what?! no!!! why would i have a crush on the enemy??? you know what, forget it." you let out a long sigh. there was a short pause before the girls mumbled a quick "okay.." and resumed what they were doing.

you opened up instagram, switching to your secret account. you enjoyed the little community you had built. it felt authentic, interacting with your mutuals during your free time. your story had already been getting likes and comments. as you were mindlessly scrolling through the viewers, a username you were unfamiliar with was at the bottom.

who the heck is j63249? you thought.

you furrowed your brows, clicking on the username. the profile had zero followers, and was not following anyone. you assumed it was just a random instagram user who happened to stumble across your page. you brushed it off, closing out of the instagram app and leaned your head on the car window for the rest of the ride.

mira's driver had finally made it to the club. you all stepped out of the car, heading into the club's entrance. mira's driver honked as he drove off.

the loud bass of the music could be felt through your whole body as you held mira's hand to make your way through the crowd. you and the girls were headed to the bar to have a few drinks to get buzzed, and would be going to the dance floor afterwards.

as you were sipping on your drink at the bar and laughing with the girls, you felt something. you felt like someone had been staring at you. you slowly turned around to where the crowd was, and you saw nothing. everyone seemed to be engrossed in whatever they were doing. people dancing, couples making out, but no one was staring at you. so, what was that presence you felt?

you refused to let whatever that nagging stare was ruin your night. you had dragged the girls to the dance floor when your favorite song came on, singing the lyrics word for word and dancing on rumi. despite all the fun you were having, that uncomfortable feeling of being watched never went away. it was starting to drive you nuts. you needed to escape. and quickly.

you yelled into rumi's ear, "i'm going to the bathroom, i'll be right back!" rumi nodded, giving your hand a quick squeeze. you slithered past zoey and mira to leave the crowd. you laughed to yourself seeing their dance moves. after leaving the crowd, you had let out a breath you did not even realize you were holding.

you quickly scurried into the private bathroom, locking the door behind you. you stared at yourself in the mirror, grabbing onto the sink. "am i losing my fucking mind?" you muttered to yourself. a figure had appeared from a purple mist behind you, making you shriek loudly.

you could not believe what you were seeing right now. the figure was jinu, smirking at your reflection. you scowled back at him in the mirror and began to stomp towards the exit. as you reached for the doorknob, a sudden force pulled you back, leading you straight into jinu's arms and leaving zero space between the two of you.

"not so fast, little human." jinu's voice sounded like velvet. you wondered what he wanted with you. no matter, you had to find a way to get out of here, far away from him. this was not the time to be fraternizing with the enemy. you tried to slap him to get him to release you from his hold but he effortlessly grabbed your wrist, leading you to let out a gasp.

"what the hell do you want from me?" you questioned, struggling in his grip. jinu's eyes slowly traveled down to your outfit then back up at you. was he seriously checking you out right now? you felt so naked and exposed.

"cute outfit." jinu chuckled darkly, tilting his head.

"but i don't like anyone else seeing what's mine." jinu wore an angry expression on his face. his eyes flashed yellow, and you were starting to get more freaked out by the second.

you scoffed. "have you gone mad? i do not belong to you!” you paused, furrowing your brows in confusion. "wait... how did you even know we would be here?"

"you crazy demon stalker! let go of me! ugh!" you attempted to get out of his grip once more. your bodies pressing together was starting to make you feel things that you shouldn't be.

"i don't think so, darling." jinu smirked. "you weren't exactly discreet about your whereabouts on your instagram..." jinu said, in a condescending tone. you looked at him dumbfounded, connecting the dots. he was the one who had been watching you in the club like a hawk.

"so, it was you creeping on my page. i didn't realize there was a wi-fi connection in the depths of hell." you spat. jinu looked at you with amusement.

"and why the fuck were you watching me so hard? do you not realize how creepy and weird that is? i guess you wouldn't, since you're a demon." jinu's expression soured for a quick moment. you bit back a smirk, knowing you had successfully gotten under his skin.

"you think you're funny, hm?"

"i had to make sure no one touched what is rightfully mine." jinu released your wrist, trailing his long finger down your arm. this immediately gave you goosebumps, which did not go unnoticed by jinu.

"and what makes you so sure that i'm yours?" you stared at jinu with a skeptical look, as the gap between your faces was beginning to get smaller.

jinu leaned down into your ear, speaking softly. "i know you feel it too, y/n, you don't have to keep resisting me." jinu grabbed your waist so you couldn't run away again. he left a soft kiss on your ear, with his lips trailing down the side of your neck. he was leaving wet kisses on your neck. you were using all of your willpower to stop yourself from moaning.

of course you felt it too. but this was not supposed to be happening. what would the girls think if they knew what was going on right now? getting handsy with your sworn enemy? you couldn't. you had to end this.

"jinu- stop it." you gripped his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to pry him away from your neck. instead, he bit on your neck, leading you to let out a loud moan.

"are you sure you want me to stop?" jinu resumed his wet kisses on your neck, gripping your waist harder. he moved his kisses up to your jaw, then pulled away so that you were face to face now.

"i do, now let go of me. we shouldn't be doing this." you said, putting your hands on his shoulders to push him away from you. before you could push him away, he placed his lips on yours. you had kissed him back, but you quickly used all of your strength to pull him away from your lips, leaving the both of you breathing heavily.

you were conflicted, wondering how something so bad for you could also be good for you at the same time. fuck it, you thought.

you gave into your desires, grabbing his shirt to pull him back into a heated kiss. you were both moaning and jinu used the opportunity to put his tongue in your mouth, swirling his tongue with yours as you kissed each other roughly. jinu lifted you up into his arms, with you wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. he placed you on the bathroom counter, getting in between your legs as you continued making out.

jinu pulled away from you, a string of saliva connecting your lips while he pulled the straps of your dress down to reveal your breasts. your nipples were already hard and standing at attention. jinu flicked both nipples, making your body twitch. an erotic gasp came from your mouth when he leaned down to suck one of the hard buds, pinching the other nipple. you gripped onto his hair, biting your lip.

jinu's hand left your nipple and trailed down your thighs, spreading them open. he ran a finger over your clothed clit, groaning on your nipple after feeling your wetness. he let go of your nipple to face you, a cocky grin on his face. “i wonder who got you this wet.”

you were not going to give him the satisfaction. instead, you muttered “shut up,” as you pulled his face back to yours. you sucked on his bottom lip before going back to explore each other’s mouths. jinu raised the fabric of your dress up to get better access to your aching cunt. he pulled your underwear down your leg, and you assisted him in kicking them off.

jinu rubbed his index and middle fingers around your opening, gathering your slick on his fingers. he slowly put his middle finger inside you, making you break the kiss and dig your nails into his shoulders, moaning desperately.

he moved his finger in and out of you, slowly. he watched you to see your reaction to his one finger opening you up. "you're so fucking tight. i don't think you'll be able to take my dick, honey." jinu's finger in you moved faster. you threw your head back against the mirror, whimpering pathetically.

jinu grabbed your throat to get you to face him. "it'll fit," you choked out, barely able to utter a sentence. "more..." you chanted, wanting his fingers to stuff you full before the real thing.

jinu added his index finger to your sopping hole, your cunt was squelching from how wet you were. jinu curled his fingers inside you and used his thumb to rub on your clit, sending you into overdrive. you were grinding your hips into his fingers, chasing the release that would soon be around the corner.

"you like it when i fuck your slutty pussy with my fingers, baby?" jinu questioned. you nodded, breathing heavily. he was not happy with your response. he let go of your throat to give you a light tap on your cheek, scolding you.

"ah, ah, ah. use your words, sweetie." he demanded, his hand wrapping itself back around your throat. "yes, i love it, i love it so much. please don't stop," you begged, grabbing onto his arm that was choking you.

jinu smirked triumphantly at your compliance. "that's a good girl." he looked down at his soaked fingers sliding in and out of you. the thought of getting your wetness all over him made his dick twitch in his pants.

"jinu- i'm close-" you panted out, your breathing was getting heavier and heavier as you felt that familiar build up about to reach it's breaking point.

"you gonna cum on my fingers, love? cum for me."

your orgasm washed over you not long after jinu coaxed your release. you had your mouth wide open in an "o" shape as your legs started to shake uncontrollably, arching your back against the mirror as he helped you ride out your high. you had never come that hard before, even by yourself. you leaned back, letting out a sigh as jinu released his grip on your throat.

jinu slowly pulled his fingers out of you, putting his fingers in his mouth to taste your cum. he groaned, cleaning up the mess you made on his fingers while savoring your sweet taste. "you taste divine, love." he grabbed your chin, putting his mouth on yours to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

you reached in between you to rub on his bulge through his pants, making him growl in your mouth. the kiss got more desperate, as jinu grabbed your breasts and you hastily unbuckled his belt. he broke the kiss to unbutton his jeans, pulling his big dick out of his briefs. his dick was huge, veiny, and pre cum was leaking out of the tip. you let out a quiet gasp. your cunt throbbed at the sight. was that really going to go inside you?

he spread your thighs wider, slapping his fat tip against your clit, making you whine. he rubbed his girthy length all over your lips, mixing his pre cum with your slick. he hissed as he put the tip inside your tight hole. you let out a sharp moan and pushed him back out. jinu grabbed your wrist, pinning it up to the mirror.

"uhn uhn, you said it could fit, remember?"

"it's too big- mmph!" you squealed, feeling jinu push his thick length deeper into you. he was stretching your tight cunt out to the limit, and it hurt so good.

jinu pushed more and more of his thick dick into you, making you cry out with every inch that made it's way into your snug walls. when he finally got all of him inside you, he wore an evil grin on his face. you were his now. your pussy was his, whether you liked it or not.

"don't move yet-" you babbled, trying to get used to the feeling of being stuffed full by the biggest dick you've ever had. jinu didn't move. he leaned into your neck to kiss and bite it while you were adjusting. you unconsciously clenched around him as he kissed your neck. he groaned in your neck, rolling his hips into you.

you freed your wrist from his grip, pulling his face back up to yours. you whispered on his lips, "you can move now..." he immediately pulled his length out and slammed it back in. you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, resting your arms around his shoulder. you both were moaning onto each other's mouths as jinu rocked in and out of you at a steady pace.

"faster..." you commanded. you swore you saw his eyes flicker a shade of yellow right before he started to plow into you. you were already starting to cream all over jinu's dick, you couldn't think straight; it felt so damn good.

"can't you see that we were meant to be together? look how your body responds to me." jinu breathes, glancing down at where the two of you were connected.

"i bet no one else has fucked you this good, have they?" jinu questioned. you decided not to answer, too caught up in how good you were feeling. he slapped your breast harshly as he fucked you, making you scream.

"answer me, slut." jinu growled, his eyebrows furrowing. your pussy throbbed around him at the degradation.

"no, they haven't-- shit!" his dick hit a certain spot inside you, making you see stars. he let out a menacing laugh, realizing he has you right where he wants you.

"that's right, only i can fuck this pussy like this, and make you cum on this dick like this." jinu grabs your thighs, thrusting into you harder and faster.

you mindlessly agree, "mhm, no one else, jinu. keep fucking me just like that," you wailed. one of your arms resting on his shoulders finds its way to his hair, gripping onto it.

"kiss me," you pant against jinu's lips, wanting to feel him close to you. he wasted no time in claiming your mouth. the kiss was slow, wet, and passionate. jinu slowed his thrusts to match the pace of your kissing. each thrust was getting you closer to the edge. your walls clamped down on jinu's dick, letting him know you would cum soon. he reluctantly let go of your lips to ask,

"gonna cum again?"

with hazed eyes, you nodded slowly. he rubbed slow circles on your sensitive clit, adding extra stimulation. it didn't take long for you to start falling apart on his cock.

"cum on this dick, baby," jinu purred, speeding up his thrusts once more.

"mmf- coming!" you murmured, feeling the familiar buildup rising in your core, ready to explode.

your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your whole body convulsing as you came on jinu's thick cock, your grip on him getting even tighter. jinu grunted from being squeezed so tightly by you, fucking you through your orgasm.

you let out a blissful sigh as you came down from your second high of the night. you thought jinu would finally take it easy on you, but he was not. he continued to drill himself roughly into you.

"jinu, i'm still sensitive!" you yelped, holding onto his shoulders. he pinched your right nipple, leading you to sob from the overstimulation.

"you think you're the only one who gets to finish, whore? no. i'm gonna fill this pussy up, to ruin you for any other man but me." jinu roared, cupping your right breast in his hand.

in a panicked tone, you gasped, "wait, don't cum inside me!" you knew you would be forever bound to him if he were to cum inside you. it would be a point of no return, with you at his mercy.

"that's not up to you to decide, my love." jinu smiled sinfully, his canines on full display. you looked at him frightfully while your heart rate sped up. "the fear in your eyes only makes me want to fill you up even more." his voice had went down a few octaves, the demon side of him was itching to come out.

jinu bit onto your shoulder, growling, as he spilled his warm cum inside you. you whined out in pain and ecstasy, feeling his canines digging into your skin and his release filling you up. you hated that you enjoyed it. his thrusts came to a complete stop while his cock went limp inside you.

you both were catching your breath, the aftermath of everything was now starting to hit you. what had you done? you put your hands on your face, shaking your head. you have no idea how you were going to face the girls after what just went down.

you removed your hands from your face, glaring at jinu. the bastard had the audacity to cockwarm you, wearing a cocky grin on his face. looking at his pretty face just made you angrier. "pull out of me, now." you sneered, putting your hands on his chest to push him out. being the stubborn demon that he is, he would not move. you groaned in frustration.

"you got what you wanted, now pull out of me already!" jinu obliged your request, slowly removing his cock from your hole. his cum was now leaking of you. you rolled your eyes in annoyance. "this is exactly why i told you not to cum inside me." you sighed, pulling the straps of your dress back up. you reached over to the paper towels to clean yourself up, but jinu reached it first, carefully wiping away the cum that was leaking out. he used his fingers to push the rest of the cum back in your hole.

"what the fuck do you think you're doing? unh!" you choked, gripping his wrist to remove his fingers. you were not going to fall into his trap again. jinu chuckled, using his demon force to remove himself from your hold, successfully trapping you in place to keep you from moving, so he could continue to finger you.

"it seems like you still don't understand that this pussy belongs to me. i guess i have to show you." jinu put his thumb on your clit again, rubbing on it as he continued fingering his cum back inside you.

you wailed out, "jinu! stop! it's too much!" your thighs were beginning to shake, letting out broken moans. jinu leaned in to your ear, whispering, "tell me this pussy is mine and i'll stop." you were done fighting. you would do anything to stop the torture.

"fine! this pussy is yours... now stop!" you surrendered, wanting the delicious but dangerous pleasure to end. jinu bit on your earlobe, grunting in a disapproving tone.

"say it like you mean it, baby." jinu demanded, increasing the pace of his fingers inside you. you were already getting so close.

"this pussy is all yours, i promise," you rasped, so close to having your third release. "i'm almost there, don't stop, please," you hissed, rolling your hips on his fingers.

"good girl, now come for me." jinu praised, stretching your cunt out on his fingers. you screamed out, your body vibrating as you had yet another orgasm from jinu. this demon was going to be the death of you. he released his grip on you, pulling your face to his for a wet kiss. you slowly pulled away from each other, breathing rapidly.

"you're all mine now, and don't you ever forget it."

a/n: i hope you all enjoyed it! 🥹 i'm still an amateur writer trying to improve my writing so i'm sorry in advance if it's not the best 😔 constructive criticism is very much appreciated!!! <3 also open to writing another part if anyone has any ideas!!!

[pastafossa]

Heat Wave (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, SFW)

Had this one sitting in my docs folder for a while, decided to edit it and finally drop it in honor of the hot summer.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: SFW, no use of y/n, lots of descriptions about how hot it is but it's fine cause Matt still thinks you smell nice, Reader is AFAB, Matt is a brat

Fic Summary: Just a short, humourish drabble-ish bit about you and Matt dealing with the heat as I try to get back into writing.

Or: in which Matt is still somehow cuddly in triple-digit weather.

You were going to kill someone. 

Matt would claim you were exaggerating, but you knew the truth. These were living conditions meant for lizards, not mammals, and when mammals—one particular flavor of mammal, especially—were forced out of their proper biome, murder wasn’t out of the question. You were pretty sure that was how it worked, anyway, according to Genesis. It was hard to remember when your brain was sizzling inside your skull like a wad of bacon. 

One-hundred-and-fucking-six degrees. 

You could have dealt with it if it had been a bit drier. Really. But during New York summers, the only thing more reliable than the honking of horns was the humidity, which had sent the index soaring up into the category of absolute hellscape. The rickety old air conditioning unit in the apartment had done alright until the heat index had hit triple digits. Then it had coughed, sputtered, and settled for, ‘Sure, you’re still a sweaty puddle of melting meat juice, but the outside is worse if you think about it, right?’ The A.C. at Nelson and Murdock had waved the white flag even sooner than that, to the point they’d closed the office four days ago and reverted to working from home. Matt hadn’t even bothered to go out as the Devil the past two nights, not when the very act of putting on the suit had become dangerous. 

Not that there was anyone out there for Matt to fight right now. Apparently even the criminals had a temperature limit. Turns out the real secret to stopping crime wasn’t a Devil suit, but instead just cranking up the setting on the giant ball of fire in the sky until the very act of crime meant you might wind up with a chance to meet the real Devil first hand.

The fact that you were living in Hell’s Kitchen had never felt more accurate. 

Matt, ever the practical masochist, was out in the bad air doing… something. Errands, you vaguely remembered, since it was after dark and thus moderately less like a pot of boiling soup outside. You didn’t much care, though. You were currently in the bedroom sprawled out on the floor where it was just a touch cooler, a few thin sheets and a pillow thrown down for padding. You’d stripped down to your underwear, five different fans whirring away around you in an attempt to stir the stagnant, sticky air in the room. If you were lucky, they’d help you retain the brief snatch of heavenly cold your body had greedily absorbed sitting in the shower for the past hour. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better, and at this point you’d take it. And as much as you loved Matt, it was far more pleasant without him here. That man was a furnace and the heat had only reduced his cuddling needs by about forty percent. On top of that, if he knew you’d cooled your body, he’d want in.

The bedroom door slowly rolled open with an ominous… 

…squeak. 

You blearily turned your head.

Matt had already stripped out of his shirt, his body so soaked in sweat he almost seemed to shine. On a good day you’d have compared him and his damp, pale skin to a beautiful marble sculpture, to classical paintings of gorgeous Greek Gods emerging from frothing rivers. Now, however, all you could think of was a hot dog pulled straight from the hot, cloudy water at that one food cart you didn’t really trust: 

Shiny. 

Questionably wet. 

And not something you particularly wanted laying on top of you in triple digit weather. 

Matt blinked innocently at you as he slowly shucked his shorts—shorts you hadn’t even realized he owned until this heat wave. It left him in nothing but damp boxers still clinging to his thick thighs. His intent was clear. 

“Shoo,” you croaked. “My cold body. Go away. Go sit in the shower like I did.”

“Everyone else had the same idea. The water pressure’s too low now.” He took a creeping step, and then another, bit by bit making his way around the bed towards you like an overheated panther. “Share it with me. I want it.”

“Come back when it’s ten degrees cooler.”

“I love you,” he sighed sadly, aiming those big, dark, mournful eyes in your general direction as he rounded the bed. Foggy called it Matt’s ‘abandoned kitten in the rain’ look. It was far more effective on you than you’d ever admit to, and on a colder day, it would have worked. But you were quickly reminded of Matt’s true goal when a droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away with a grunt, nose scrunching like a cat’s as he paused just long enough to wipe it away. Then he was back at it. He sank smoothly to his knees, crawling menacingly towards you across the floor on all fours. “I love you so, so much. Let me hold you, sweetheart. I need you.”

“Fuck off, you goddamn cold thief.” You kicked lethargically at him with one leg the moment he was in range, dodging his grip when he snatched at your ankle. You quickly shifted to your backup plan, which was mostly just rolling like an overcooked rotisserie chicken to the far side of the small cloth nest on the floor. But even after an hour in a cold shower, you still wound up partially stuck to the sheets where sweat had pooled against your lower back, bringing half the fabric with you, making you groan. “Do some Devil meditation to cool down.”

He’d made it fully onto the blankets now, inching towards you, that familiar predatory hunger radiating from every inch of him. He slowly tilted his head, honing in on you, on the exact positioning of his body. Then he flashed you a grin. “This is faster.” 

“I’m not your cold pack—” 

“You’re about to be,” he purred. 

Before you could blink he’d flung himself across the blankets, twining himself around you, trapping you in his sticky grip. You squirmed and rocked weakly in an attempt to escape, a flopping wet fish caught in the clutches of your beloved cuddle octopus, but it was no use, and fighting him off would only heat you up further. You let out a miserable groan, sagging against the floor, and the sound was almost lost beneath his equally loud moan of relief. 

The struggle clearly over, he made his final move, throwing one of his fuzzy, muscular legs over your waist and dragging you back in tighter against him, shoving his hips up against your ass without so much as a, ‘you want some dinner first?’ Just like that you were trapped against a mountain of sweaty, burning Devil. His contented, admittedly-mildly-heat-exhausted little purr into your hair was only matched by your grumble of irritation as his body eagerly began to drain you of every last drop of cold you’d managed to suck up in the shower.

“Why?” you moaned, his sticky, wet skin sliding against yours with every breath, the sweat already pooling between you. You felt like you were trapped against a slip-n-slide. “Why, Matthew?”

“You don’t want me to get heat stroke do you?” he mumbled sadly, though he wasn’t sad enough not to rub his great, big, obnoxious, sweaty head against your damp hair. There must have been some cold left up there, too. “Who will keep you warm in the winter? As if you don’t do this to me when you’re cold. Fair’s fair.” 

“The pot is uncomfortable being called the fuck out by the kettle,” you muttered, reluctantly lifting one arm so he could more easily wrap himself around you. Which he did, with no small amount of pleasure. “This sucks, and I hate it.”

“There is one upside though.”

“What’s that?”

He dragged his head sleepily down to your neck and faceplanted against your damp skin without any hesitation, taking a few long, drunken inhales. When he spoke again, his voice had grown just a little slurred, glutted and thick. “You smell amazing, sweetheart.” 

“No, I smell like I’m a bag of meat that’s marinating,” you said grimly. “Because that’s what I am right now thanks to this heatwave. I am God’s sentient bag of marinating meat.” “Mm, but the bag smells good at least.” Matt rubbed his cheek fondly against your slick shoulder, no doubt luxuriating in all the pheromones bogged down in the sweat clinging to your skin. “We can marinate together.”

Who said romance was dead?

“As flattering as it is that you’re not turned off by how I smell soaked in my own sweat,” you told him tiredly, though not unkindly, “I regret to inform you that Club Vagina is closed until the air stops trying to kill us.” “Fair. Just thought you should know how good you smell.” He yawned, adjusting himself against you. You grimaced when your skin and his stuck together awkwardly for a moment before sliding slickly against each other, only to seemingly glue itself back together a moment later when he settled.

Once he was cooled off, you were absolutely leaving him on this side of the floor nest and making an escape for the other side. Hell, you might be able to talk him into giving you a good six inches of space if you could convince him that a single pinky toe touching qualified as cuddling in spirit, if not in form. 

That he still wanted to cuddle at all was the bigger mystery.

“What I really want to know is how you aren’t dying right now.” You furrowed your brow. “You’re tolerating this and the heat a lot better than I thought you would.”

“Let me put it this way.” He tapped one finger against you almost playfully. “Ninety degrees in the suit feels roughly equal to triple digits when not wearing it. At least this way the sweat has somewhere to go. Some nights I’m surprised I don’t make sloshing sounds when I move.”

Your brain unhelpfully offered up an idea of what that might sound like: a wet squish caught somewhere between the splashing of water in a bucket and the muffled squeak of a water balloon when you squeezed it in your hand. 

You really wished your brain was a little less imaginative. Or specific.

“Oh god.”

“Mhm. Now you know why I sometimes avoid you until I shower after patrol in the summer.”

“That is very much appreciated. Speaking of showers, I could already use another one, but that’s not doable until the water pressure’s back.” You blew out a breath, staring at the wall, the only shield between both of you and the tacky, carnival taffy-thick humidity desperate to find a way in. One of the fans sputtered as if in sympathy, though that likely had more to do with the way it had been running almost non-stop for twelve hours. For all you knew, this was the fan threatening a lawsuit over unpaid overtime. “Until then we just survive. Or evolve into lizards.”

“I choose survival. Might be hard to keep the streets safe if I was a lizard.”

“Unless you were a really big, scary one. A Komodo Devil.” You groaned, flopping your head back against his shoulder. “Then you could chase people off before they take all the ice cream at the store. I don’t suppose you found some?”

“I could only find a box of popsicles.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Except they melted on the way home. So fruit-flavored, room-temperature water in a tube is the best I can offer until they solidify in the freezer again.”

Fuck. 

This wasn’t fair. You bet Turk had ice cream. Somehow. Why couldn’t you have some of that

Actually…

“I don’t suppose,” you said innocently, “I could talk you into stealing an air conditioning unit, and maybe some ice cream, from a bad guy?”

Matt was quiet for a long, thoughtful, Catholic moment as he presumably considered the sin of thievery, especially if that thievery involving taking something from a very, very bad person who surely didn’t deserve the cold air and sweet, sweet relief of ice cream as much as you, the love of his life, did.

You pointedly leaned forward, your wet, sweaty body peeling away from him like the hands of a kindergartner who’d coated his palms in Elmer’s glue. 

That did it. “The second I’ve drained all the cold from your body, I’m willing to discuss it.”

“Excellent.”

[jeonsweetpea]

💌: I was deeply engrossed until I realized I was reading part 2 and not part 1 (thanks Tumblr for recommending me this out of order) lol. BUT IT DOESN'T MATTER because I thoroughly enjoyed it!!! 😍

First of all, I am always a sucker for friends to lovers + fwb subplot. It's been so long since I've read a story that's made me feel so much. I think the best part is your writing has the most realistic dialogue I've ever read between two characters. Jungkook is down-to-earth and hilarious; their banter is so, so good! True best friend behavior. Hahaha.

Every dialogue is also attached to a specific action that shows more than tells. It itches a satisfying part of my writer's brain. I got inspired from how you write!

Oh, and I gotta throw in this line.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

PLEASE, this line was perfectly written for Jungkook. 😭💘 He really do be looking angry when he eats something good. LMFAO.

I haven't even talked about the smut yet, but like, what's a better word than phenomenal? It was hot and I love how it wasn't perfect b/c car sex is tricky af. I'm SUPER curious about how part 3 will unfold b/c the ending in this part had me ‼️‼️‼️

And of course, I will have to go back to part 1 too! LOL!

JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content, car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

[ssentimentals]

Hi love! I hope you're having a wonderful day!

I'm here to request from your prompt list if that's okay?

#3 with wonwoo fluff thank you !!! 💜💜

I love your writing style sooooo much I just wanted to let you know thank youuu

hi baby, i hope you're having a wonderful day too! of course it's okay to request, thank you for doing so and thank you for your kind words, they mean the world!💜

prompt: 'you never came to bed last night.'

when wonwoo finds you curled in an uncomfortable position on the sofa, he pauses and pinches himself lightly to make sure he's not hallucinating. he rubs his eyes for a good measure, but no, it's definitely you on that sofa, fast asleep in your last night's clothes. his heart instantly skyrockets up to his throat from nerves - why are you here? why did you decide to sleep on the sofa instead of coming to the bed to him? wonwoo can swear that you two were fine when you left to work yesterday morning - what happened in between? you told him to not wait for you because you had this work event and wonwoo didn't even notice how he fell asleep, too tired from this hell of a week. nervously, he walks quietly to the kitchen for a glass of water and when he comes back, you're already rubbing your eyes sleepily, looking so adorable that it tugs on his heartstrings.

'morning, love.' he carefully holds you the glass of water.

you blink twice at him before slowly sitting up anf reaching for the water with a small smile. you don't look mad, he supposes. but you must be or else why would you decide to sleep on the sofa?

'morning, woo.' you mumble, yawning. you lie back on the sofa, pulling your legs closer to your chest and giving him space to sit. 'what time is it?'

'around nine,' wonwoo answers, sitting hesitantly.

you sound just like you usually do in the mornings, nothing indicates that something is wrong. unsurely, he gently touches your ankle and breathes out sigh of relief when you stretch your legs out, moving them on top of his with a comfortable familiarity. you wouldn't have been like that if something bad happened, surely. then why-

'is... everything okay?' he asks quietly.

you hum questioningly and when wonwoo doesn't offer anything else, you open your eyes, turning your head to look at him. 'yes? why, did something happen?'

'you never came to bed last night,' wonwoo says, tracing circles on your knees. he doesn't meet your gaze, not now. 'i figured something happened if you decided not to sleep on our bed with me.'

at first you look confused but then you mutter 'oh' and pull your legs away from him. wonwoo freezes at the lack of physical contact, his mind instantly dives to the worst thing - that he fucked up, badly. he only feels like he can breathe again, when you move closer to his side, leaning on his shoulder with a yawn. 'i'm not fully awake yet,' you mumble, slurring your words a little right into his shoulder. 'but no, woo, nothing bad happened. i just came so late, i didn't want to disturb you.'

wonwoo frowns. he carefully wraps his arm around your waist. 'you never do,' he says, thinking whether he once acted like you bothered him, ever. 'i'm sorry for not waiting for you, i took those pills you told me about last time and they just knocked me out, i guess.'

'they and your general tiredness,' you say, looking up. your chin digs painfully into his shoulder, but he pays it no mind, finally meeting your gaze. you don't look mad, you look worried. 'it was a bad week babe, wasn't it? you didn't really sleep.'

yeah, it was shitty. too bad that you caught on it though. 'i'm fine,' wonwoo says, tightening his grip on your waist. 'and it'd be better if you woke up sliding next to me on the bed instead of me finding you sleeping on the sofa.'

wonwoo doesn't say that he doesn't like sleeping not next to you. he doesn't say how he is so used to having you in his arms every night, that at nights when he doesn't, his limbs ache with longing. instead he whispers: 'i will wait for you next time. and pick you up from events too. sorry, love.'

'nothing to be sorry for,' you assure him and it's sincere, he can tell by the look in your eyes. you carefully stand up and pull him with you, smiling. 'let's go to our bed and sleep some more, yeah? make up for not sleeping together yesterday?'

wonwoo's body sags in relief. god, yes. 'yeah,' he leans in and kisses your forehead. 'yeah, love, let's go.'

a/n: oooh, whenever i write fluff, i feel like i come back to my usual self <3 hope you liked it! - nini

my other seventeen works are here

request your own here

[angelltheninth]

Jinu Uses You For His Pleasure

Pairing: Jinu x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, dub-con, rough sex, creampie, breath play, enemies who fuck, being pinned down, growling, possessive sex, edging, cum swallowing, slight breeding kink, marking, cunnilingus, blowjob, demon x human

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I've had multiple requests for more dub-con with Jinu, so here it is! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it because I really enjoyed it.

Jinu hated you right now, more than he usually hated you, which was probably the reason he was so rough and forgiving as he pounded your cunt relentlessly. "You thought I'd let you get away with that? You thought you were innocent when you batted your eyelashes at all those fans, blew kisses at them while signing pictures for them. Did you think I wouldn't notice when others look at something that's mine?!"

He didn't care how you squirmed or fought back against his grip, you can't break it, it only makes him grip your wrists tighter, pin you down against the couch harder.

"You don't own me, and the fact that you act like you do… it's funny to see you pissed off." Jinu growled at your taunting insult, his marks appearing around his body more clearly, his human facade fading the angrier he got. You couldn't help but think how attractive he was, half way between the human idol everyone worships and half the demon you've been fighting for what feels like lifetime.

"You say that and yet your body wants me, your pussy so tight I can hardly pull out. You can fight, scream, curse me out all you want until your voice is gone but until I make sure your body knows who it belongs to, who can use it, I won't stop." His cock twitched inside of you, the fat tip hammering into your womb, pushing more and more of his seed in and showing no sign of stopping.

You didn't exactly want to piss him off, you didn't even want to see him, ever again. But given that it was inevitable and he was a complete asshole to you last time he fucked you it was only right that you got some payback. Even if it hurt to get fucked like this, it made your whole body ache, it made your head dizzy, but it was worth it to see Jinu lose control.

Jinu groaned as your hips snapped up against his, not enough to knock him off, not nearly enough. "I love it when you fight me." You blinked and there he was, fully in his demon form. "Women like you are my favorite to break, so strong, so beautiful, and before you know it, all mine. Mine to use, mine to have whenever I want, mine to fuck and fill you up with as many babies as possible."

"You're delusional if you think that's going to happen. I'll never… ugh.. submit to the likes of you. You're nothing but a lowly… demon. Nothing but a- mmn… wh-" He sopped. He was fully buried inside of you but he wasn't moving. You hiccuped, voice breaking from the sudden lack of stimulation. "What are you doing?"

"Having fun with my human. What else?" He moved back slowly and then even slower slid back in. "Mmm, let me enjoy your sweet pussy, so warm and tight, already full of my seed. Bet your fans would think of you differently if they knew how much you were craving a good fuck. Saw how utterly full of cum you are, and wanting more. Tch. Not very idol-like of you, is it?"

"Shut up. I don't want to hear that from you. You god damn hypocrite!" You moved up as much as his grip allowed you to, a hair between the two of you. "Are you scared you can't measure up? Is that why you do this? You know you can't get any unless you're being forceful with me?" You could see your words were making him angry, but never the less his cock reacted, his hips too, snapping harder and faster with every taunt.

"Human… you need to learn some manners." Jinu pulled out of you entirely, all his cum spilling from your pussy. What was even more surprising was that he let you go, at least you thought he did before his legs pressed against your arms, once again pinning you down on the couch. "You have quite a mouth. Let's make you put it to a better use shall we?"

With a sharp growl he plunged his entire cock down your throat, fucking your mouth mercilessly, making you choke on his dick, gasp for air. You moaned and gurgled around his cock, every word you tried to speak only adding to his pleasure as your tongue lapped against it. Jinu leaned over and wrapped his arms around your hips to pull your lower half up, letting his cum drip down your ass as his tongue lashed at your clit.

"What's wrong, is my bitch struggling to breathe? My cock too much for you? You better come quickly then. Cause I'm gonna keep fucking you until you do. Teach you to mouth off to me. Oh, and all of this…" Jinu pushed two fingers into your aching pussy, "…for every drop of cum that you waste I'll fuck more into you, so don't think I'm gonna let you go so easily."

His still full balls smacked against you as he fucked your mouth and throat, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, fingers fucking you hard but not enough. You didn't want to let him win, but you also didn't want him to have you in this humiliating position, making you choke on his cock. Tears of frustration welled up in your eyes as you begrudgingly focused on his cock, your tongue licking the salty cum that dripped down, licking the pulsing veins, your hips rocking towards his face.

"That's a good girl. Yeah, you're mine. Best to accept it. Let yourself be mine, all mine. Let yourself come." His knees lifted from your arms and you felt shame well up inside of you as you gripped his thighs to keep his cock in your mouth as you came, swallowing around it, making him release down your throat, greedily gulping it down. "Such a good slut."

Jinu's let your legs fall against the couch and pushed himself off. He looked down at you, your face flushed, eyes red, tears running down your face, his seed leaking from between your legs and from the side of your mouth.

As he grinned you felt the urge to hide. "Pretty cumslut, filled with cum on both ends." You threw your arm over your face and chewed on your bottom lip. A mistake as you tasted his cum even more intensely. "I'm feeling nice so I'll let you catch your breath for a moment." Jinu walked around and pushed himself between your legs, his still hard cock nudging between your dripping folds.

His hands massaged across your body almost gently, helping to ease the tension enough to push his cock back in. "That… I… can't anymore…"

"Yes, you can." He sighed as he bottomed up, his mouth curling upwards at the whimpering sound you made. "Shhh, this is all I'm doing. Just want to be inside of you. Rest up, my darling. Because I'm not sure how long I'll be able to hold myself back."

[thatonegrimm]

Can I req the saja boys comforting a reader who has adhd and likes dancing while listening to music but has to mask it so as not to seem weird? I imagine its especially hard in korea because people dont accept neurodivergent people alot, and they often do it more at home where they feel more safe to just be themselves.

Ahhh thank you so much for this request!💙 As someone with ADHD, I totally get it. Masking can be exhausting, especially in spaces where neurodivergence isn’t well understood or accepted. That feeling of needing to “turn off” parts of yourself just to avoid judgment? All too real. This one meant a lot to write and honestly, it got me so inspired I’m already thinking about a continuation. 🥹💭

🌙 Saja Boys –"When They Notice You Masking"

Summary: You’ve always hidden the way you move to music — the stimming, the dancing, the joy — because you’ve learned that too much expression gets misunderstood. But the Saja Boys see it, quietly, and one by one, they let you know it’s safe to be yourself around them.

------------------------------------------

You dance when no one’s looking.

Not performance dancing — just you, vibing. Twisting to the rhythm, bouncing your shoulders, mouthing lyrics only you can hear. It’s joy, and motion, and impulse, and freedom.

But you don’t do it around people. Not often. Not outside. You’ve seen the looks. In Korea, people don’t always get it. They see “weird,” not “neurodivergent.” They see too much.

So you don’t give them more.

You smile smaller. Walk quieter. And save your dancing for home.

You don’t think the boys notice.

But they do.

----------------------------------------

🧿 Jinu

He hears it first — your music spilling faintly through the hallway.

He passes by the living room, intending to call out that dinner’s almost ready, but pauses at the doorway instead. You’re in your own world, dancing in wide, free movements, the kind that don’t ask permission. It’s loose, a little goofy, a little beautiful. You don’t even notice him watching.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch, headphones in, he sits beside you and quietly offers one of his earbuds.

You blink at him. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just starts playing one of his playlists — something with a soft funk beat and warm synths — then gently bobs his head along.

“You don’t have to turn it down when I walk in,” he murmurs after a while. “I like seeing you like that.”

You glance down, a little shy.

He bumps your shoulder with his and smiles.

“I think you’ve got better rhythm than me anyway.”

---------------------------------

💪 Abby

You don’t hear him come home early. You’re mid-twirl, snack bag in one hand, music in your ears, absolutely vibing through the hallway—when you nearly collide with him.

Your heart drops. You freeze mid-step, mouth half open in panic.

He just grins.

“Whoa. Interpretive dance?” “No—I was just—” “It was cool.”

You try to explain, but he holds up a hand gently.

“You don’t have to shrink,” he says. “I liked it.”

You eye him, unsure.

“You do that outside too?” “Not really.” “Why not?” “People stare.”

He tilts his head, thoughtful.

“Maybe they’re just jealous,” he says. “Of what?” “Of you looking so free.”

He steps aside dramatically and gestures to the hallway.

“Encore?”

You laugh. He gives a little hip wiggle in return — so bad it makes you cover your face with both hands.

“C’mon,” he chuckles, pulling your hands down. “Teach me how to move like you.”

You do. And he tries. Awfully. With the biggest, brightest grin you’ve ever seen.

-----------------------------

📚 Mystery

You thought he didn’t notice. Mystery doesn’t say much on good days, and you assumed he just thought of you as calm — like him. You work so hard to look composed around the others. Still. Collected.

But one night, when you think everyone’s gone quiet, you curl up in the corner of the common room with your music low and your body gently pulsing to the beat. Fingers tapping. Knees bouncing. Your body slipping into rhythm without thought.

You glance up. He’s watching.

You freeze.

He doesn’t look confused. Just curious. A little thoughtful. Then his head tilts.

“Why do you stop when people see?” “Because they look at me weird.” “You weren’t being weird,” he says softly. “You were being happy.”

You sit in silence for a moment.

He settles down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder. Then, without asking, he reaches out and gently taps your wrist — matching your rhythm.

Your breath hitches.

“Keep going,” he says quietly. “I’ll follow.”

And he does.

------------------------------

💋 Romance

He’s known for a while. It’s the way you always move when it’s just the two of you — swaying at the sink, bouncing while brushing your teeth, spinning once on your way into a room.

But outside? You’re still. Controlled. Measured.

One day, after a long, quiet walk together, you finally let out a deep exhale the second you’re home — slumping against the wall, mask slipping off like it weighs ten pounds. Your fingers twitch for your headphones like a reflex.

Romance watches, silent, then steps into your space. Not close enough to corner. Just enough to meet your eyes.

“You always hold it in like that?” You shrug. “It’s easier. People stare.”

He doesn’t smile this time.

“They stare because they don’t get it. Not because you’re wrong.”

He steps closer and lifts your hand — then kisses your knuckles.

“You don’t have to be smaller to be loved.”

You swallow.

“Also,” he adds with a smirk, “you dance like you’re possessed. It’s hot.” “I flail.” “Flail more, then.”

---------------------------

🔥 Baby

You left your door cracked open. He wasn’t even trying to spy — just headed to the kitchen when he caught the faint sound of your music and saw movement from the corner of his eye.

You, spinning. In socks. Headphones in, body fully surrendered to whatever beat’s got you wrapped around its little finger. You’re gone in the best way.

He watches for a moment, leaning against the wall. Not smirking. Not teasing. Just watching.

You spot him too late. Freeze mid-step. Your eyes go wide.

“Don’t stop,” he says, voice even. “I didn’t know you were there.” “Clearly.”

You fidget, embarrassed.

He nods toward your phone.

“That song’s good. Keep going.” “You’re gonna make fun of me.” “I won’t.” Then, serious: “You’re not weird. Okay? You’re just... alive.”

You don’t answer.

He sinks down to the floor, back against the wall, pulling his hoodie over his head in that quiet, casual way he does when he wants to be there without making noise.

Then, softly:

“Pretending’s exhausting. Don’t do it here.”

He taps the floor in rhythm. Stays while you press play again. Doesn’t move. Just lets you be you.

---------------------------------

M-List

[prettydaisygirl]

Hi beautiful <33

I love your writing, especially James Bombero's. I need that man to be real.

Some fluff, maybe suggestive if you want (?) where the Pregnant reader is very happy to see James training and exercising and maybe because she is a little insecure about her body, he shows her that no matter the weight, he can carry her.

hi nonnie! Thank you so much for this request, I need to write something with them and their baby because I can't get enough of this. Hope you enjoy <3

firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who feels insecure about her body ✿ 710 words

cw: pregnant!fem!reader, body insecurity, James being hot but also gross, suggestive but no actual smut

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You bite your lip, shifting on the couch again. It’s been difficult to get comfortable recently, what with your body adjusting for new growth and the swell of your belly. That’s not why you’re squirming though, not really. That’s just your excuse.

The real reason is across the room, wearing a headband and shining with sweat.

James is doing bicep curls with weights you’re sure you’d never be able to lift. His small grunts with each rep have you hot and bothered no matter how hard you try to focus on your novel. Your eyes trace the same sentence four times before you give up, looking up to admire him again.

His muscles shift under the thin fabric of his sleeveless shirt. You find yourself staring, the book in your hand falling into your lap. James shakes his hair off his forehead again, beads of sweat dripping off his chocolate-colored curls. Your body heats, an ache between your legs that only worsens as you continue to watch him move.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve let James touch you. You don’t feel right in your body.

You’re happy. Incredibly, wonderfully, amazingly happy to be carrying his baby, it’s not that. Every time you look in the mirror, you don’t feel like yourself. The thought of him touching you, seeing you like this, makes your skin crawl. You know James would love you no matter what you looked like, but you’re having trouble loving yourself enough to let him touch you.

The heat in your gut mixes with the icy coldness of insecurity. Your face crumbles and you look back at your book, nausea rising up your throat despite the fact that you’ve long surpassed your morning sickness phase. 

Of course, it’s at this moment that James chooses to look at you. He takes out an earbud, a frown on his face. “Are you alright, love?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” You say, though the words are hollow and your voice wavers enough for him to notice. “I just… you look really good right now.”

“Why do you sound disappointed by that?” He asks, grabbing a towel to wipe off his sweat as he steps closer to you. “Normally you’d say ‘oh wow Jamie, you are so hot with such big muscles, I love you so much!’” James does a very poor impersonation of you, but it’s enough to have one corner of your mouth tilting up into a smile.

“I would never say that.” You say back in a low voice, rolling your eyes at him. The tight feeling in your gut doesn’t go away, though, and your hands instinctively find your bump. Despite it being the main source of the insecurity, feeling the skin there also brings you a sense of comfort. It’s an internal battle that just leaves you feeling like there are bugs below your skin, like you’re an imposter. “I’m just… afraid to let you touch me right now. 

James’ face contorts like this is the most confusing thing he’s ever heard, and then he looks almost offended. “Do you think so little of me? Angel, you’re carrying my child, I would never-”

“No, it’s not you, it’s… I don’t like how I look right now.”

A thick silence fills the room, lingering long enough that you interrupt it with a sharp gasp in surprise as James slides an arm under your legs, the other behind your back, and lifts you into his hold gently. He just chuckles.

“James!” You wrap your arms around his back to stop yourself from falling. 

“You know I love you no matter what you look like, right?” James’ voice is soft. 

“Yes.” You say, just as quiet. “I know.”

“And you just told me that I look good.” Not a question, but you respond the same.

“Yes, I know.” With a smile this time.

“And I’m really turned on right now, so can I please carry you upstairs and make love to you?” He doesn’t give you the chance to get shy or embarrassed. “I’ll worship you until you forget all about your insecurities, baby.”

Your cheeks heat, and you bury yourself into his chest. He smells like sweat and man, and you crinkle your nose. 

“Only if you shower first.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[lyssakinzzz]

anything with Remmick🫣🫣

maybe readers small town is slowly being killed off by vampires and Remmick is the one that finds her and tells his group not to kill her, cause she belongs to him? 🤯🤯

Oooh? Lowkey. FUCK YEAH.

Why the fuck do I keep on forgetting to post.

Might be the longest thing I've done written...

uhm btw! This is how you imagine remmick during the part where he eats you.

YOURE TRIPPIN IF YOU DONT THINK IM GONNA WRITE IT BASED OF THIS SCENE.

Warnings: Dark remmick if you stand really car and look at it through a microscope while in THICK glasses and head turned sideways. Protective remmick, posseive remmick, SMUT. Oral! (F receiving bc why not?), p in a v!

Wc:1780

It felt like you've been living in this town since the beginning of time. All your major life events happened here. In this small southern town, off the coast of the Mississippi delta. Hell, it was more of a Hamlet then town.

But something was just so off, ever since some Irish man moved into it, you never understood him for it, I mean he could've passed as white and went on to live in a white neighborhood with a beautiful wife and a couple of kids, maybe a dog too, if he felt like it. But no, at first you thought it was some grand plan, the klan wanted to kick y'all out, maybe gentrify it. Or the Whites wanted to live in some cute coastal town. Either way folks weren't having it.

There was something just so off with the fella, it gave you the willies. I mean, he honestly turned into a urban legend, old folks swore they saw him, grandma's felt they were a thing back in the day. Some lady even said he was her baby daddy. But, nothing truly added up. He was just too young. But the thing that really scared folks were that people were missing. Everyone was just vanishing, it was crazy. You'd swear you'd see a sliver of them at night, but nope. No where to be found.

You thought all those years finally caught up with them, everytime people told you to watch out for him. How they'd scare little children into being home by dark, you could really care less. Until, everyone started to go. Your town of 1000 slowly turned into 209. Something was definitely up, it was like he was a parasite. Taking over everyone's minds, body's. He was the devil himself.

So, you were gonna leave. Move up north, maybe stay down here. Marry, have kids. You were of age anyways, it wouldn't be too much of a problem. That's when you heard it. Loud, anxious, desperate banging. It sounded alarming, yet it reeked of a poor soul needing aid. Your aid. You had to let them in, especially with that Lunatic out on the loose. You rushed to the door, and opened it to find the familiar pale man on his knees sobbing.

"Oh, they tryna get me!" He sobbed, as he reached out to your foot, gripping onto it like a lifeline.

"Oh, then done got just near everyone in town, please y/n you gotta help me! Y-y-you gotta save me."

He swallowed, as he looked up at you with those blue, puppy eyes. You exhale, and swallow.

"Come on in..." You whispered as he sobbed getting off your leg and walked into your now packed up home.

"Oh, ya leavin'?" He asked, as he examined the moving boxes.

"Yea, this towns just too damn crazy..." you whispered.

"Would you like something to eat, or?" You asked, innocently. He chuckled and nodded.

"They'res lots of things I'd love to eat, Ma'am" He smiled, you could've sworn his teeth were awfully sharper than normal.

O-oh.

You ignored his recent sentence as you heated up some chicken for him.

"This good, sir?" You asked, placing the plate of chicken and rice down for him.

"Oh, more than good, ma'am..." He answered, before picking up his utensils and eating the freshly heated food.

He groaned as he savored the food.

"Delicious." He smiled as his pace grew faster.

You smiled to yourself at the compliment, as you washed up and was about to go back to packing, then you heard the deep Irish accent, smooth like molasses call out your name.

You hummed in response, as you walked to the round table and sat down.

"You don't wanna sit with me?" He asked, mouth half full with chicken and rice.

You chuckled. "I'll sit with ya." You smiled, softly as you felt the rough texture of the lace on your dining table. You and Remmick got to talking, it was nice. Refreshing, truly. You chuckled at his little joke as he excused himself to wash up his plate. The faint smell of lemony dishsoap filling up your nostrils.

"Y'know I still don't get why yer leavin', miss Y/n." He said, inhaling a bit. Taking a pause for you to register his words. "I mean, I'm gon' miss, that's all...but you shouldn't let some strange myth kick ya' out. I mean ain't it a miracle that ya ain't go missin' with all the others. Maybe, some higher powers protectin' ya. It would make no sense if he just stopped right 'bout now, right?" He argued as you still played with the lace.

"Sir, I've been here since God made Eve from Adam's rib. Even with the protection the kind lords granted me, it'd make sense to just go, huh? Explore, find me a man." You smiled, as you chuckled slightly. The pale werido was going to miss you.

"But, if it makes ya feel better I'm gon' miss seein' you beg like a stray, and yo eyes. Those big, blue eyes." You smiled, as he turned around.

"What about my eyes ya like, sug?" He whispered as he looked into yours deeply. It was almost like he was luring you in. It was silly to think he was.

"T-they're very...very..." you were losing your words. It sounded like your old stutter in primary school, even though you kept trying to say the words fully, it didn't work. At all.

He chuckled. What hoodoo did he put on you?

"Well, since ya leavin' I'd like to say a thing or two about what I like about you, huh?" He asked, as you nodded, lump in your throat.

"Well, I like the way my palm can perfectly fit your neck, and I most definitely like how squeamish you are right now, love." He smiled as he kept looking at you, with those eyes. Those puppy eyes hiding lust, and malicious intent. You inhaled trying to speak again but it felt like he was holding your tongue.

He inched closer and closer to you, a devious smirk appearing on his face. You inhaled, backing up a bit, but your eyes trailed down to his very hard length.

He starred to give you an open mouthed kiss, you moaned into it, as he fell into the chair with you, he bit your lip so hard it bleed, he moaned as he saw the familiar crimson stain your soft, full lips. He sucked the blood from the acute wound.

"I'm sorry, angel. You shouldn't have ran from it huh?" He whispered as he breathed heavily, leaving open mouthed kisses on the nape of your neck, you let out soft moans, then you felt little bites at your neck, he gave you a hickey and looked down, at your flustered and shocked expression.

"So, they all know you belong to me..." He whispered, as his thumb ran down your bottom lip. He picked you up as you wrapped his around him and carried you to your bedroom. He laid you down, and slowly stripped you. You did the same but found some blood on him, your eyes narrow as he just smirked down at you.

"Some people just don't get yer mine, you know. They were tryna hurt you but I took care of it, don't you worry love." He smiled, acting like he just killed a spider before you could see it. Acting like he saved you the last piece of cake at a busy party. He chuckled.

"Dont be scared, I won't let anything happen to you, you know. You're mine. You've always been mine." He smiled, he pushed you back down gently as he took off your tight nightgown.

"You wore this for me, huh? You done knew I was coming. Didn't you?" He whispered, as he slowly slid it off your body.

"You know, i awfully enjoy pink." He chuckled to himself. He left hickeys on your brown soft skin, as he kissed your stomach as his lips lead down to your thighs. He spread your thighs apart and slowly sucked your inner thighs, he moaned as he muttered. "I'm gon' make you feel so good, love. I swear." He said looking into your eyes, still sucking, leaving open mouthed kisses on your inner thighs. You pushed his head down, he moaned the second his tongue made contact with your pussy. His eyes rolling back a bit, fluttering.

"Mmm, you know how much I've been yearnin' for this thing." He whispered as he savored your taste on his tongue.

"I haven't had nothin' this good in years, darlin'' he exclaimed as he kissed around your labia. He treated it like good ice cream he saved up for in town. He was holding back, until he wasn't, that's when he started lapping at your pussy like he hasn't drank water since the 1800s. He left a little bite causing you to whine loudly. Pleasure coursed through you, your body arching as his mouth worked in perfect, desperation. To bring you closer and closer to the edge every minute. You're hands went down into his hair, you gripped each time his tongue pushed deeper, he Rocked his hips into the bare mattress, since everything was packed up of course. He grinded into the mattress going deeper everytime you moaned, or even touched him. You felt heat pool in your stomach as his tongue kept roughly exploring you.

"Fuck..." you whimpered as you gripped his hair harder, pushing him down into your pussy. Your eyes fluttered rolling back as you came on his tongue. You whined as he circled your labia like a shark the second he came up to take off his soaked pants, you shut your legs. Tight. He groaned as he tried to pry open your legs for your overstimulated pussy.

"Come on, I've done killed for you. You ain't never gonna meet a man who's gonna do that for you, huh,girl? The least you can do is let me feel that sweet pussy 'round my cock, huh?" He asked, as you slowly let your legs be pryed open by the starved man. He teased your folds with his cock head. You gasped, slightly as he rubbed it on your clit.

"Mm...that's it, don't run from this dick, baby." He whispered, as he aligned his cock with your needy hole. He slowly slammed into you, you moaned, loudly. Your hands ran up to his hair as he slammed repeatedly. He moaned in your ear, his movements erratic, he kept speeding up, pounding into you.

"Ain't no one gon' handle you like me, huh baby?" He whispered, in between loud, lewd moans. He whimpered as he continued to grow faster.

His eyes rolled back as he had your legs on his shoulders as he thrusted into you, he whined as he was growing closer. You felt him about to grow closer and closer to his finish. That's when he spilt into you.

He stayed in there for a bit too long.

"Gotta make sure, it doesn't all go to waste, love." He said, a casual smile.

[kingkat12]

euphoria (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: spanking, fingering, hair-pulling, clit-play, pussy-slaps, dom/sub, name-calling, praise, fluff (believe it or not), angst, aftercare, Roman is an ass (surprise lol)

summary: what happens when a certain someone comes home early from his work-trip in a really untimely matter? but maybe the main question isn't what-- maybe it is why?

word count: 10,848

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a/n: oh how I loved writing this chapter... the smut scene got so long because I spent a whole day only writing, AHH how I love summer break!!!!! enjoy lovelies<3333

I've never been good at emotional stuff-- containing it, working through it, understanding it. But anger? Anger, I was good at.

Peter laughed at something one of his colleagues said, effortless as ever, as I stood at his side, nodding along to a conversation I only caught half of; something about pre-litigation strategy, and a new partner hire who might be a walking HR violation. I hated thinking about HR. Why did we have to talk about HR? Fucking HR. Just thinking about the HR lady made my heart push up into my throat, clogging my airway, making me worry I'd start wheezing like a child that had swallowed a chew toy. 

I was also a walking HR violation, yet Peter had no idea. None, whatsoever. Would he want to be here with me at this nice banquet if he knew I was? Definitely not. Certainly so. 

Nodding along to the conversation between the legal team for Godfrey Industries, swirling my drink, trying not to look so guilty, I wondered where Mr. Godfrey was tonight; probably some rooftop in Switzerland once again, surrounded by models whose cheekbones could slice glass, surrounded by women he probably wanted to fuck. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't want to fuck me. He didn't even want me to touch him. How could I disgust him so?

If only he were here to see me now; I was dressed to kill and standing beside Peter, the hottest paralegal in the office who only had eyes for me, who wanted me. I should have been glowing from the attention. I should have been containing my giggles, blushing, wrapping my arms around his, clinging to him like a giddy date probably did in normal instances, but instead, I felt like the wilting, dying orchid in the corner of Mr. Godfrey's office. 

"Hey,"

Peter's voice cut through the legal chatter, low and careful, meant only for me; my eyes darted up to his, wide. His hand ghosted the small of my back again, grounding me in a way I didn't deserve. "You good? You've barely touched your drink."

I blinked, caught. "Oh," I mumbled, swirling the contents of my champagne flute. "I-- yeah, I'm good."

Peter gave me a look; lawyer instincts, surely. "Uh-huh,"

I smiled, a little sheepish, and took a sip to prove a point. "Happy now?"

"Hmm... I'll settle for now, in favour of peace in the court," He stepped a little closer, shielding us from the others with the easy slope of his body, his voice warm enough to melt the ice climbing up my spine. "You know," he murmured, leading me away. "I was half-convinced you'd bail on me tonight. Figured I'd get some text last minute saying 'sorry, food poisoning, maybe next year'."

That garnered a real giggle; "You really have that little faith in me, Peter?"

"Come on, kid, how would I know?" Peter grinned, shrugging as he looked back, checking that our desertion went unnoticed. God, it was annoying how kind his face was; open, honest, and safe. With him walking so close, I could smell his muted cologne, the cloud of dreamy musk, and I couldn't believe I wasn't able to feel the same way about him as I felt about my asshole boss. Peter was fucking perfect.

I sighed, looking up at the sunshine walking next to me; "Well, surprise, I showed up. And I'm glad I came, Peter,"

It wasn't a lie. I was glad. I loved hanging out with Peter. He always looked at me like I was whole, like I hadn't been chewed up by a man who could unmake me with one glance. I loved being near Peter, because standing next to him and his kind eyes never failed to give me the illusion of being someone different-- someone good.

"That's good to hear, because you look...." Peter paused, scratching the back of his neck like he didn't want to overstep. "You look amazing. Just-- yeah. You look great."

My chest ached; I wished that compliment would land the way it was meant to. I wished I could believe him instead of wondering if Mr. Godfrey would even notice me in this dress, or if he'd just raise a bored eyebrow and return to his drink and long line of supermodels. I felt so unworthy of Peter's eyes, his words, his kindness; maybe Mr. Godfrey should link him up with one of those Swiss models too? He deserved that much. 

I smiled anyway, feeling my cheeks redden as my pulse quickened. "Thank you," I breathed. "You look really good, too."

"Ah, is that right?" Peter cocked his head to the side, his smirk curling. "Guess I'll have to wear actual suits more often, huh?"

"You say that like you don't wear one to work every day,"

"Yeah, but I don't usually do the whole pocket square thing." He gestured down at himself; "This was for you, obviously."

"Noted," I smiled, even though it hurt-- God, I was really leading him on, wasn't I? 

Before Peter could snark back, already laughing, someone called out behind us.

"Rumancek!"

Peter winced, half-laughed, and turned. I could see his face melt with annoyance the second he saw who it was, letting out a small groan, accompanied by a roll of his eyes. "Sorry," he tried, already backing away as he sent me that apologetic look I knew too well. "That's Kyle. If I don't go hear him brag about his latest settlement, the bastard will explode. Two minutes, max?"

"No worries," I murmured, nodding along. "I'll be here, or passed out drunk over the ledge of the balcony. Either or."

Peter's brown eyes shimmered, charmed; "Not on my watch, young lady,"

Within seconds, he melted into the crowd, swallowed by suits and the warm, polite, rich laughter echoing through the banquet hall. I watched him go, the ghost of his cologne still clinging to my wrist like a secret, but as I turned, wondering where the waiter with the nice snacks was, I felt something in the air shift.

It was subtle, like a ripple under the surface of still water. The hair on the nape of my neck stood up; my instincts were ablaze. What was this?

I turned on my high heels, ears perking up, scouring the hall, until--

The sea of people opened up.

Standing near the entrance, talking to one of the board members, dressed in that signature black-on-black, was the man who wasn't supposed to be back until 23:47 tomorrow. That was the time of his flight. It was on the damn schedule. I had scheduled that damn flight. 

Roman Godfrey.

He was scanning the room with his usual disinterest, lips slightly parted, eyes sharp and heavy-lidded like he was always thinking something awful, yet he somehow managed to keep a charming smile as he talked to the key members of the company. He was good at this. This was his forte. 

Mr. Godfrey looked like sin. Mr. Godfrey was sin. Hair slicked back just enough to show off the cut of his cheekbones, the soft, spoiled curl at the ends betraying how young he still was— young enough to be reckless, young enough to get away with it. He was drunk on this, wasn't he? The power he wielded when he entered a room. Forbes nose, Forbes nose, Forbes nose. Unfair.

But then, before I could do anything to stop it, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes found mine with carved precision-- had he been looking for me?

My breath caught.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. No expression. No smile. I felt my skin burn beneath my dress, all the way down to my bones; my chest raised, heaved, as I refused to back down from the staring contest, refused, refused. 

Mr. Godfrey was back. Death had come for me.

And with a growing, sly smirk, he raised his hand, motioning for me to approach with the same two fingers he had once rubbed my clit with. 

That was when something cracked inside of me; I let out a choked laugh of disbelief, feeling the anger boil inside of me. Hello? Who did he think I was, his servant? A waiter? Why did he think he could call on me like that, like he didn't have the energy to walk over to me himself? I flailed my free hand, lips parting, grimacing back at him to show what I thought of him, silently telling him off. 

Irked, I watched as Mr. Godfrey gave in to a slight twitch of his head, his green gaze narrowing. The next twitch was deliberate, more of a come here motion, and that in turn set off a twitch in my eye, along with a shake of my head. 

War. This was war. Anger, I was good at.

But... Mr. Godfrey was better.

Because he didn't need to raise his voice. He didn't need to snap his fingers.

He just looked at me, like he knew every inch of my body under this dress, every secret curled up in the pit of my stomach, every thought I'd had about him since the second he left for Geneva. Some of those secrets, I had given him for free though, through that fucking drunk email. Mr. Godfrey's expression was darkly amused, but underneath it, I saw it; the irritation, the nerve I had struck by disobeying my dominant. 

Then, like it was inevitable, like he was bored with the charade, he lifted two fingers again. Slow. Deliberate. The same motion. Not playful this time, not even smug. Just... final.

Come.

My stomach twisted.

And surely enough, my heels carried me before my brain could stop them, slicing through the crowd like I had purpose, like I wasn't being called across the floor like some pet. My heart pounded with humiliation, heat, fury, but I obeyed. I fucking obeyed. 

I reached him just as his conversation tapered off, just as the board member excused himself with a pat on Mr. Godfrey's shoulder and a lingering glance my way. 

Mr. Godfrey didn't look at me, not right away-- he didn't have to. He simply took his glass from the table beside him, sipped slowly, and murmured, low enough only I could hear;

"Took you long enough," he said. "Enjoying your evening?"

I didn't answer-- I didn't want to. I stared past him like I hadn't heard him. Was that all he had to say to me? Was that it? Was he seriously leading with small talk?

Mr. Godfrey clicked his tongue, amused by my antics. "Ah," he said. "We're doing this."

"Doing what?" I snapped.

"You not looking at me, and me entertaining it," He cocked his head, waiting for me to glare at him. "That's not how this works, though. You know it."

"How what works, exactly?"

"You and I," Mr. Godfrey gave up on trying to get my attention; instead, he positioned himself next to me, looking out on the guests as he calmly sipped his champagne. 

I had to do everything in my power to not fold my arms over my chest and pierce his foot with my sharp heel. "Okay, then. Then maybe I don't think I like how you and I work anymore," 

A pause. The sound of the party humming behind us-- cutlery, laughter, some jazz quartet in the corner. He didn't rise to meet my anger; that was the worst part. "I see," he said. "So what is this? A tantrum?"

"No,"

"No?"

"I throw tantrums when I want you to manage them, but that was when I trusted that you wouldn't go too far," Going against him like this made my fingers tremble around my glass, and I had to force myself to continue; "You overstepped. You hurt me."

"Aw," Mr. Godfrey drawled, tilting his head, clearly mocking me. "And here I thought you liked a little pain."

Asshole. 

Finally, I turned to look at him, immediately met with his green eyes. Infuriatingly enough, he had that look about him that told me he was convinced this was a joke-- that this was part of our play, that this was part of our dance. "Not that kind," I muttered.

Mr. Godfrey's gaze flickered, searching my face for the truth, and finding-- what? More performance? A scene? He tilted his head slightly, mouth set in that careless, impenetrable line. "Mm," he hummed. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Oh, fuck you," This was clearly about the Swiss models-- did he not realize?

Seemingly not. Mr. Godfrey only smiled, evil yet charming. "Is that what this is?" he asked, quiet. "You missed me, so you're biting?"

"I didn't miss you,"

"Didn't you?"

"I didn't even know you'd be here,"

Of all things, that landed. A fractional pause fall, small, but enough to let me know he was finally paying attention. His lashes dropped slightly over his eyes, gaze narrowing. "No?" he murmured. "Did you not see the schedule change?"

"No,"

"You always check that," he mumbled. "Slacking off, then?"

"No," Fucker. "It's a Sunday. I don't work for you on the weekend."

"Then who dragged you out?"

Something told me that Mr. Godfrey was genuinely curious, maybe a bit shocked? I waited a beat, let the silence press in between us like a knife, as my eyes narrowed further; "I came with Peter,"

He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He didn't do anything.

For a moment, I almost wondered if Mr. Godfrey had heard me at all. But then, slowly, I watched the corners of his mouth curl-- not in a smile, not even in anger, but in something colder, something almost like disbelief. "My paralegal?" he chuckled, mocking as ever. "That's original!"

My eye twitched; I wanted to smack him. For the first time ever, I genuinely considered it. I bet he'd moan. Twisted fucker. "Better than spending a week in Switzerland with a harem," I hissed. "Or was it a business trip? Who knows."

Mr. Godfrey's expression didn't shift much, but something behind his eyes sparked. Not rage. Not offense. Amusement, maybe? Finally, he knew what this was about. His fingers curled tighter around the glass, slow and measured, like he was restraining a grin. His pupils didn't shrink-- they narrowed, sharp and calculating. "You've got a lot of nerve talking to me like that," he said, voice low, but not threatening. He sounded entertained, like he was watching a show, like this was the moment he had been waiting for all week.

"Says the man that gets off on being challenged," I huffed. "Don't act like this isn't exactly what you wanted. Why else would you call the paparazzi when you went to that party?" I dared to glare up at Mr. Godfrey, hoping he'd feel my wrath; "I'm not fucking stupid. I know how those things work."

A flash of something showed on his face, barely-there, lightning-quick, but I caught it-- oh, I caught it.

"I don't want to do this tonight," I said, standing my ground. "You said you'd be gone for a week. I want my whole week of peace."

Mr. Godfrey's laugh was short, almost a snort-- "Wow," he said under his breath. "I thought we were enjoying the same game here." He took a step forward, eyes scanning me with that slow, assessing look that always made my stomach twist. "What, the models upset you? I was giving you something to bite back over." Mr. Godfrey's smile curled, but it didn't reach his green eyes; "Come on, now. Don't tell me you've forgotten how this works," he added, lips curling, voice edged in that same boyish mischief he always used when he wanted to keep things unserious. "Play with me, won't you? Or are we rewriting the rules?"

... Seriously?

Was this all a game to him?

Before my brain could churn through the possibilities, Mr. Godfrey took one last step forward, which in turn had me backing into a nearby table; he leaned forward, brushing it off as him putting away his drink, smooth and planned. His lips hovered just above the shell of my ear; "You think I flew in early across the ocean just to leave you alone?"

No. 

No, no, no.

He wouldn't come here for me. He wouldn't. This was yet another cheap trick in the book, wasn't it? Typical heartbreaker, that's what he was. How had I not seen it before now? That would've worked on me a week ago, but not now, not after the whole ordeal with the Swiss models. He took it too far. Still, we hadn't agreed on exclusivity-- that word was probably not even in his vocabulary. Did I have a right to be upset? 

My breath caught, and a shiver travelled down my spine; Mr. Godfrey's breath was warm. I felt beyond warm too, and I was sure I'd start boiling at this rate if he didn't move. Surely, this whole ordeal hadn't lasted for more than a few seconds, but as I found myself unable to breathe, I stared up at him, wide-eyed, silently begging him to move. 

"I don't know why you came," I said, breathless. "But now I wish you hadn't."

Mr. Godfrey stilled.

For a moment, just one slim, suspended moment, Mr. Godfrey looked at me like he had never seen me before. Not the girl from the interview, not the secretary he tormented, not the girl who folded under his tone-- something in his gaze shifted, cracked at the edges. Maybe it was confusion, maybe it was restraint? Maybe it was the very first flicker of doubt that I wasn't playing anymore?

With that, slowly, he stepped back. Just a fraction, though-- just enough to let the air cool between us, just enough to let me pass.

And I didn't wait for him to change his mind.

My heels scraped hard against the floor as I moved, fury twisting in every step. I didn't look back; I wouldn't. Tonight was mine. Tonight, I had authority too. Just because he cut his trip short, shouldn't mean that I had to adhere to his antics? 

But then, the second I thought I had gotten away, a hand caught my wrist-- not harshly, not even tightly, but like it was automatic. Mr. Godfrey yanked me back like he had already decided I belonged to him, and this was just part of how the night would go.

Now, the smirk was wiped off his face-- now, he was pissed. 

"Fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, no longer caring if people were watching. I was his property in his mind, anyway, and he could do as he pleased, right? "You want to be like that? Be like that. But you're gonna go talk to Derek, the lead of catering, and tell him this party needs ice. And while you're at it, count how many glasses are left at each station. I don't want anyone bitching about shortages. Get it sorted, and do it now."

I would've gasped, had we not been surrounded by people-- I should've known that he would do this, I should've known he wouldn't let me get away so easily. This was my punishment, wasn't it? Staring up at my boss, blinded by his violent beauty, the green of his eyes, the caramel brown of his hair, the looming authority with which he held me, I couldn't believe this was happening; "I don't work for you tonight," I huffed, trying to get out of his grip, but to no avail. "Find the fucking party coordinator lady, this is not my!--"

"You work for me always," Mr. Godfrey hissed, tightening his hold. "And you will do as I say."

It slipped out of me before I could think about the possible repercussions; "No!"

A beat.

Way too long.

"... No?!" Mr. Godfrey looked like he was about to explode. "What did you just say to me?"

Finally, I yanked my wrist hard enough for him to let me go; "No!"

The word echoed, sharp and crystalline, slicing through the low din of the party, but not loud enough to draw eyes; it was just enough to seal it between us.

No one else seemed to notice. The music swelled over it, masking the crack in the air, laughter clinked against champagne glasses, like I hadn't just signed my doom. We could've been arguing about napkins for all anyone knew, for all they cared. 

But he knew, and I knew, and that would be enough.

I didn't dare to see how he'd react-- I knew this would cost me. I knew I had just carved a line in the sand I couldn't step back over, but I turned anyway. My heels bit against the marble floor as I walked away, eyes forward, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I didn't breathe until I saw the silhouette of Peter's black suit; here, I was safe.

But Peter saw me before I even reached him.

His smile, that warm, crooked thing that usually lived somewhere between mischief and charm, had been replaced by what looked like a glare. His eyes flicked over me, reading the tightness in my shoulders, the way my lips were pressed together too hard, the raw, blinking shine still wet in my lashes, before he stared back at the perpetrator-- Mr. Godfrey.

When I approached him, on the brink of hyperventilating, Peter reached one arm out, pulling me closer by my waist, immediately sensing my distress. "What the hell was what?" he asked, not accusatory, but concerned. "I didn't think he'd be back until--"

"I know," I said, breathless. "He's an ass. He just... he--" My voice cracked down the middle, a quiet, trembling thing; "Can you drive me home?"

Peter's fingers curled slightly at my waist. He looked over my shoulder again, jaw ticking. "Home? Yeah. Of course. But-- are you sure? I can talk to him,"

"No!" Too fast, too sharp. Fuck. "Please don't. Just... don't."

He looked at me, visibly torn. "You're shaking,"

"It's fine," I lied. "I just-- I need to go. Please, Peter."

He... didn't budge.

"Peter," I touched his chest lightly, just above his lapel. "You're not going to get through to him. And even if you say something, he'll just make it worse for me tomorrow."

His eyes searched mine, reluctant and unreadable. "You shouldn't have to deal with this,"

"I know," I whispered. "But I do."

For a long moment, Peter just looked at me-- really looked. We stood in the middle of the party like we were underwater, everyone else blurred to nothing. I could see him deciding; hero or bystander. Rage or mercy.

Finally, after a beat that nearly broke me, he exhaled. "Okay," he said, soft. "Come on, kid."

Peter wrapped an arm more firmly around my waist this time, possessive without meaning to be (or maybe a little?), and started leading me toward the exit. I kept my chin low, my eyes lower, trying not to be seen or noticed.

Still, I knew that was impossible. I knew Mr. Godfrey was here somewhere, watching this, drinking it in-- he wasn't going to let me get away so easily, was he?

I dared to look up, and I immediately found him stood near the tall windows, half-turned from a cluster of investors, his body tense in that controlled, tight way I'd come to recognize when he was mad. One hand still clutched the champagne, but the other had curled into a fist at his side, knuckles stark white. He wasn't listening to the man talking beside him, not really-- his eyes were locked on Peter's arm around my waist.

And then they flicked up.

Met mine.

And that was what it took for me to press closer to Peter, away from Mr. Godfrey, away from this party. This wasn't the clean break that I had wanted-- this was a warning shot, and I had just fired it at the worst possible target.

This could cost me everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The night air was cooler than I expected, brushing against my bare shoulders, but it cleared my head a little. My heels clicked on the pavement, slower now. Peter matched my pace easily, hands in his pockets, looking so much more at ease than I felt.

"You know," Peter said as we reached the front step of my apartment. "I half expected Roman to throw a drink at me."

I gave a weak laugh, stopping in front of the door. "I think he wanted to. Maybe next time,"

"Better bring a poncho," he said with a half-smile, his brown eyes never leaving mine. For a second, we just stood there; him with one step down, while that usual crooked mischief quieted in his expression, replaced with something far gentler. He was reading me, trying to decide if I was still breaking, or just beginning to bend back into shape.

Peter's hands were still in his pockets, but he leaned forward slightly, like his body was pulled toward mine without him meaning to. "You sure you're okay?"

My heart hurt; "You don't have to do this," I started, gentle and low. 

"What do you mean?" The question was so simple in his mind. "Make sure you're fine?"

"Yeah," I breathed-- my hand reached to linger at the door knob, shifting my weight from one heel to another. Suddenly, I couldn't meet his gaze. I couldn't face him. "Thank you for driving me home, and for the lovely evening, and for being so kind, but... I don't deserve this."

"Nonsense," was the immediate response. 

That made my eyes dart up to look at Peter, the porch light catching the silver at the tips of his dark lashes. His jaw was tense, but his smile was soft, almost reverent, like he saw something noble in me that I couldn't. "Nonsense," he echoed. "You deserve good things, kid. Don't let Roman convince you otherwise. I've seen countless girls like you come and go out of his office, one more broken than the other, but you can't let him break you. Not when you shine so bright."

My throat tightened, my lips parted-- suddenly, my head felt light. Was this how it was supposed to feel? "Peter--" I started, but there was nothing to follow it with except for the sudden ache behind my ribs like someone had struck me there. Peter looked at me like I hadn't already been burned, used, and destroyed, and that... that felt unreal.

"You're not just some secretary," Peter said, quieter now. "You're just hurting, and-- and he saw that and pushed, didn't he?"

I looked down, blinking too hard; this was hitting closer to home than I had expected. "You don't want to know," I breathed. "You wouldn't look at me the same."

With a sigh, Peter reached out, hesitant at first, and touched my arm; a warm and grounding touch. "I see you just as you are," he murmured. "And I like what I see."

There was a pause. That undid me more than I expected-- my heart stuttered in that small silence, and when our eyes met again, something passed between us, uncomplicated, for once. No power games. No traps. Just kindness, and maybe even longing?

Peter's eyes dropped briefly to my lips. Not in the lustful way I was used to-- just a flicker, a beat too long. His body shifted ever so slightly closer, shoulders angling in, and suddenly, it felt like there was a question floating between us, one I didn't quite have the courage to voice.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, low, like he wasn't sure himself.

I didn't answer. I didn't know. I didn't dare.

"I could--" he started, a breath closer. "Just for a minute. We could talk. Or not? Whatever you need."

Fuck. My pulse was going through the roof, I was sure my hands were clammy, my eyes had widened beyond retrieval, but then...

The door finally clicked open behind me, cool air brushing past my ankles. I should have said goodnight, should have stepped inside and closed the door and let it end sweet and clean-- but I didn't.

I lingered...

And Peter noticed.

The thing is, I wanted comfort. I wanted to feel like I wasn't spiralling alone, like someone saw the mess and didn't flinch, or didn't want to make me flinch because of it. Still, I also knew this wasn't neutral-- Peter wanted to be the one I turned to, the one I leaned on, the one I kissed.

His hand ran down my arm, slowly, his fingers brushing mine-- just a featherlight touch, waiting for permission.

I didn't move. Didn't pull away. I think, maybe, I wanted to see if I still had that effect on anyone, if someone could still want me without breaking me open; Peter wouldn't ever want to break me. He'd want me whole. Breathing. Happy. Unbothered, pampered, content, calm, neutered, and nice. I could be nice, right? I didn't have to run my filthy mouth all the time? I could stop getting off at inappropriate times and places? I could be normal. I could be the perfect, sweet girl. I could be. I really think I could be.

And then, Peter leaned in-- slow, respectful, letting me stop him. His breath was warm, his nose just brushing mine, and my heart thudded hard once in my chest, and--

I almost let him.

Almost.

Because suddenly, in the cold night air, in front of my open apartment door, it hit me that I couldn't.

I couldn't be normal. I couldn't play nice. I didn't want to be unbothered-- I wanted to be set on fire. I wanted gasoline to be poured all over me, to feel my blood boil, to feel my body melt, because only then would I feel alive. My mouth needed to run. My skin needed to burn with the sting. 

I... couldn't go back. Not after having met Mr. Godfrey. 

I was ruined. I was filthy. I was me. Peter didn't want the real me-- he didn't know the real me. If he knew, he'd run for the hills. He'd know I was used up. He'd know I had been defiled by the one man he couldn't stand. 

So, with Peter's lips barely an inch away from mine, his warm breath ghosting over my upper lip, I dared to speak; "I should get some sleep,"

Immediately, Peter pulled back. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat, suddenly all nerves. "Of course. Yeah, totally."

My heart hurt for him-- my heart hurt for us. 

I leaned forward, wrapped my arms around him, and pressed my cheek to his chest; this felt better. This felt right. I liked hugging Peter-- he froze only for a second before folding into the hug, his chin brushing the top of my head, holding me like I was something delicate but not breakable, like I was allowed to just be held. "I'm so sorry," I whispered, eyes welling up with tears. 

Peter held me tighter, arms wrapping all the way around like he could shelter me from the weight of my own words. "Don't be," he said into my hair. "You don't owe me anything."

I pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy, the porch light haloing his silhouette; his brows were drawn, like he wanted to understand but knew better than to press. "I wish I met you before," I breathed. "Before all of this. Before I turned into someone I don't recognize."

He cupped the side of my face, careful, his thumb brushing a tear I didn't know had fallen. "You don't always have to bleed to earn good things. Not everything has to be a battle. It will come to you in a few years, trust me," With a sigh, Peter leaned in again, just enough to press his forehead to mine, and his voice came soft and certain; "But when you do feel like you've done enough suffering to deserve something nice... I'm here."

Oh, how that gutted me-- that kind of gentleness always did.

I mustered the strength to nod, barely, and stepped back. To steady myself, my hand found the doorframe, and I felt like my brain was fighting the enormous shutdown I was holding back. Everything Peter had said made so much sense-- maybe he actually saw me more than I thought? I couldn't think about it. Not now, not here. 

"Goodnight, Peter," I whispered, a small smile accompanying my words. "Thank you for tonight. I had a great time."

"I'm glad," His smile was small, tired, but real. "Goodnight, kid."

I watched Peter retreat down the steps, hands back in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he had left with more weight than he came with-- fuck. 

I closed the door only once I couldn't see him anymore, and then I leaned my forehead against it. I didn't cry-- not really. I just... stood there. Hollowed out. Full of warmth I didn't know how to carry.

Peter was light...

But I had already been claimed by the dark. 

Not only claimed, actually-- consumed. Because the only thought that remained after I'd allowed myself a little breakdown, was damage control. Damage control. Damage control. 

Mr. Godfrey was going to make my life hell. He had seen me leave with Peter, I had openly defied him, and... 

I knew there was only one thing to do to maybe make tomorrow just a smidge easier.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I stared down at my desk, nudging the stapler for the fifth time to make sure it was aligned with the edge of the table. This was crazy. This was nuts. Why was I doing this, and why was I doing this at two in the morning?

After Peter, after everything, and after I had gotten out of my dress... 

I ran back to work.

Back to this desk, this office, these goddamn pens, as if putting them in order might put me back in order too.

So here I was, nudging my stapler, sorting my pens, and wiping my computer screen in the exact same outfit I had worn to work a few days ago. Sick fuck. Heart hammering like I was about to go out on stage and give a speech, I walked back and forth, back and forth, to make sure I hadn't missed anything. 

I couldn't sit still; I wanted there to be nothing Mr. Godfrey could take me for. I knew he was now going to wreak havoc in my life again, I knew he was going to try to make my life hell, and this was my way of trying to cushion the fall. 

After having gone up against him, it felt like my brain had melted and become mush. How could I do that? How did I manage to tell him no? In that moment, that had felt like the biggest rush, but now...

What the hell had I done?

Hyperventilating, I nudged the stapler a bit to the left, feeling my eyes well up with tears all over again. I had also messed everything up with Peter. I had realized that everything that had happened between me and Mr. Godfrey had caused irrevocable damage, because hello-- how the fuck had I allowed myself to be driven to the point where I was having a breakdown at the office at two in the morning?!

I swiped at my eyes quickly, angrily, then turned back toward my desk again... only to freeze at the sound of footsteps echoing down the marble hallway outside.

Slow.

Measured.

Unmistakable.

I knew that walk-- I knew the rhythm of his shoes like the back of my hand.

The click of his shoes drew closer, and I didn't move; I couldn't. I stood by my desk like a kid caught sneaking out, blinking through the leftover blur of tears, still wearing my black office heels, wearing my usual office attire like a fucking maniac.

My stomach flipped violently when I realized how close he was, but I didn't run. I straightened my spine like it would save me, like posture could hide panic. The steps then came with absurd slowness, like he knew the sound alone would be enough to skin me.

And then---

There he was.

I spun around to face him; Roman Godfrey stood behind me, framed in the low office light like some half-dressed specter of everything I had ever wanted and shouldn't have touched. His coat was open over his shirt, a few buttons undone. No tie. His hair was damp at the ends like he had just stepped out of the rain or a scalding shower, and his jaw was tight.

"What... the fuck," he hissed, vicious; "are you doing here?"

That was it. No greeting. No smile. No teasing quip. Just quiet, simmering fury.

I let out a shaky breath, realizing I was cornered; there was nowhere to go. My back hit the desk, and my hands went to grab at it like it would save me. "I could-- I could ask you the same thing,"

"You could, sure," he said, voice low and threatening, eyes dark like never before. "But this whole building? The one you've technically trespassed? It's mine."

I flinched. He didn't yell, but God, it was worse than yelling. That cold authority, that quiet confidence that he could have me arrested or worse, and I wouldn't even put up a fight; I was already breathless. "I didn't break in," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I have a key. You know I have a key."

"Oh, a key," he scoffed, tone mocking, gesturing at the spotless desk. "So this is just a normal night for you? Rearranging office supplies at two a.m. in your little secretary costume? Jesus."

I bit my lip to keep it from trembling-- I wasn't ready to cry again, not yet. But Mr. Godfrey just kept looking at me like he didn't recognize me, like I was a problem he couldn't categorize, and it was killing me. 

"You look unhinged," he finally said, taking me in from head to toe with something like disgust. "What is this? Did you lose your mind while I was gone?"

Something inside me snapped-- enough.

"Maybe your OCD rubbed off on me," I muttered. "Maybe now I'm just as fucked up as you are."

The moment the words left my mouth, the silence that followed was so thick it might as well have died. Mr. Godfrey went utterly still. His jaw clenched once, then again, like he was grinding down a scream between his molars.

And then--

He exploded.

"That's enough!" he barked. "You think you get to act like this because what? I left the country for a week?! I don't know who made you such a brat, or why you think you can act the way you've done tonight, because I've given you everything you've ever asked for!"

"That's-- You don't even let me touch you!" I cried, voice breaking. "You let me need you, and then you punish me for it! All I ever wanted from you was some-- some basic decency, you spoiled piece of shit!"

"Decency? Decency?" His laugh was dry, bitter; "You wanted this! You asked for it! You even got down on your fucking knees and begged for it! So don't turn around and act like a victim now, just because I didn't behave exactly how you fantasized!"

"I'm not!--"

"You've wanted exactly what I've been giving you, so I don't get why you suddenly want out!"

"I don't want out!" I yelled, angrily wiping away my tears. "I just didn't-- I didn't think you'd run off with a bunch of models!"

"Oh, fuck you!" Mr. Godfrey snapped-- his words boomed so loud, I was sure the walls of the office shook. His fists had balled, his jacket had been tossed to the floor, and his ears had gone red from all the screaming. "You're just assuming things, but you're the one who ran to Peter the second I left the country! You even went home with him!"

I let out a sob, realizing there was no stopping my tears; "Nothing happened with Peter!" I cried. "Because you've made me sick! I'm sick! There's something wrong with me now, and-- and!--" My voice was hoarse, and I could barely finish my sentences. Saying it out loud just made it a thousand times worse, and I broke apart. "Please just do something!" I sobbed, shamelessly letting my tears fall. "Just-- please, I can't!-- I can't snap out of this, I need!-- I need you to-- snap me out of this!"

Stunned, Mr. Godfrey's green eyes widened, staring at the crying mess in front of him. I bet he hadn't expected a full breakdown like this, not at two in the morning, not when he had probably come here to fetch some file or God knows what. Mr. Godfrey's chest heaved from all the yelling as he stared at me, really looked at me, for the first time since I had started unraveling. The storm in his green eyes faltered, cracking just enough for something softer to seep through, something painfully close to concern.

He didn't say a word. He knew what I needed. 

Mr. Godfrey stepped forward. Reached out. Grabbed my wrist with a firm grip that barely hurt but left no room for argument, and started pulling me toward the door to his office.

"Wait--" I tried, but he cut me off with a sharp look.

No questions. No explanations. He knew what I needed.

When we reached his office, Mr. Godfrey pushed the door open without ceremony. The only light came from a dim desk lamp, casting long shadows over the room and over his face. Sniffling, I tried to wipe the tears and the snot, and somehow found myself... getting calmer. That was not how this usually worked? Usually, this would get my heart pounding even faster, but now? It felt like I was about to be relieved, like he was about to make it better. 

And he was the only one who could.

With a click of the door behind us, Mr. Godfrey looked down at me with an unreadable expression. I couldn't understand whether he was furious or getting over himself-- it was impossible to decode.

Then, his voice came quiet, almost calm; "I think ten would do,"

Ten? 

Oh.

"I don't know if that would be enough," I breathed. 

"Fifteen would only make you cry harder," he mumbled, clearly from experience. "That wouldn't help you."

"Twelve, then...?" 

"Twelve?"

Were we really having a civilized discussion about this...? About spanking?

"Three times four is twelve," I mumbled, sniffling. "You-- you like threes."

Mr. Godfrey stilled, his chest rising with soft, slow strokes. This was it-- we had made a deal, and he didn't have to say anything to know he was sold on it. Had I just done business with the most notorious businessman of the country? 

The way I was put over his lap was different this time; this felt like something sacred, like a routine we had practiced. Every other time had been consensual, but this... I had never wanted it more. I had never wanted him more.

As Mr. Godfrey's big hands reached for my skirt, I heard him sigh as he bunched it up around my waist. "Fucking hell," he mumbled, tracing the line of my underwear; the exact pair he had gifted me a while ago. "I knew these would suit you." 

There was nothing I could do to fight the shiver that ran up my back, and I let out a shaky breath. 

And he noticed the breath-- of course he did.

Mr. Godfrey's large palm flattened against the small of my back, warm, steady, possessive, while his other hand ghosted over the curve of my ass, fingers brushing the edge of the silk like it annoyed him. The heat of him seeped into my skin before the first strike even landed, but it didn't come right away.

No, he waited. Drew it out. Let the tension stretch until I could barely breathe.

And then--

Crack.

My body jolted, the pain ripping through me as I cried out, quiet and broken. "Fuck, ouch," I breathed. "One."

Mr. Godfrey hummed, dismissive; "You don't have to count," His fingers dragged over my sore skin, smoothing out the ache like it was his to mold. "Just try not to tense your legs. It's going to make it much worse."

That was odd-- why wouldn't he want me to have it worse? "But... it's supposed to hurt,"

"Yeah," he murmured. "But not to the point where you pass out."

Before I could say anything, his hand came down again, harder, firmer, to the point where my air left me with a shaky cry. God, it hurt, but I had missed this more than anything; the shock, the pain, the shame-- I loved it.

And then, when I thought it couldn't, it only got better.

"This is for your filthy mouth," Mr. Godfrey hissed, another smack falling before I could answer. "This is for your bratty little attitude tonight." Crack. "You really thought you could run your mouth without consequences? Not around me. Not ever."

My eyes burned as the heat bloomed beneath my skin, the sting deepening into something molten, something that settled in my core and made my thighs clench without permission.

Crack.

I gasped again, this one more strangled than the last.

"You even looked smug when you mouthed off," he hissed, bending low enough that I could feel his breath against the back of my neck. "Like you wanted this, you fucking brat. You did, huh?"

Another hit-- my body twitched in his grip. "Yes, sir," There was no use in lying, right?

I could almost hear Mr. Godfrey rolling his eyes. "That's what I thought," he muttered; his hand stroked the curve of my ass, then squeezed, like he was checking his work. "Bet you even missed this when I was gone. Bet this shit was on your mind when you sent me that drunk mail."

Crack.

Tears slipped from my eyes, not from the pain, but from the unbearable rightness of it all. He was punishing me like I belonged to him, like I mattered. Did I? 

Then, when I expected the next strike, it didn't come. Instead, Mr. Godfrey's hand moved further down, easing between my thighs, forcing them apart as I squirmed in his lap. Like this, I couldn't see anything, couldn't do anything, so when he dragged his thumb down my clothed, wet sex, I let out a shaky, quiet moan. What was happening?

"Do you get off on this, hm? Being put in your place?" 

I could only nod, looking back at him with glossy eyes. There was no hiding. There was no escaping. Where were we now? Six? Seven? I had lost count, even though I promised myself I wouldn't. 

Mr. Godfrey tsked, probably getting a kick out of the ruined sight of me. "This is not for you to get off," he huffed. "This is for you to snap out of whatever mess you've made in that tiny brain of yours. Why the fuck are you so wet, huh? Are you not ashamed? You should be." 

Then, with a flat hand, he smacked me between my legs-- Jesus Christ.

It was the oddest sensation. That force against my clit was both agony and pleasure unlike any other, and I let out a broken, loud cry of a moan that I instantly regretted, because suddenly? There came many more, small ones, firm, as my back arched up against Mr. Godfrey's hand, trying to meet the strikes for some reason I couldn't understand; this was the oddest, most pleasurable sensation, and I only knew that I wanted more. 

"Fuck, fuck-- fuck!--"

At that, Mr. Godfrey's hand moved and pressed into the curve of my lower back again, holding me in place like it was nothing. His strength felt effortless, like pinning down something wild; a reminder that he could hold me here forever if he wanted to. His voice stayed low, infuriatingly calm; "Look at you," he breathed, as if disgusted-- but there was nothing disgusted in the way he touched me. "What am I supposed to do with you, huh? Dirty girl."

My hips twitched, involuntarily seeking friction, something, anything, but he didn't give it. His thumb hovered again, threatening, teasing, denying, and then with the most feathery touch, traced a line down my underwear, stopping right before he reached my clit; for a second there, I even forgot to breathe. "Please," I whispered. 

"You act like a little monster," Mr. Godfrey continued, disregarding my pleas. "And then cry when you get treated like one."

"I'm not!--"

"You're not what?" he bit back. "Not needy? Not desperate?"

I clenched my jaw, tears clinging to my lashes, the shame glowing so hot in my chest I thought it might consume me. But still, I whispered, lying through my teeth; "I'm not crying,"

Mr. Godfrey chuckled-- a real one, low and cruel. "No," he murmured. "You're whimpering."

And then his hand slipped inside the waistband of my underwear; not hurried, not greedy, just steady. Intolerably slow. He dragged his fingers along my slickness, letting out the softest, sharpest breath when he felt how soaked I was. "Christ," he mumbled. "You're absolutely filthy."

Yes. 

Yes, I was. 

Mr. Godfrey held them there, two fingers barely pressing at my wet entrance, not moving. The tension knotted behind my ribs, unbearable. "Say it," he murmured.

I blinked, dazed; "Sir?"

"Say you missed me,"

My eyes widened just a bit, and my breath got stuck in my chest-- what? Why did he want to hear that? Why did he want me to say it? "I missed you," I confessed, shaky, not sure what to anticipate. 

"Are you lying?"

"N-- No, sir,"

Mr. Godfrey's digits moved, barely, with pressure at my hole that made my breath catch; would he put them in? Then, his fingers moved away, slow but deliberate, now dragging up to circle my clit once, twice-- before pulling away completely. "Stupid girl," he mumbled. "You shouldn't have."

My mouth parted in an airless gasp as he slid out of my underwear and came back with the flat of his hand, striking harder than before--

Crack.

"Eight," I gasped-- barely a whisper, barely a breath. The word slipped out before I could stop it, torn from the tight, trembling place in my chest. Everything burned. The ache had started as something low and dull, but now it bloomed sharp and alive, tracing every nerve along my spine and spilling down my thighs like fire.

Behind me, Mr. Godfrey let out a low breath-- half a sigh, half a laugh. The sound was cruel in its amusement, like he had expected this from me. "Still counting?" he murmured, voice velvet-smooth and full of mockery. "Didn't I tell you not to?"

I couldn't answer. My jaw was slack, my face already slick with tears, heat prickling under my skin-- I didn't know if I was shaking from the sting or from the shame that pulsed like a heartbeat in my chest. 

"I think you like the numbers too," Mr. Godfrey said next, almost to himself. His nails scraped a slow trail down the side of my thigh, making me jolt, making my stomach twist. "Makes it feel earned, doesn't it? Like you deserve it."

I whimpered, some fractured sound catching in my throat.

Another pause. Then;

Crack.

"Nine--"  The word burst from me on instinct, no thought behind it; just a raw, knee-jerk reaction.

He didn't let it go.

In one smooth, terrifying motion, Mr. Godfrey caught a fistful of my hair and pulled, yanking my head back just enough to make me gasp. My eyes flew open, vision swimming, breath catching. "I said," he hissed, low and cold in my ear; "Don't count."

"I'm sorry, sir," I whimpered, already unraveling. "I-- I keep losing track, I can't-- I need--"

His grip tightened again, sharp and absolute, every inch of him a warning; "Don't give a damn," he hissed.

Crack.

My whole body jolted, and a whisper of a ten left my lips. Shit. Shit.

This time, he didn't scold me. Maybe he hadn't heard me? But then, Mr. Godfrey pressed his hips forward, so I could feel the weight of him beneath me-- feel him growing beneath me. That was when it hit me that he was hard; thick, hard, and cruelly restrained. He wanted me to know. He wanted me to feel.

"Jesus," he muttered, now dragging the silk of my underwear down past my thighs; did he want to get a better look at the mark he was leaving? "Look at you... Wet like you're in heat. Ashamed yet?"

I was, but I wasn't. What the fuck was this feeling? I didn't even care that I was exposed anymore.

"It seems not," Mr. Godfrey hummed, dragging his fingers through the slickness between my legs, coating them, before trailing them down my thighs, humiliating me with every slow move. "Little brat's been dripping since strike three." 

I shivered; this was sticky. I was sticky. My legs were sticky. Was he? I whined, helpless, pathetic; "Please, sir, I feel-- ew, I feel--"

Crack.

My cry was loud this time, a real sob punching out of me-- finally, I had forgotten everything about the models. Peter. Mr. Godfrey's absence. The mess at the banquet. The lady from HR. The previous secretary. The emails. This was what I had been longing for-- this was the kind of numbness only Mr. Godfrey could give me, show me, teach me. This was why I needed him. That was why I needed this, us, whatever it was. 

As it all came crashing down on me, I felt the eternal knot in my chest unravel-- suddenly, I felt lighter than ever. Suddenly, I was ethereal. There was peace. Through my glistening tears hanging off my eyelids, I felt myself smile-- I slowly turned my head, looking up at Mr. Godfrey, showing him the release he had unleashed upon me. 

His green eyes, which were previously furious, had softened, but not noticeably. I could see it in the way his shoulders fell just the smallest movement, the way his face softened for just a beat too long, the way he let go of my hair-- he knew. He felt the euphoria too. 

This was the premise of everything.

This was why we needed each other. 

And then, to put me out of my misery, came the last crack of his palm against my skin-- I let my mouth fall open in a silent moan as I felt my body go limp with the relief. Euphoria, coursing through my veins. Euphoria, being pushed to this state. Euphoria. 

Mr. Godfrey exhaled behind me, pleased. "There she is,"

Then silence came, as a gift to us both. A heavy, glowing kind of silence that filled the room like warm light spilling across polished floors. No footsteps. No fumbling. No more commands.

Just him. Just me.

I heard him breathe again-- slower this time, calmer. Mr. Godfrey then reached for me with unexpected care, curling his arms around my torso, guiding me up and pulling me gently into his lap, settling me sideways so my legs draped across his. I didn't even think of the oddity of his softness-- my brain had melted into the best form of delirium as I let my head fall against his chest like it belonged there, right beneath his collarbone, where I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

I wasn't trembling anymore; I had found peace.

One of Mr. Godfrey's hands rubbed slow, careful circles up and down my back, his touch soothing now. The other cradled my thigh, his thumb absently brushing over my sticky skin-- no intention, no edge, just grounding presence.

"You did well," he murmured after a while, barely loud enough to hear. His voice wasn't sharp anymore; it was low, warm, and close. "Took everything I gave you, didn't you?"

I nodded faintly into Mr. Godfrey's broad chest, a wet exhale slipping from my lips. My hand came up to loosely clutch his shirt, something I would've never dared to before-- I didn't know if it was for balance or need. Maybe both? 

"Good girl," He pressed his lips to my temple-- not a kiss, really, just a press. His mouth was warm. "I've got you." Mr. Godfrey tilted his head down to rest against mine for a moment, our foreheads nearly touching. "I shouldn't have stayed away that long," he said. "Look what it did to you."

Look what it did to us.

... He didn't say that part, though. He didn't need to.

My body felt heavy in his lap, but not in a bad way; in a way that said I could stay here forever. "I needed this," I admitted, quiet as ever, soft and uncomplicated. "I needed you."

Mr. Godfrey's jaw moved like he was biting something back-- we didn't have to talk about the rest of it. Not yet. I didn't push. I got it. I finally understood. "Shh," he murmured again. "I know. I know." His hand kept tracing circles into my back; "Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah," If only he knew. "I just-- I'm just a little sticky, though." I tried pulling my thighs apart, but with every move, I felt the slick Mr. Godfrey had smeared all over them. If I really focused, I could still feel the arousal pulsing through me, the build-up that hadn't gone anywhere. Squirming, mildly uncomfortable, I let out a shaky breath against him, unsure whether to mention it or not. Maybe not. I could go one night without it. I could get off when I got home, right? 

It just... wouldn't be the same.

But that was when I realized Mr. Godfrey wasn't done with me, anyway.

He felt the shift in me instantly-- the restless little squirm, the way my thighs tried to edge apart just slightly, only to stick uncomfortably. The breath I let out was thin, almost whiny, as he reached down to help me spread my sticky thighs. "That's good," he murmured. "That's gonna help."

"Help?" I echoed, voice frail. "Sir, I don't-- I don't follow?--"

I didn't need to.

Mr. Godfrey's hand slowly went between my legs, his long, thick digits reaching the warmth of my slit, listening to the quiet whimper that left me. "Don't think," he murmured, slicking his fingers on my wetness, dragging and catching over my clit; "Let's just finish this up, hm?"

I was jelly in his arms, letting out a shaky moan as I sank into the feeling. I couldn't believe Mr. Godfrey was taking care of me, couldn't believe this was happening. Usually, he wouldn't touch me like this, wouldn't be so physical, but here we were.

"You really thought I was gonna let you walk out like this?" Mr. Godfrey said, brushing slow, lazy circles over my clit, each pass firmer than the last. "Can't let you leave the office in this state. How would that make me look, hm? I have a reputation to uphold."

I whimpered, my hips twitching against his palm.

"Mm... Thought so," he murmured. "You've been holding onto this for days, haven't you?"

My head fell back against his shoulder, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut; he had no idea. He had no fucking idea. If he ever left me for Switzerland again, I'd kill him with my bare hands-- it had been unbearable.

"You're lucky I'm feeling generous," he added, rubbing me in steady, expert strokes that had me unraveling by the second. "You're lucky I maybe missed you, too. There were no cute secretaries running around in Switzerland, y'know? You made my day with that fucking email."

My breath hitched, and I let out another quiet whimper, trying to keep my eyes open even though they were glazing over. "I thought you--" I moaned softly as his circles turned firmer, nearly derailing my words entirely. "I thought you were angry."

Mr. Godfrey chuckled quietly, the sound rich and warm in his chest, vibrating softly where I rested against him. "Oh, I was furious," he said, almost affectionate in his mockery. "But only because I couldn't do anything about it. Sitting in a boring meeting, trying not to picture you going nuts here, getting off behind my desk... Do you know how fucking hard it is to negotiate with a tent in your slacks?" Then, unexpectedly, he slid his fingers lower, easing one inside me. "But I knew I'd make you pay for it eventually."

I gasped against him, burying my face in Mr. Godfrey's chest; I never expected him to be inside of me in any way at all. Suddenly, it was also dawning on me that he was letting me cling to him, letting me writhe against him-- what was happening? "Sir," I breathed. "I'm so-- so sorry."

Mr. Godfrey made a quiet, amused sound at the back of his throat, finger curling slowly inside me, deep and deliberate. "No, you're not," he murmured, teasing rather than accusing. "But that's alright, for now. I didn't ask you to be."

I whimpered softly, clutching tighter at his shirt as his thumb brushed over my swollen clit again. My hips pressed forward without permission, desperate to feel more of him, to chase that unbearable friction he was creating, and--

"Easy," Mr. Godfrey murmured, his voice softer, almost soothing. "Don't rush this. I've waited a week for this."

I shuddered at his words, my breathing ragged against his chest. "I just--"

"You just what?" he asked, tilting his head down to whisper directly into my ear, his voice velvety with quiet authority. "You just wanted to torment me from a continent away? Wanted me thinking about you every goddamn second of every meeting?"

My breath hitched on another moan as he slid a second finger inside, stretching me carefully, gently. "I just wanted you to-- to miss me too,"

Mr. Godfrey's lips brushed my temple again, his voice softer than before. "That's cute," he murmured. "That makes me a little less mad."

He tightened his grip around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest as his fingers moved inside me, working carefully, insistently, as if he had memorized every response my body had ever given him and he was using it against me. "Shh, there you go..." he cooed, warm breath tickling my ear as his fingers fucked deeper into me. "Be good for me, just like that... You did so well tonight. I'll let this slide, just this once."

I couldn't believe this was happening, I really couldn't. Exhausted, I clung to Mr. Godfrey, helpless, burying my face deeper into the warmth of his chest as the incoming release finally started to unravel me. It was different this time; gentle, quiet, almost sweet, and somehow infinitely more devastating. The sound of his thick fingers pushing into me over and over was obscene, but I didn't care-- with my heart beating like never before, I even dared to look down at the scene, my breath catching in my throat. His fingers were so wet, the circles he rubbed into my clit were more intense to watch, and just the sheer size of his hands compared to my body was enough to make me shudder.

Mr. Godfrey caught up; "Pretty, huh?" he purred. 

I nodded against him, eyes wide as I watched his soaked fingers working me open-- deliberate, practiced, and cruel. "Yes, sir," I whispered, too aroused to be embarrassed. "It's... it's so--"

"So what?" His voice was a low hum at the crown of my head, his breath warm, his fingers not stopping. "Say it."

I swallowed hard, my legs twitching. "So good," I whimpered.

"Damn right it is," he murmured, mouth brushing over my temple again. "You think I'd give this to just anyone?"

My stomach flipped, my walls fluttering around him involuntarily, and he caught it instantly.

"Oh, you like that," he purred. "You like knowing you're the only one who gets this, hm? The only one I'd let fall apart like this in my lap?"

Wait... what?

What about the models? Hadn't he fucked the models? My brain was melting, falling apart; had he not done anything with them? Were the photos only that, just a show? Our little game? I couldn't answer. There were no words left-- just the sound of Mr. Godfrey working me over. "That's it," he murmured again, voice all praise now, nearly reverent. "I've got you."

Mr. Godfrey's fingers quickened just a hair, curling with each thrust, and his thumb never lost pace, circling tight and fast until I was keening into his chest, eyes clenched, body on fire-- I never wanted this to end. 

"That's it," he whispered again, breath catching. "Such a good secretary, hm?"

That did it-- I was. 

I was.

I was.

My whole body shattered in his arms, trembling, weightless, wrung out. I clutched onto Mr. Godfrey, my boss, my dom, pressing my forehead to the hollow of his throat as I came, letting it wreck me in waves that didn't stop until I was soft and boneless in his lap, barely able to breathe. That was worth the wait of this week. That was worth the chaos. That was worth the longing, the tears, and the pain.

Mr. Godfrey held me-- still, he didn't say a word for a long, long time.

His fingers slowly eased out of me, and then what remained was just the sound of our breath, rising and falling, like we had climbed the same mountain and were only now realizing the air was thinner up here; stupid, stupid risk-takers.

Finally, I opened my eyes-- his were already on me, green and clear.

... Something had changed.

I knew it with how still he had gone, in the way his gaze lingered, like he was trying to see past my skin, like he realized something he wasn't ready to admit.

Mr. Godfrey exhaled slowly through his nose. "Fuck," he muttered, almost too quiet for me to hear. His arms hadn't loosened at all, but he suddenly looked like he was trying to get a grip on himself. "You really don't make this easy."

My chest tightened, unsure what he meant-- what that look meant. "I don't?" I whispered, voice still ruined.

Mr. Godfrey shook his head slightly, like he didn't trust himself to say more. Then, finally, gently, he pressed his lips to my hair.

Just once.

Just long enough to make my heart stop.

"I know who I'm calling into the office tomorrow," he mumbled;

"A fucking exorcist."

(a/n: oh Mr. Godfrey...... playing with fire, playing with secretaries, what's next?? EEK THIS WAS SO FUN, may they both now be confused as hell!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE!!<333)

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[khuzena]

The Perfect Notation

𐙚 PAIRING: Phainon/gn!Reader

𐙚 SUMMARY: In a modern AU, a reserved, math-obsessed student (you) prepares for the prestigious Nationals math competition, slowly forming a quiet, unexpected bond with the ever-cheerful yet enigmatic Phainon. And while your world revolves around formulas and precision, Phainon watches you from the sidelines—curious, drawn in, and gradually learning to understand you through the language of numbers. As the competition nears, tension builds. You begin to ease your strict routines, letting Phainon into your life, unaware of how much he’s learning—not just math, but you.

𐙚 C.W: Depression, Academic pressure, Kinda happy ending, Angst

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I'm so fucked. I crammed this so bad................. I onl wrote this as an offering for Phainon. Idk man. Goodluck to me. WE WILL ALL GET PHAINON AD HIS LC!!!!!!!!!! MANIFEST MANIFEST!!!

𐙚 W.C: 8.5k

Anaxa didn’t even glance up from the monitor when he announced it.

“Top rank. Regional champion. You,” he said, sharp and almost lazy. “Congratulations. Nationals is in two weeks. Don’t embarrass us.”

There was a scattered beat of applause from the others—half-hearted, short-lived. Not because they didn’t respect you. They did. But you’d won too many times already. You didn’t smile. You never did. Just gave a small nod and turned your eyes back to the problem set you’d brought with you, already thinking ahead. Everyone else looked relieved that it wasn’t them expected to carry the weight of Nationals.

Phainon clapped a little longer than everyone else, even if he did it mostly out of instinct. Maybe also to see if you’d look up. You didn’t. You just adjusted the mechanical pencil between your fingers and started writing. No celebration. No smugness. Just a clean transition from victory to preparation, like your mind had already sprinted two weeks ahead without you.

He waited until the others filtered out of the room before sliding into the seat next to yours. Your notes were out, as usual—lined graph paper, faint sketches of triangle spirals in the corners, a few barely readable side equations that looked like your personal shorthand. You were midway through a set of recursive relations, flipping your pencil over and shading tiny regions of an imaginary shape you hadn’t finished sketching.

"You’re incredible, you know that?" he said, keeping his voice soft. Friendly. That usual tone that never quite gave away how hard his heart hit the inside of his ribs when you were this close.

You didn’t glance over. Just mumbled, “There’s still nationals.”

“That’s not a denial.”

You pressed the side of your pencil against your temple. “I didn’t study to impress people.”

“Good,” he said. “Because then I’d be very, very out of my league.”

That got him a brief exhale—almost a laugh, maybe. He smiled quietly to himself. It was always like this with you. No dramatic sparks, no confessions in the hallway, no big rom com moments. Just subtle shifts. Only barely there smiles. There's this slight change in your voice when you explained something and thought he was actually paying attention

He was. He really was.

"You’re still doing number theory this week?" he asked, nodding to your notes.

“Number theory, and complex optimization. The nationals committee has a history of using constraint based problems in the first round. And… including linear programming with edge cases. I’m trying to account for unusual variables.”

“You make that sound fun.”

“It is.”

There was something gentle in the way you said it, even if your tone didn’t change much. He liked hearing you talk about math more than he liked math itself—maybe that was the problem. You were fluent in this language. You thought in it, breathed it. And he didn’t. He was still stuck in the shallow end, watching you swim through vectors and primes like it was nothing. In his eyes, you were something else entirely.

But he was trying. You didn’t know that. Maybe it was better that way.

Later that night, in his room, he stared at the scanned copy of one of your old solution sets. You’d let it slip into his notes by accident. Maybe on purpose. He didn’t know. The paper had your name scribbled in the corner in small block letters, and the answer space had margins filled with diagrams no professor would ever require: loops within loops, a staircase of ratios descending inwards. Not just working out the solution—mapping it emotionally, too.

There was something about the way you thought that felt like art. You once solved an entire probability challenge backward just to demonstrate a flaw in its framing. He didn’t even understand the flaw. But he remembered how calm your voice was as you explained it to the class, as if you weren’t constantly carrying the pressure of being everyone’s expectation.

He wasn’t sure when it happened. When the fascination turned into something heavier. When your quiet concentration became something he’d seek out in every room. When your silence started feeling warmer than most people’s words.

Phainon didn’t tell Mydei about it. Not really. But Mydei knew something, of course—he always did. Once, when they were walking back from the library together, Phainon had grumbled something about being “math fucked” and “losing brain cells over logic gates.” Mydei had just looked at him, unreadable, then muttered, “You don’t like math. You like them.”

Phainon hadn’t denied it. Just kicked a pebble on the sidewalk and said, “What’s the difference if I’m learning for the right reason?”

Right now, the right reason was sprawled in the library’s farthest corner, buried under mock test printouts and three different pens. You were tracing something across the page—he couldn’t tell what from this angle. He hesitated by the doorway before walking over.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light.

You didn’t startle. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says who?”

“You’re not even in the nationals roster.”

“I’m studying vicariously,” he offered, flashing a grin.

You gave a small sigh, but didn’t ask him to leave.

He sat across from you, watching as you marked a value in red. Constraint minimization, he realized—probably some kind of modified simplex method. You liked visual cues, always highlighted in different shades. Red was for discardable outcomes. Blue for fixed values. Green for hypotheses. He’d memorized the palette without trying.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” you murmured, still focused on your work.

“Do what?”

“Follow me around. Pretend this is your thing.”

He hesitated. The grin faded a little.

“I’m not pretending,” he said finally.

You stopped writing. Not looked at him yet, but still.

“I don’t care about the numbers the way you do,” he admitted. “But I care about why they matter to you. And... that’s worth trying to understand.”

That got your attention. You looked up slowly, not angry, not even surprised. Just quiet. Tired, maybe. Tired of people trying to get something from you. Tired of always being the brain, the standard, the benchmark to beat.

He wished he could explain it better. That he wasn’t trying to win anything. He wasn’t chasing your answers. He just wanted to be near the questions that made you come alive.

“...I used to think people only noticed me when I solved things fast,” you said, almost too low to hear. “Like I didn’t matter outside of that.”

“You do.”

You blinked at him.

“I notice you even when you’re not solving anything,” he added, a little softer.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stared at him, pen still between your fingers, like you weren’t sure how to factor this variable in. Like you hadn’t expected honesty to be part of the equation.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. You just turned back to your notes and pushed a blank page toward him. Handed him a pen.

“Try this one,” you said. “I’ll walk you through it.”

And you did. Quietly. Carefully. Like you actually wanted him to stay.

He didn’t solve it perfectly. Not even close. But you didn’t correct him harshly. You just crossed out one step, rewrote it, and said, “Closer.”

Closer. He could live with that

Twelve days before the competition, you stopped staying for lunch.

Phainon noticed it gradually—first the empty seat, then the unfinished water bottle left behind, then the absence of your voice during roll call. You were always quiet, but you were never gone. Now, you disappeared between periods, emerging only for tests and drills, vanishing again like a scheduled ghost.

He caught sight of you once in the third-floor study room. You were sitting with your hoodie drawn halfway over your head, glasses fogged slightly, hair pushed back in a way that looked unintentional. There were seven books stacked beside you, two calculators, three different notebooks open to wildly different problems. Your eyes didn’t even blink between lines. You were writing in loops, as if time itself bent into circles around your wrist.

He stood by the door for maybe thirty seconds before turning away. He hadn’t meant to interrupt. Hadn’t meant to hover. But you were so deep into it—into your world of vectors and bounds and proofs with ugly constants—that he didn’t dare step inside.

That evening, Mydei said, “They’re going to burn out.”

Phainon looked up from the practice sheet he’d half-filled with mistakes. He hadn’t realized Mydei was paying attention. Then again, Mydei always paid attention to things no one else bothered to watch.

“I know,” Phainon muttered. “I just don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything.”

“You’re not,” Mydei said, and went back to his own book.

Still, he couldn’t shake the image of you hunched over the desk, barely moving except to flip pages or change pens. It was the kind of focus that was a little frightening. Not because it was obsessive, but because it was clearly the only thing keeping you anchored. You didn’t trust the world, not entirely. But you trusted a good equation.

The next day, he brought a small coffee to the study room and left it by the door. Nothing fancy. Just the kind you always ordered—plain, warm, no sugar. He didn’t write his name on it. You probably knew it was from him, but if you didn’t, that was okay too. He left it anyway.

You didn’t acknowledge it when you passed him in the hallway two hours later, but you also didn’t throw it away.

That counted.

By the tenth day, you looked like you were made out of pencil lead and fraying patience. Your eyes were slightly red from staying up too long. You had a cough. Your posture had changed—slouched inward, like your spine had curled into itself to conserve energy. When you walked past the windows, you didn’t even glance up at the light. Your hands were always busy, twitching slightly when you solved problems mid-step, mouthing integers like incantations.

Phainon watched you from across the room during study hall. He wasn’t subtle, but you weren’t paying attention. He always saw when you were working through something—something with matrices, maybe, or Lagrangian optimization. You crossed out two full lines, rewrote them, circled a variable twice, then pressed the heel of your palm into your eyes like the numbers were starting to hum behind them.

It was as if he wanted to say something. Not something dramatic. Not some big motivational monologue. Just—you can breathe, you know. You don’t have to prove it all the time. But even that felt like too much.

Instead, he passed by your table on his way out and dropped a small eraser beside your book. You always borrowed one. Always forgot it. This one had a tiny sun drawn on it with a blue pen. You didn’t say anything, but you moved it closer to your notes and kept using it.

The next few days, he kept studying on his own. He didn’t bother pretending he liked it anymore—he’d moved past that phase. He liked understanding parts of it. Not the math itself, maybe, but the logic. The way you treated problems like puzzles, always finding the most efficient path from question to solution. He kept a folder now, filled with problems you’d solved in front of him. Sometimes he redid them with your steps beside his, trying to see where his mind wandered and yours didn’t.

He also started noticing your habits. You tapped your pencil three times before starting a proof. You wrote every square root without simplifying, unless explicitly told. You skipped the final boxed answer until you double-checked the sign of every constant. When you got stuck, you tilted your head to the left—not right, never right—and frowned as if disappointment were just part of the process.

He wondered if you even knew how many systems you carried in your head at once. How many variables you managed, even outside math. You rarely spoke unless asked. You never sought help. You moved through school like someone who knew how fragile time was and didn’t want to waste a second pretending to be someone else.

Eight days left. Phainon joined your review session by accident—or maybe it wasn’t an accident, but he pretended it was. Anaxa raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, which was either mercy or mild curiosity. You were already there, surrounded by open binders and highlighted theorems.

He asked one question. You corrected him quietly, barely glancing up. But then you passed him a page with an easier version of the same problem. No comment. Just... passed it to him like it wasn’t a big deal.

He kept that page.

Six days before the nationals, it rained. He found you sitting near the vending machine, hair damp, hoodie too thin for the wind. You had a small bag of crackers beside you and your notebook flipped open to a new page. This time, no spirals. Just equations. Dense ones. Partial differentials and strange notation. The kind that hurt his head if he looked too long.

“You’re going to get sick,” he said, handing you a dry napkin.

You took it. “Didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“You okay?”

“I have to finish the integration methods tonight. That’s the only thing I keep slipping on.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You didn’t answer, but your jaw tightened slightly. The crackers stayed untouched. Your hand shook a little when you wrote something—he couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from exhaustion.

“Can I sit?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just sat with you while the rain hit the windows and the world outside got blurred into noise. You solved two problems. He solved one and a half, badly. But you didn’t mock him. You just corrected a sign with your red pen, circled a line, and nodded.

“Closer,” you said.

He felt warmer after that.

Not because of the math. Not because of the rain.

You sneezed. Quiet, quivk, like you were trying not to draw attention to it. Your pencil paused mid equation, fingers curling tighter around it. Then another sneeze followed, this time a little sharper, less contained. You didn’t say anything, but your shoulders tensed slightly, and your hand brushed under your nose before you kept writing like nothing happened.

Phainon watched you from the corner of his eye. You didn’t look sick, not exactly, but you were definitely running warm. Your hoodie was bunched at the sleeves, collar loose, and there was a slight pink flush at the tips of your ears that hadn’t been there yesterday. It wasn’t dramatic—just off. And that was enough.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice light.

“I’m fine,” you said, and that would’ve been the end of it, if you hadn’t swayed a little when you leaned back to check your notes. Just a blink’s worth of hesitation. Your hand moved to steady your balance, fingers briefly flattening against the desk before you continued writing like nothing had happened.

“You’ve sneezed three times,” he added. “Statistically, that’s a pattern.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Another sniffle. You finally lowered your pencil and pinched the bridge of your nose like it was starting to hurt.

“I don’t have time to get sick,” you mumbled.

Phainon leaned his chin into his hand. “Pretty sure your immune system doesn’t care about your schedule.”

He saw it—the falter. The hesitation in your lips before you pressed them together. You were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that caffeine doesn’t touch and focus can’t compensate for. Your notebook was filled with clean solutions, but the eraser marks had gotten more chaotic lately. Your last proof had a correction line that ran through four variables like a frustrated scrawl.

You looked like you were trying to hold the world together by sheer force of will. Phainon had no idea how you hadn’t collapsed already.

“Let’s go out,” he said suddenly.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Come on. Just for a bit. Stretch your legs, walk, grab a snack. There’s a convenience store two blocks down.”

“I have to review,” you said automatically, already glancing back at your notes.

“You’ve been reviewing for seven straight hours.”

“Exactly.”

Phainon tilted his head. “You’re burning out. Your handwriting looks drunk. You just sneezed into your own shoulder. I am—scientifically—concerned.”

You stared at him. Not offended, not irritated—just confused, like you didn’t understand what he was trying to get out of this. And maybe you didn’t. Most people left you alone. Phainon hadn’t.

You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “I’m not in the mood to hang out.”

“It’s not hanging out. It’s tactical energy recovery.”

You raised a brow.

“I’ll buy you a snack,” he offered. “Any one.”

That made you pause. Not because of the snack, probably. Maybe because it sounded easy. Normal. Like something someone who wasn’t constantly calculating would say.

“I’m not changing out of this,” you said, gesturing to your hoodie.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

You stared at him another few seconds. Then, finally, with a long, quiet sigh, you capped your pen and closed the notebook. You stood without a word. Phainon followed.

The wind had gotten colder since earlier. You pulled your sleeves down and kept your hands in your pocket, head ducked slightly. Your steps weren’t fast, but they were steady. Still, your shoulders moved a bit more than usual, like you were trying not to shiver.

“Your nose is pink,” he said gently.

“So is yours,” you shot back.

That made him laugh, surprised. “Wow. You do have a bite.”

You sniffled again. Didn’t reply. But you didn’t walk away either.

The convenience store’s lights buzzed softly when you stepped in. It smelled like microwaved curry and floor wax, comfortingly familiar. You wandered first, gravitating toward the drinks aisle with a slow shuffle, while Phainon trailed behind, hands in his coat pockets.

“You like those jelly cups, right?” he asked, nodding toward the bottom shelf.

You didn’t answer right away, just crouched slightly and picked one up. Held it in your hand like you were deciding whether it was worth it.

“Get two,” he said. “You can pretend I earned it.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Your eyes were dull from the fatigue, but there was something flickering just under the surface—confusion, maybe, or something softer. He wasn’t sure.

“I feel kind of hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

“You’ve probably got a mild fever,” he said. “Here.”

He stepped closer. Not too close, just enough to reach out, hand slow and open. You flinched, barely, but didn’t move away. His palm touched your forehead, fingers brushing against your temple. He expected to feel awkward. He didn’t. Just warm. Human.

You were, indeed, running warm.

He let the contact linger for a second longer, then lowered his hand.

You looked off to the side. “I should be reviewing.”

“You can review tomorrow.”

You shook your head, but it was weak. Your fingers squeezed the jelly cup just slightly.

He walked toward the checkout. You didn’t stop him.

He paid for both snacks, plus a bottle of ion water, and handed them to you outside. You took them, slowly. The sky had gone from pale blue to soft orange—late afternoon bleeding into early dusk. Your breath fogged a little when you exhaled.

“Just one night,” he said. “Don’t solve anything tonight. Don’t even open a notebook. Just... recharge.”

You looked down at the bottle in your hand. Read the label. Then, with no ceremony, you opened it and took a long drink.

“You act like you’re not smart,” you said.

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“You figure me out fast,” you added, quieter. “That’s not easy.”

He smiled. Not widely. Just enough. “I study you more than math.”

You exhaled through your nose, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. But the tension in your shoulders loosened slightly. You walked beside him all the way back without pulling away, even when your sleeve brushed against his.

He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ruin it.

You didn’t either.

That night, when you got back to the study room, you didn’t open your notebook. You just sat there, hood over your head, sipping your drink slowly. Phainon leaned back in his chair and let the quiet settle.

One night off.

The table’s surface was warm from the overhead light. Your arm pressed against it as you leaned forward, eyes locked on the scratchpad. The problem had three variables and an error margin no greater than ±0.05. So this was the kind of equation meant to eat hours: a balance model with variable-bound inequalities.

(your messy notes)

 x₁ + 0.6x₂ + 1.4x₃ = 42,  where 8 ≤ x₁ ≤ 14,  x₂ ≤ 2x₁,  x₃ ≥ x₂ – 3.

You’d written that down ten minutes ago and hadn’t spoken since.

Phainon shifted beside you, eyeing the margin of your notebook. There were no doodles this time. No arrows or metaphors or messy little tangents. Just the problem. Just you.

You’d stopped talking much three days ago. You still showed up, still reviewed, still scribbled on his printouts without asking. But your answers came slower. Less confident. Less sharp.

He didn't say anything about it. Not yet.

You pressed your palm to your forehead and muttered something under your breath. The pencil in your right hand twitched.

“You want to test boundary values?” he asked.

You didn’t look up. “What’s the point? It’s unstable no matter where x₁ lands.”

“It stabilizes at x₁ = 10,” he said. “If x₂ = 18 and x₃ = 15, the equation balances at—”

You were already writing it.

 10 + 0.6(18) + 1.4(15)  = 10 + 10.8 + 21.0  = 41.8

He saw your jaw twitch.

“Too low,” you muttered. “It needs 42 exactly.”

“Try rounding x₂ up to 20.”

You scribbled again.

 x₁ = 10, x₂ = 20, x₃ = 17  → 10 + 12 + 23.8 = 45.8

“Too high.”

You exhaled sharply and sat back. The chair creaked beneath you.

Phainon didn’t speak for a moment. He watched you crack your knuckles, flex your neck to the side. You were tired again—he could tell. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with a snack or a nap. The kind that settled under the skin. The kind that had you burning out in silence.

He looked back at the numbers. “Hm… Try interpolating? Let’s find x₂ that fits given x₁ fixed at 11, I think.”

You hesitated.

He nudged the pencil toward you. You didn’t take it.

“What’s the point if I’m just guessing?” you muttered.

He sat straighter.

“Hey,” he said, more level now. “You don’t guess. That’s not what you do.”

“I used to not guess,” you said. “Now I’m just throwing numbers until it fits. That’s not solving, that’s flailing.”

You didn’t raise your voice, but it was the most emotion you’d shown all week. And it settled between you like heat.

Phainon tilted his head, frowning faintly. “You’re still solving. You just don’t trust yourself when it’s slower.”

“I don’t have time to be slow.”

That silence again. The kind that dared someone to argue.

He didn’t. Not directly.

Instead, he pulled the notebook toward himself and began testing values. Small, controlled substitutions. Not to prove you wrong—but to try what you wouldn’t let yourself do. Try without crumbling.

 x₁ = 11  x₂ = 17  x₃ = 14  11 + 0.6(17) + 1.4(14) =  11 + 10.2 + 19.6 = 40.8

Closer.

“Try x₂ = 18,” you muttered suddenly.

He adjusted.

 x₂ = 18 → 0.6(18) = 10.8  x₃ = 15 → 1.4(15) = 21.0  Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 21.0 = 42.8

“Over,” you said. “Lower x₃ to 14.5.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re allowing floats now?”

“It never said integers only.”

Phainon adjusted again, writing as you dictated.

 x₃ = 14.5 → 1.4(14.5) = 20.3  11 + 10.8 + 20.3 = 42.1

“Almost.”

You took the pencil from him. This time, your hand didn’t shake.

 x₃ = 14.2 → 1.4(14.2) = 19.88  Sum = 11 + 10.8 + 19.88 = 41.68

“No,” you whispered. “Too low again.”

He watched the way your brows furrowed. Not in frustration—but focus. Like the real you was re-emerging, inch by inch, from a long, silent retreat.

You scribbled one more:

 x₃ = 14.4 → 1.4(14.4) = 20.16  Total = 11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Phainon leaned closer. “That’s within the error margin.”

“±0.05,” you echoed, eyes narrowing. “That’s close enough.”

The tension in your jaw didn’t release. Not right away. You just kept staring at the page, calculating again. Double-checking. Reducing. Making sure you weren’t wrong.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “That was a good solve.”

You exhaled, still not smiling. But your grip on the pencil eased.

Phainon didn’t push the moment further. He didn’t say anything reassuring. He just leaned back in his chair and looked at you—not expectantly, not with pity. Just... looked.

He’d watched you shift like this for days. From sharp precision to burning out. From holding yourself too tightly to finally slipping. Not in a way that made you fragile—just quieter. And he hadn’t realized, until now, how carefully he’d started tracking it. The rise and fall of your moods. The way your sleeves drooped past your wrists when you hadn’t slept. The way your eyes moved faster when your confidence returned.

He hadn’t meant to notice so much.

But he had.

And now, with the answer in front of you and your hands stilled, he didn’t know how to look away.

You finally broke the silence. “I haven’t studied properly in days.”

He nodded once. “I know.”

You stared at the solution again.

“You going to tell me I’m screwing up?” you asked.

He thought about it. Then: “No. You already know when you are.”

You looked at him. And for once, didn’t look away.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t kind, either. It just was.

Eventually, you stood. Packed your things slowly. Left the notebook open on the table. Phainon didn’t move, didn’t speak. He waited.

As you reached the door, you paused.

Then you left.

And he watched the half-solved page for a long time after, hand twitching once over the final line of the equation you’d both earned.

The day before nationals, you were staring at problem seventeen.

The question wasn't hard. Just dense. It was a nested inequality, no diagrams, three lines of conditions, and you’d already seen the structure before—maybe two sets ago, maybe last year’s regional finals. But your hands weren’t moving.

Your eyes dragged across the page. Back. Then again.

Nothing stuck.

Not the phrasing, not the shape of the functions, not even the constants. Every time you tried to scan it, it broke apart into noise—like reading with cotton in your ears. Like thinking through static.

The solution was probably two steps. Three, at most.

You couldn’t even start.

Someone knocked.

You didn’t look.

The knock came again—softer this time, a kind of hesitation behind it. Then the door clicked, and you heard it open anyway.

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Don’t,” you said, not even loud.

There was a pause.

“I’m just—”

“I said don’t.”

A beat.

Then footsteps.

Not retreating.

He stepped into the room anyway. Phainon, silent. Probably still in that same hoodie he wore when he didn’t want to draw attention. You didn’t turn your head. You just stared harder at the paper, as if concentration could be forced by spite.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly.

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched too long. You hated it.

“You think showing up is helpful right now?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your pencil scratched a line across the page, but it was aimless. More like a heartbeat line than math. You flipped to the next page.

Blank. Just grid lines.

You tapped the pencil three times, then pressed it to the paper again. No questions. No prompt. You just drew a symbol. Something meaningless. A circle with a line through it.

Your jaw locked.

“Go home, Phainon.”

Still nothing.

“You think being here does something? That it makes me feel less like I'm falling apart?” You laughed, hollow. “If you’re waiting for some last-minute wisdom to come out of this, don’t bother.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what?”

Nothing.

He just stood there, behind your shoulder.

You grabbed your binder and closed it, too fast. The snap echoed.

“Look, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want eye contact. I don’t want you sitting there acting like your presence is comforting. It isn’t.”

“I know.”

Your throat tightened.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you said, still not looking. “How everything slowed down the past two weeks? How I stopped keeping up with my logs, stopped doing three sets a day, stopped treating this like it mattered?”

“That wasn’t—”

“I let myself breathe, and now I can’t focus. I’m sitting here and I can’t even move past a two-line problem. Nationals is in the morning, and all I want is silence.”

Your voice was low. Sharper than you intended. But honest.

And you meant it.

Phainon shifted. A quiet inhale. Then nothing.

For a second, you thought he might say something. Some vague, clipped version of comfort dressed up as logic. Something he could pass off as neutral.

But he didn’t.

Because you’d made it clear you wouldn’t hear it.

You stood, moved to the far side of the room, pulled open your bag with fingers that wouldn’t stop twitching. You took out another mock set. Unopened. Pages pristine.

You didn’t sit. Just held it like it would matter.

Phainon hadn’t left yet.

You said, with your back turned, “I’ll delete your messages if you send any tonight.”

Silence.

And finally—finally—you heard him step back.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

No goodbyes. No dramatics.

Just quiet.

Too quiet.

You didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. There wasn’t time for that. You sat down and opened the mock test like nothing happened. Like you weren’t seconds from snapping. Like tomorrow wasn’t the only thing waiting for you, bare-fanged and watching.

The first question blurred. You blinked. Read it again.

Then started solving.

Because that’s all you had left.

The bus ride was too quiet.

You’d brought your binder. Everyone did. Open sets, annotated diagrams, clipped formula guides taped to the back of laminated ID cards. You used to do the same. You used to flip pages just to feel sharp, to stay in rhythm. But today you just held it in your lap. Your thumb brushed the edge of the cover, but you didn’t open it.

Someone laughed two rows down. Probably a teammate. The coach said something about breathing and pacing yourself and trusting what you already know.

You didn’t hear most of it. Your ears buzzed. Your head was full, but not of numbers.

You blinked and the venue arrived. High ceiling, clean rows of chairs, dry ass ac that immediately made your eyes sting red. In the room, they had labeled placards on the desks and printed IDs with barcodes. Everything looked exactly like it had last year.

You were in the front row this time.

Not that it mattered much.

You sat, hands on your lap, knees stiff. Your legs wouldn’t stop bouncing. Your pen was already uncapped. You kept uncapping it, then recapping it again. Five times. Six. You didn’t notice until someone tapped your desk to hand you the test envelope.

You said “thank you” without making eye contact.

Then it started.

Booklet flipped. Timer started. You read question one.

And felt nothing.

It was combinatorics—one of your favorite categories. The kind of problem you used to eat for warm-up. The first half was trivial: inclusion-exclusion, pigeonhole principle, standard case count. But your brain tripped on the wording.

You read the same paragraph twice.

Then a third time.

The logic was familiar. The numbers weren’t. You tried sketching something, but your pencil felt heavy. The lead snapped halfway through your first diagram. You paused to sharpen it, fingers tight, breathing shallow.

You looked at the clock.

You’d spent nine minutes on the first item.

You flipped to number two. Then three.

Then back again.

The room was silent—pages turning, pens scribbling, the occasional cough.

Your pen hovered above the paper. You wrote half a line of working for problem one. Then scratched it out.

It wasn’t even wrong.

You just couldn’t focus.

Your stomach churned.

By the time you finished the first page, it had been twenty minutes. Your hand hurt. You weren’t writing fluidly anymore. You weren’t even calculating. Just stumbling between guesses and second-guessing every instinct you used to trust.

Problem four was geometry.

It was clean. Symmetrical. The kind of shape you’d usually smirk at.

Now it made your head throb.

Midway through the proof construction, you forgot why you were solving it. You blinked and realized you'd written a congruence that didn’t apply. Your triangle labeling was inconsistent. You had to rewrite half the setup.

Thirty-five minutes gone.

Only two questions answered—poorly.

You wiped your palms against your pants. They were damp. You hadn’t noticed.

You looked around.

Everyone else was working. Focused. Calm.

You stared back down at your paper and told yourself to just breathe.

One step.

You just had to think.

Just had to trust your training.

Just had to—

Your vision blurred for half a second. Not from tears. From sheer cognitive fatigue.

You closed your eyes.

This isn’t me.

That voice sounded distant. Like it belonged to a version of you that hadn’t already spiraled.

You used to feel alive during competitions. You used to get high off the logic. Used to finish before the timer. You’d lean back and double-check the whole thing just for fun. You used to walk out of the room with a grin.

Now you couldn’t even lift your head.

You wanted to quit.

Not the competition—just the moment. Just stop existing here. Just vanish from the desk and leave the half-scratched paper behind. You wanted to crawl out of your own body and sleep for a week.

You looked back at the clock.

Fifty-eight minutes left.

You hadn't solved more than two problems.

Your hands shook.

You flipped to the next page anyway. You didn’t want to—your body just moved on instinct. A functional equation. Weird domain restriction. You could see what it wanted you to do. Transform. Isolate. But the working wouldn’t come.

You wrote a line. Crossed it out.

Wrote a second. Scratched over it.

You felt your chest tighten.

This is a joke.

You stared at the ceiling, not blinking, not breathing. Then you looked down and forced yourself to pick up the pen again.

It didn’t matter how slow.

You weren’t going to leave it blank.

Even if everything felt like it was slipping sideways, even if you knew—knew—you’d fumble this set, you couldn’t walk out knowing you hadn’t tried.

So you solved.

Not well.

Not fast.

And then, the announcement came four hours later.

They posted the results on the auditorium wall, in clean rows under the school banners. It took less than a minute for the cluster of students to gather. Someone whooped when they saw their name. Another dropped to the floor in disbelief, grinning at their teammates

You didn’t move.

You stood farther off, half in the shadow of the hallway, arms crossed too tightly across your chest.

You already knew.

The one with the modular constraint and inverse evaluation. The one that was practically made for you. You'd caught the structure immediately—cyclic groups, reduced residues, classic residue pairing. It was clean. Direct. Elegant.

You’d known before they even collected your paper.

You knew the second you circled back to problem nine.

But you hadn’t notated your base step.

You skipped it.

You proved the process but didn’t state the root value.

No mark.

You lost five points for that.

Five points.

You walked up to the sheet anyway. Just to see it.

The margin between first and second place?

Five.

Your name was there. Clear as day.

National rank: 2nd Place Total: 91 / 100

People were already murmuring. A few were surprised. A few weren’t. Some were still talking about how you "looked out of it" during the morning set, how you’d "sat still for too long" during the first page.

First place had 96.

Third had 89.

You didn’t respond.

You’d never placed second before.

You read the number again.

Ninety-one.

Not once.

Not since the beginning.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying.

You just stood there, tired. Your legs ached. Your hands felt like they weren’t fully yours.

You heard someone approach behind you. The footsteps were familiar. Lighter than Mydei’s. Too careful to be Anaxa. You didn’t turn.

Phainon stopped beside you.

He didn’t say anything.

You didn’t either.

For a moment, the results just... existed between you.

It should’ve been perfect.

That one line.

That one symbol.

That one stupid omission.

The logic was right. The reasoning was solid. It was the kind of solution they’d print in post-competition reviews. But it was incomplete. Technically correct, formally flawed. The judges hadn’t been harsh. Just consistent.

You exhaled, slow.

“You already knew?” Phainon asked, voice low.

You nodded.

“I left it blank.”

“You didn’t leave it blank.”

“I left it unanchored.”

Silence.

You didn’t want consolation. Not even from him.

Because this wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a failure.

It was worse.

It was that knife’s edge between greatness and flaw. The kind of mistake you can’t even be mad at. Just live with. Just swallow. Just remember when you look at your own name in second place next year and wonder how much tighter your grip has to be.

Someone asked to take a photo with the medalists.

You didn’t move.

Your hand twitched slightly when your name was called, but you stayed behind until the crowd thinned.

Phainon stayed with you.

Still silent.

It wasn’t a terrible ending.

You still placed.

You still qualified.

But when you finally walked outside—medal in your pocket, sweat dried cold on your back—the world felt too loud. The cars too sharp. The sunlight too white.

You’d done almost everything right.

Except the part that counted.

You didn’t wait for the team photo.

You stepped down from the auditorium steps, medal still boxed in your pocket, shoes hitting the concrete too hard. The sun was brutal. The wind made the sweat on your neck feel sticky. You crossed the street with no destination—just motion. Just away.

Someone called your name. You didn’t turn.

You heard the footsteps speeding up behind you. Rubber soles scraping pavement.

“Wait—” Phainon’s voice, breath catching.

You didn’t.

You kept walking until your throat started burning from how tight it was clenched. Until your fists were hot from how hard you were holding onto nothing.

He caught up anyway.

Of course he did.

“Can you—can you just stop for a second?”

You did.

But not for him.

You stopped because your legs were shaking.

You spun around.

“What.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

You didn’t wait.

“No, really. What do you want, Phainon?” you snapped. “To say it’s okay? That I still did great? That I should be proud of second place?”

His expression shifted. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Because I don’t want to hear it.”

You stepped closer.

“I don’t want your version of understanding. I don’t want your... your weird quiet ‘I’m here’ look like that does anything for me. You know what I want?”

He didn’t move. Just stared.

“I want to go back two hours and slap myself for being so goddamn stupid.”

Your hands were shaking. “I missed one notation. One. You know how easy that base statement is? It’s mechanical. It’s an instinct. And I missed it because I was so fucking fogged I forgot how to write.”

Phainon said nothing.

You hated that.

You hated that he still wouldn’t argue.

“You knew,” you accused, voice low. “You saw me falling apart this week and you said nothing.”

“I tried—”

“You watched me. You followed me. You sat in that room and you knew I wasn’t in the right state, and you still didn’t stop me from spiraling.”

“I wasn’t going to control you.”

“Maybe you should have!”

It echoed off the buildings.

You took a shaky breath, but your lungs wouldn’t fill right. You swore your heart was in your throat.

“I don’t lose,” you whispered. “I don’t.”

Phainon’s brows knit. “It’s one mistake.”

“To you.”

“Not just to me.”

“Well, I’m not you!” you snapped, voice cracking.

Pedestrians crossed the street behind you. None of them looked your way.

“Do you know what they’ll say?” you asked bitterly. “That I choked. That I got distracted. That I got lazy. That the math kid finally cracked because they stopped grinding and started... I don’t know. Socializing.”

Phainon flinched. Barely.

Your breath caught.

And then, softer: “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You stepped back, blinking hard, jaw locked.

“I was supposed to win. Cleanly. Not because I’m gifted, not because I’m smart—because I fucking worked for it.”

Phainon’s voice came quiet.

“You still did.”

“Don’t,” you warned.

You weren’t ready to hear anything from him. Not validation. Not warmth. Not that irritating, careful silence he kept bringing like it was supposed to help.

You didn’t want him to understand.

You wanted him gone.

So you said the one thing you knew would stick:

“I can’t stand being around you right now.”

He froze.

You didn’t take it back.

You turned.

You walked.

And this time, he didn’t follow.

It had been a week. Maybe longer.

You didn’t care. You didn’t count anymore. The calendar with Nationals circled in red was still on the wall, but you hadn’t looked at it since the results. You kept the lights dim. Didn’t open the window. Didn’t answer your messages. You couldn’t. Every ping made your skin crawl. The medal was still in its case, unopened. Your fingers had touched it once, briefly, by accident when reaching for a pen, and your body recoiled like it was hot iron.

You didn’t deserve to hold it.

You sat hunched over your desk again, notebook open to the same damned problem—the same sequence from that day. That warm-up with Phainon. The one you couldn’t solve cleanly. The one you laughed about, once.

You hated that memory now.

You ran through it again.

You hated how close you’d been.

You hated that it showed up again. You hated that you froze. You hated that you had been the one to say “it needs 42 exactly” out loud—and still blanked.

 x₁ = 11, x₂ = 18, x₃ = 14.4  11 + 10.8 + 20.16 = 41.96

Almost.

You wanted to punch something.

But you didn’t. You just kept tapping the lead of your pencil to the desk. Over and over. Like that would make the numbers change. Like if you rewrote them enough, your score would shift backwards in time and undo the second place.

Your door creaked.

You didn’t look.

You already knew who it was. He kept doing this now—once a day, maybe twice. Quiet steps, paper bag rustling, some drink left on the corner of your desk. He didn’t say anything. You liked that. No words meant you didn’t have to scream.

But this time was different.

Phainon didn’t leave.

He sat beside you.

Not at a distance. Not lingering behind you. He sat—right there—on the edge of the desk like he belonged, like you weren’t halfway to a breakdown, like he wasn’t the last person you wanted to see right now.

You didn’t tell him to go.

You just snapped.

“I fucking had it.”

Your voice cracked on the first word. You didn’t care.

“I solved this. Two weeks ago. I said the answer out loud. I knew the spread. I knew the constraint.”

He didn’t speak.

“I said 42. I said it needs 42 exactly. I even adjusted the values with you. We got 41.96 and laughed because we were close, remember?”

You stared at the paper.

“You know what I got in Nationals?” You didn’t wait. “A time warning. I blanked. I hyperfocused. I optimized the wrong case, and then—then I panicked, Phainon. I panicked.”

Your throat clenched.

“I missed five points. Five points I could’ve solved in my sleep.”

The pencil snapped in your hand.

You stared at the broken lead, then the paper, then your own shaky fingers.

“I don’t get second place. I don’t choke. I don’t choke. I was the kind of person who didn’t choke. Who wrote the neatest notation. Who finished with five minutes to spare. Who got asked to coach others, because I was always sharp, always clean.”

You bit your lip.

“And I blew it. Over one question I’d already seen.”

The silence pressed against your ears.

“I ruined it.”

Still no reply. Just breathing. Just presence.

Your fingers curled, trying to keep steady.

“I hate this. I hate being this person. The person who peaked early. The person who was promising and then lost.”

Your voice dropped.

“I hate that it’s me.”

You felt your chest cave in a little—like air was too much to take in.

“And I can’t stop going over it. I can’t stop. My brain won’t shut up. I wake up thinking of equations. I stare at the ceiling and count backwards. I solve this problem again and again and it never changes.”

You let the pencil fall.

“I lost. I lost. And I can’t even scream because I don’t want anyone to hear how broken I sound.”

The tears came hot. You didn’t wipe them.

You closed your eyes. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning anymore.”

Then—

Warmth.

Not words. Not footsteps. Just arms around your shoulders, sudden and too human, too solid.

Phainon pulled you in.

No announcement. No breathy confession. No stupid I’m here for you monologue.

Just a silent, firm hug like the air had decided you’d had enough and finally let you collapse.

Your fists clenched weakly against his sleeves.

You wanted to scream again.

You didn’t.

You just stayed there, held in a silence you didn’t know how to break, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering, eyes blurry, voice too small when it came again:

“…I’m still solving it.”

And he said nothing.

Just held you tighter.

You stared at it for so long you forgot to breathe.

You’d seen the variables before. The shape of the function, the weighted coefficients, the margins for error. You’d memorized every possible spread that week before Nationals. Burned it into your skull, dreamed of the numbers like they were prophecy. You knew the bounds. You knew the behavior. You knew what was optimal.

And yet you’d missed it.

Your finger hovered over the line again:

 x₁ = 10.3, x₂ = 18.6, x₃ = 14.7  10.3 + 11.16 + 20.58 = 42.04

Exactly what you needed. Balanced. Minimal error. Clean notation.

You swallowed.

This was what it looked like when someone else solved your problem.

Not the kind of problem written in a book.

The kind of problem that defined your life.

You didn’t say anything at first. What was there to say?

That he used your notation?

That he probably went through your old scratch paper?

That he even wrote like you now—left margin wide, decimals aligned, iterations clearly marked?

That the one thing you hadn’t gotten right, the one thing that shattered your momentum and your pride and everything you thought made you worth something—he solved it in your language?

You pressed your palm to your face.

The tears didn’t come this time. Just heat. The kind that made your eyes sting and your ears burn.

You weren’t angry at him.

You were angry that it still mattered this much.

He said nothing.

You finally spoke.

“…You used my margin system.”

A pause.

Then, low and hoarse: “It made the most sense.”

Your hand trembled as it dropped to the desk.

“I gave up on this.” You stared at the page like it was some kind of curse. “And you didn’t.”

“I didn’t have to perform in front of a panel,” he said.

You bit your lip.

“I still blanked. Even though I knew the spread. Even though I had this. I still choked.”

Silence.

“I don’t choke,” you muttered again, voice smaller.

Phainon didn’t argue. He just sat beside you, fingers loosely laced in his lap, expression unreadable.

You hated how quiet he was being.

You hated that he wasn't trying to fix you.

You hated how real it made everything feel.

“I thought I could… I don’t know. Rebuild it,” you muttered, eyes flicking across the page again. “Like if I solved this, just this one… if I got it cleanly, then maybe I could forgive myself.”

He glanced down.

“I didn’t solve it for that,” he said quietly. “I just… kept seeing you staring at it.”

You laughed under your breath. Not amused. Not even bitter. Just tired.

“It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not.”

Your voice cracked. “It is. It’s one number. A decimal shift. And it’s been clawing at me like—like the loss means I’m less. Like if I didn’t get it, I don’t deserve anything I had before.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Everyone says I’m gifted. That I was made for this. That I was ‘born for precision.’ But what kind of genius blanks on a number they said out loud two weeks before the exam?”

He turned his head, just slightly.

“You.”

You froze.

Phainon’s voice didn’t waver. “You did. You blanked. You panicked. You lost.”

You didn’t move.

He continued, gently:

“And you’re still you.”

That pierced deeper than any sympathy would’ve.

Because it wasn’t comfort.

It was truth.

You looked at him for the first time.

He didn’t look triumphant.

He looked exhausted.

Like he’d carried the weight of that number for days—not because it was hard, but because you were.

Because watching you disappear into yourself was worse than not knowing the answer.

You didn’t realize how tight your grip had gotten until the edge of the paper started to crumple in your hand.

You set it down.

“I still lost,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

The tears stung again.

“I hate that I care so much.”

He didn’t respond this time. Just leaned back slightly, letting the air between you return. Not out of cruelty. Just space. Like he knew you needed it.

You glanced down at the scratch again.

There it was. Your ghost of a victory. Written in handwriting that wasn’t yours. Solved by someone who wasn’t onstage. Who wasn’t panicking. Who hadn’t been trained for this the way you had.

“I was supposed to be better,” you muttered. “Than them. Than this.”

Phainon tilted his head. “Than me?”

You looked away.

“No,” you admitted. “Than myself.”

The words fell flat, bare, real.

You stared at the final boxed answer. The clean, round 42.04.

“That’s the score I needed.”

“It is,” he said softly.

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to gather something like breath.

Your chest still felt tight.

But not crushed.

You weren’t okay. Not even close. But your hands had stopped shaking.

And for the first time in over a week, you weren’t reciting the question in your head. You weren’t counting factors on your fingers. You weren’t spiraling through iterations.

You were just sitting. Still. Quiet.

Beside someone who had gotten there, when you couldn’t.

Beside someone who didn’t offer forgiveness, because they knew you weren’t asking for it.

Phainon shifted, about to speak—

—but didn’t.

You reached forward.

Picked up the paper.

Folded it once.

Then tucked it into the corner of your notebook like a scar.

A reminder.

A truth.

The perfect notation you forgot, and someone else remembered.

a/N: BEFORE YALL COME AT ME YES THIS IS LINEAR WEIGHTED OPTIMIZATION. THE IDEA AROSE WHEN I REMEMBEERED THE GUY I LIKED AND I WANTED TO LEARN MATH BS HE MADE IT SOUND FUN:((. This ENTIRE formula was something I did wayyy back. Idek remember the process but when I dug my old notes, I saw my tiny comments step by step. If the math is wrong.......... feel free to tell me. pls bro I based this off an old scratch paper GIVE ME A BREAK. WE ARE ALL GETTTING PHAINON. I'm so sorry if this was rushed dawgggggggggggggg

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[tinybeetiny]

can u please make more ateez angst when you have time and feel like writing something that hurts. it doesn’t have to have a happy ending as long as y/n isn’t a totally pushover, it also doesn’t matter for which member or whether it’s something in the format as the “they call you clingy” fic or a traditional fic! thanks in advance and regardless of whether you take this request keep up the good work girly!

When they yell at you: OT8

Aaah now that i got all my "I Love You" fluffs done I figured i could give yall some angsty angst!!! I hope this was ever thing you wanted anon! I appreciate your kind words and i do like the whole Yn not being a total push over!!!

->Starring: OT8xReader ->Genre: Angst ->Cw: Yelling, gaslighting? maybe?, hurt no comfort, there will be NO part 2, no second chances, mean everyone except Yn... because as you should, stand for yourself pookie

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist

Seonghwa:

It started with silence, Seonghwa’s favorite kind of armor.

He stood in the kitchen, back turned, cleaning the same glass for the third time. You leaned against the doorframe, watching him, your own chest tightening from the weight in the air.

“Are you really not going to talk to me?” you finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His hand froze mid-wipe. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s everything to talk about, Seonghwa,” you said, stepping in. “You shut down whenever something gets too close. You’ve been distant for weeks, and I’m here trying to hold us together with what? Prayers and duct tape?”

He set the glass down with a loud clink and turned. His jaw was tight, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “You think this is easy for me? That I’m just choosing to shut down?”

“No. I think you’re scared of confronting things that hurt. And instead of dealing with them, you pretend nothing’s wrong until we break apart in silence.”

His jaw clenched, and suddenly he slammed his fist on the counter, knocking the glass over.

“Enough,” he growled, voice low and rough. “You think your constant worrying, your endless questions, is going to ‘fix’ things… you make everything worse!”

The words crashed over you, sharper and colder than you expected.

Your breath caught. Your eyes went wide, the sting of his cruelty like a slap you hadn’t seen coming.

Seonghwa’s face instantly paled, his eyes widening as if the words echoed back at him with new, terrifying weight.

He blinked, swallowing hard.

You froze.

Your throat burned. “Say that again.”

He didn’t.

“I dare you to look me in the eye and say I made things worse by caring. By trying.”

Seonghwa dropped his gaze. The crack in his facade was starting to show, but it was too late.

“I’ve bent myself backwards for you,” you continued, voice trembling but firm. “Tried to read between the lines of your silence. Tried to understand your moods like they were a second language. But this? This is where I draw the line.”

“Y/n—”

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to make me the villain in your story because you’re afraid of being vulnerable. I’m not your enemy, Seonghwa. But if this is how you talk to someone who loves you, then maybe you don’t understand what love really is.”

He opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out.

You took a slow breath, grounding yourself in your own strength. “You want peace? Start by not wounding the people who are on your side.”

He reached for your hand. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m not going far,” you whispered. “But I’m not staying here just to be hurt, either. Figure out if you're going to keep pushing me away every time you're scared. Because I can’t love someone who punishes me for caring.”

You slipped your hand out of his and turned, tears pooling, but not falling, until you stepped outside and let the door close behind you.

Inside, Seonghwa stood completely still, hand outstretched, realizing far too late that he just broke the one person who never asked for anything but honesty.

Hongjoong:

The apartment was dim when you walked in, the only light coming from the cold glow of Hongjoong’s laptop screen. You kicked off your shoes quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile calm. The takeout container felt heavy in your hands, but you hoped a simple meal might bring a moment of peace.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, hunched over his desk, eyes bloodshot, the soft buzz of the headphones muffling his low muttering. The weight of exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.

You placed the food on the table gently, trying to keep your voice calm.

“Hey, I got your favorite—”

He slammed the laptop shut with a sharp clack that echoed through the small room. His gaze snapped toward you, eyes blazing with a frustration you hadn’t seen before.

“You seriously thought now was a good time to come home with takeout?” he snapped, voice sharper than ever.

You blinked, the surprise pinching your chest. “I just thought you might be hungry. You haven’t eaten all day.”

His breath hitched, but his anger poured out like a flood. “I don’t have time to eat!” he shouted, standing abruptly, the tension radiating off him like heat. “Do you even understand the pressure I’m under? No. You don't because I’m doing everything alone!”

Silence. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that burns your lungs when you try to breathe.

Your heart thudded fiercely against your ribs. “Excuse me?”

He ran a hand over his face, already pacing, voice rising with every word. “I have to produce, mix, write lyrics, manage schedules, all while you just… float around here like everything’s normal.”

You swallowed the lump tightening in your throat, trying to steady your voice. “You’re exhausted. I get that. But you don’t get to talk to me like that because you’re spiraling.”

He stopped, staring through you as if you were a ghost, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You stepped forward, voice steady but thick with emotion. “I’ve stayed up with you on the nights you were too anxious to sleep. I’ve sat in silence with you when words failed you. I’ve tried everything to make your world a little softer when it got too loud and now I’m just… what? In your way?”

No answer. Just the frantic rhythm of his breathing.

Your voice cracked, not from weakness but the strength it took to stand tall amid the storm. “Don’t mistake my quiet support for invisibility. I see you, Hongjoong. But I will not let you erase me just to feel like you’re in control.”

The room was heavy with silence again, thick and suffocating.

You bent down to grab your keys, every movement deliberate to calm your shaking hands.

Hongjoong finally moved toward you, eyes wide with desperation. “Wait! Don’t go. I didn’t mean—”

You turned, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. “You did. And maybe that’s the problem.”

The door clicked softly behind you, sealing the night shut.

Hongjoong was left alone, the echo of your words hanging in the stale air, and the untouched dinner, still warm and forgotten on the table.

Yunho:

Dinner was quiet, eerily so.

You sat across from him, your plate untouched. The only sound came from Yunho’s occasional laughter as he scrolled through his phone, completely absorbed. You watched him, your chest tightening with every second that passed without a glance in your direction.

You didn’t want to ruin the night. But you also couldn’t take it anymore.

“How was your day?”

“Good” he muttered, eyes still on his screen.

“Anything new?” you asked, hoping he'd look up

"Not really?"

"Do you even want to do this?"

He sighed like it was a burden. “Y/n, don’t start right now. I’m tired.”

“I’ve been quiet for weeks, Yunho. How much longer was I supposed to keep swallowing how empty this feels?”

He finally looked up, just in time for the irritation to flash in his eyes.

And then, he snapped.

“Can you just shut up for once?”

Everything inside you went silent.

You stared at him, stunned, but only for a breath. Your heart thudded, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you pushed back your chair and stood slowly.

Your voice came out low, deadly calm.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

His face shifted, regret flickering behind the anger, but it was far too late.

“I—I didn’t mean it like—”

“No. You said it. Loud and clear,” you cut him off, voice shaking with fury. “You think I’ve been nagging? You think this is me being dramatic? Try being in a relationship where your boyfriend would rather talk to his phone than look at you.”

He stepped forward. “Y/n, I didn’t mean it—”

“But you did,” you snapped, backing away. “Don’t try to twist it now. You told me to shut up for finally asking why I’m hurting. And you think you’re the one who’s tired?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall in front of him. “I have begged for your attention in silence for weeks. I’ve sat across this table, hoping, praying, you’d notice I was breaking. But now I know why you didn’t.”

You grabbed your bag, every movement filled with controlled fire.

“You stopped caring a long time ago and maybe I should stop wasting my voice on someone who only notices when I'm about to leave.”

You turned toward the door, but paused just long enough to look back.

“I don’t care how tired you are, Yunho. You don’t get to make me small just because you can’t handle the sound of my pain.”

Then you walked out, slamming the door behind you, leaving him alone with his phone, the cold food, and the sinking weight of his own cruelty.

Yeosang:

The studio buzzed with the rhythmic sounds of footsteps and heavy breathing as the members drilled the new choreography. You stood near the edge of the room, watching Yeosang as he moved with sharp precision, but his face betrayed something deeper, frustration and exhaustion etched into every line.

He stumbled on a difficult step, swearing under his breath. The frustration bubbled over quickly.

When the group took a short break, you stepped forward, hoping to offer some comfort.

“Yeosang, you’re really killing it out there. This routine’s tough, but I believe in you.”

Your words were soft, genuine, meant to soothe the tension hanging in the air.

Instead, Yeosang’s face twisted into a scowl. He spun around, eyes flashing with something fierce and raw.

“Do you even realize what I’m dealing with?” he snapped, voice rising louder than you expected making your eyes widen. “You think your little pep talk is helping? It’s not! You have no idea what I’m going through!”

The room fell still. Your heart clenched at the sharpness in his voice, but you refused to back down.

“I’m just trying to support you,” you said calmly, meeting his glare. “I’m here because I care.”

Yeosang’s jaw tightened, fingers curling into fists at his sides. “Care? That’s easy to say when you don’t have the weight of every expectation crushing down on you. The pressure to be perfect, the constant eyes watching, the fear of messing up, I live with that every second.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling the weight of his pain but also the sting of his words.

Hongjoong stepped forward cautiously. “Yeosang, it’s okay to be frustrated. We all are. But don’t take it out on—”

“Don’t,” Yeosang cut him off sharply, eyes wild. “You don’t get to tell me to calm down. Nobody understands this like I do.”

You saw the others exchange uneasy glances, unsure how to intervene without making things worse.

“I may not be on stage,” you said quietly but firmly, “but I see you. I see the pressure. And I also see how you’re pushing away the people who want to support you.”

His breathing was heavy now, chest rising and falling quickly.

“Maybe my words don’t fix anything,” you continued, voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “But lashing out doesn’t make it better either.”

Yeosang shook his head, frustration and something softer flickering behind his eyes.

“I’m trying to hold everything together. Sometimes, it feels like it’s too much.”

You took a step closer, unwavering. “And you’re not alone. But if you keep shutting people out, you’ll be fighting that battle alone.”

He looked at you then, vulnerability breaking through the anger for just a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking.

You shook your head gently. “Sorry isn’t enough when it’s this constant. I’m here because I want to be by your side, not because I’m willing to be treated like a problem.”

The room was silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioner and your steady breaths.

“I need space,” you said finally, voice firm. “If this is how it’s going to be, I need to step away.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked toward the exit, your footsteps echoing in the quiet studio.

Behind you, Yeosang stood frozen, surrounded by his brothers, the weight of his frustration now heavier with the absence of the one person who believed in him most.

San:

The rain tapped steadily against the windows, the sound echoing through your apartment.

You stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching San pace like he was walking circles around an answer he couldn’t find. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark and distant.

You had been arguing for twenty minutes, but somewhere around minute twelve, it had stopped being about the dishes, or the missed calls, or the weekend he forgot to come home.

Now, it was something else. Something ugly. Something buried too long.

“You think everything has to be about you!” he suddenly exploded, voice cutting through the silence like glass. “God, it’s exhausting!”

Your spine straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You never shut up about how you feel, how you’re hurting, how you need more time, more answers, more, whatever the hell you think I owe you.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “You do owe me something, San. Respect. Consistency. The bare minimum of communication.” Your voice stayed level, but your heart was thudding so loud it made your ears ring. “I haven’t been asking for miracles. I’ve been asking you to show up.”

He laughed bitterly. “Show up? You mean like how you always keep score? Like every time I’m late, it’s another point on your perfect little tally board?”

“Late?” you scoffed. “Try disappearing, San. Try not answering texts for days and pretending like you’re not the one pulling away. I’ve been right here, the whole damn time, waiting for you to be honest with me.”

He shook his head like he couldn’t bear to hear it.

You stepped forward. “Say something. Say anything real for once.”

And then he did.

Something in his expression snapped. His shoulders stiffened, and when he spoke, his voice came out like venom.

“Maybe I don’t want to be here anymore.”

You froze.

The words didn’t land immediately. They echoed instead, bouncing off the walls and repeating in your mind until they sank in. Your mouth went dry.

Your voice cracked, but not with weakness, only disbelief. “You’re really going to say that to me? After everything we’ve been through?”

He looked away. Said nothing.

So you filled the silence. “You want out? Fine. But don’t you dare act like I’m the problem just because you don’t have the guts to admit you’ve already checked out.”

His eyes flashed. “You act like you're some saint for putting up with me, but you’re controlling. You act like you're always right. Like you know me better than I know myself.”

“I do know you!” you shouted. “And I know you’re scared. I know you’re pushing me away so you don’t have to feel guilty when you finally walk. But I won’t be here when you do. I won’t let you hurt me twice.”

He looked stunned for half a second. Then he masked it again.

You grabbed your keys from the table, fingers trembling, but your spine was steel.

“I loved you, San,” you said, voice trembling but firm. “And I thought you loved me too. But if this is what your love looks like, if it's yelling and silence and emotional whiplash, then I don’t want it.”

You moved to the door.

“Wait—” he started, but the word died in his throat.

You turned back one last time, your eyes shining but your chin lifted.

“I fought for us. I did. But I’m done fighting alone.”

The door clicked shut behind you before he could say another word.

And in the quiet that followed, he realized the worst thing of all

You weren’t bluffing.

You weren’t coming back.

Mingi:

The room was filled with a tension no music could drown out.

You sat on the edge of the couch, your knee bouncing anxiously while Mingi stood near the window, arms crossed, back rigid. The playlist he’d put on earlier still played in the background, some lo-fi beat that now felt too soft for the sharp air between you.

You hadn’t meant to fight tonight.

It had started with something small, an offhand comment, a flicker of disappointment you voiced gently. But with Mingi lately, even small things had begun to feel impossible. Like walking across cracked ice, hoping it didn’t break beneath you.

“I don’t get why you always shut down when I bring up something that’s bothering me,” you said, your voice soft but tired. “I’m not attacking you, Mingi. I’m not trying to corner you. I just want us to talk, like adults.”

He scoffed under his breath, his jaw clenching as he looked out the window. “It’s always something with you. Every little thing becomes a whole speech. A crisis.”

The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. You flinched, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“Is that really what you think I’m doing?” you asked quietly.

He ran a hand through his hair and began pacing, his frustration unraveling by the second. “I just… I don’t know how to do all this deep, emotional, whatever. Sometimes it feels like we’re on completely different pages. Like I’m trying to breathe and you’re handing me a rulebook.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You stood up slowly, leveling your gaze at him.

“I’m not trying to suffocate you, Mingi. I’m trying to love you. Loving someone requires talking. Feeling. Trying. It requires presence, not just being in the room but actually showing up when it counts.”

He turned on you then, eyes flashing. Voice raising “Then maybe you should find someone who actually understands you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet, it was brutal.

Your breath caught. You stared at him, frozen in place as the words settled deep into your skin like bruises blooming all at once.

He froze too, his face falling almost instantly, regret chasing the fire from his features. “Y/n, I didn’t mean that—”

You took a single step back. That was all. But it felt like an earthquake.

“No, Mingi,” you said, voice low, trembling but controlled. “You did mean it. You wanted to hurt me. And congratulations. You did.”

He stepped forward, panicked now. “No, I didn’t. I swear. I just, I didn’t know what to say. I said the wrong thing.”

You held up a hand. “Don’t insult me by pretending it just slipped out. You said the exact thing that would make me shut down. The thing you knew would hit the deepest place. And now that I’m quiet, you want to backpedal?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

You weren’t done.

“You act like me needing communication makes me needy. Like I’m too sensitive. Too much. But let me ask you something, Mingi. How long did you expect me to keep giving and giving while you locked yourself behind walls and told me I was lucky just to be let in once a week?”

He blinked rapidly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed back whatever emotion was rising.

“I never asked you to give so much-” he tried.

“But you let me,” you cut in, voice sharp now. “You let me pour everything I had into us while you stayed silent and now you want to play the overwhelmed victim because I asked you to show up? I don’t need perfect, Mingi. I just needed effort.”

He stepped closer, tears in his eyes now. “I didn’t know how to handle any of it. I was scared. Of failing. Of disappointing you.”

You smiled bitterly, eyes glassy. “And instead, you chose to push me away before I could be the one to leave.”

You moved to pick up your bag. The quiet shuffle of fabric sounded deafening against the stillness of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please… just give me a second chance.”

You looked over your shoulder, voice breaking as you spoke. “I gave you so many second chances, Mingi and you spent them all convincing me my emotions were too loud.”

He reached for your hand, but you pulled away.

“I loved you. Truly. Fully. With everything I had. You’ll remember that when you're lying awake at night wishing you hadn’t made me feel like I was a burden to be tolerated instead of a person to be loved.”

You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t scream. You just walked away, quiet and resolute, leaving Mingi in the hollow silence that remained, alone with the echo of his own words and the weight of the love he’d just lost.

Wooyoung:

It started with a simple question.

“Who was that texting you at 2 a.m.?” you asked gently, sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers loosely laced in your lap, voice careful—too careful, like you already sensed the storm building beneath the surface.

Wooyoung froze mid-step, towel draped around his neck from a late-night dance session. He turned halfway toward you, tension immediately tightening his frame.

“What?”

“I just… noticed your phone going off last night,” you continued. “A few times, actually. Then you locked it and turned it face down. I’m not accusing you of anything, Wooyoung. I’m just asking.”

He scoffed, tossing the towel carelessly onto the dresser like it suddenly weighed too much.

“Unbelievable.”

Your brow furrowed. “What is?”

“You,” he snapped, his tone already too sharp. “Always doing this. You say you’re not accusing me, but your tone says otherwise. Like you’re just waiting for me to slip up.”

You stood slowly, not out of anger, but because the air between you suddenly felt brittle, like it might shatter if you stayed still. “I’m not doing anything, Wooyoung. I asked a question because I care. Because lately, it feels like you’ve been somewhere else entirely.”

He laughed bitterly, cold, joyless. “God, you don’t trust me, do you?”

Your heart stuttered.

“What?” you whispered.

He stepped back, eyes wild. “Why are we even doing this if you don’t believe in me?”

You blinked, stunned.

“Wooyoung—”

“No,” he cut you off, louder now, words like thrown knives. “You don’t trust me, so why the hell are we even doing this?”

And just like that, something inside you cracked.

Not from the words themselves, but from the way he said them. From the fact that he knew where to strike and didn’t hesitate.

You stared at him, the silence around you thick with disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it, your voice no longer calm, no longer soft.

“No,” you said, firm and rising. “You do not get to spin this on me.”

Wooyoung’s expression flickered, regret starting to creep in, but it was too late.

“I asked you a question. A basic, honest question. And instead of answering, you turned it into an attack. You flipped it on me so you wouldn’t have to be accountable.”

He faltered. “I just. I'm tired of being interrogated—”

“And I’m tired of being gaslit every time I bring up something real!” you shouted, chest heaving. “I am not the villain in this story, Wooyoung. I’ve shown up for you. Every single time. Even when you were distant. Even when you wouldn’t talk. I’ve sat in silence, waited for you to open up, given you every chance because I trusted you.”

He stood there, blinking rapidly, lips parting as if to speak—then closing again.

“You think trust means never questioning anything?” you pressed, voice cracking slightly. “Trust means honesty. It means facing hard things together. But every time I try to do that, you shut down or turn it into an argument.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his shoulders were tense, hands fidgeting at his sides. Like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

“You’ve made me feel like my concern is a problem. Like I’m too much for needing clarity. For wanting to feel secure. You dodge with sarcasm, or you guilt-trip me until I’m the one apologizing.”

“I didn’t mean to—” he tried.

“You never mean to,” you interrupted, quieter now. But no less fierce. “But that doesn’t make it hurt less. That doesn’t fix the way I go to sleep every night wondering if I said something wrong just because you won’t communicate.”

He stepped toward you, voice trembling now. “Y/n, I didn’t know what to say, I panicked, I wasn’t thinking.”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back. “You were thinking. You thought saying something cruel would shut me up faster than the truth ever could.”

His face crumpled, the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you said. “I’m asking you to be real with me. I’m asking you to meet me halfway instead of making me feel crazy for feeling anything at all.”

He looked at you like he was seeing you clearly for the first time—and maybe he was.

“I have never demanded anything from you that you didn’t already promise me. Honesty. Effort. Respect.” You moved to the dresser, picking up your bag with shaking hands. “If those things feel like mistrust to you, maybe you’re not ready for real love.”

The words echoed in the space between you, and neither of you moved.

He reached out, voice barely audible. “Please… don’t leave. We can fix this.”

You paused by the door. And when you turned to face him, your eyes weren’t cold, but they were done pleading.

“You want my trust?” you said softly. “Then stop treating my heart like a threat. You want my love? Then stop using my questions as an excuse to hide.”

And then you left, quiet, firm, and entirely in control of your own worth.

Behind you, Wooyoung sank to the bed like the wind had been knocked from him, the weight of your absence louder than anything he’d said all night.

And for the first time, he realized your silence wasn’t the problem.

It was his.

Jongho:

The room felt like it was closing in.

The air was thick with tension, charged with everything neither of you had said for days. The TV still played in the background, long forgotten. A half-eaten dinner sat on the table, untouched and cold. You stood near the door, your back against it as if anchoring yourself in place.

Jongho paced like a caged animal, his fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, shoulders trembling from holding back what was clearly boiling just beneath the surface.

“You don’t get it!” he exploded, his voice cracking on the edge of something sharp and dangerous. “You think you always know what’s best for me, like I’m some damn kid who needs saving. Like you’re the only one who cares enough to make decisions.”

You flinched at the volume, but you didn’t back down. You’d been walking on eggshells too long already.

“I’m not trying to control you,” you said, voice firm but gentle. “I’m trying to protect us. But it’s like every time I reach for you, you push me further away.”

He scoffed bitterly, throwing his hands in the air. “Protect us? No. You’re protecting yourself, from me. Every time I feel something, you want to dissect it, fix it, control it.”

Your brows drew together, hurt flashing in your eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snapped, stepping forward. “What’s not fair is being treated like I’m some fragile project. I’m not. I’m a person. A person who doesn’t need you constantly reminding me of what I should be doing or feeling.”

“I never said you were fragile,” you whispered, but the sting in your chest begged to differ.

Jongho’s voice rose again, laced with frustration. “You don’t say it, you show it. Every time I mess up, every time I get quiet, you act like it’s your job to fix me. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I don’t want to be held under a microscope every time I shut down.”

“Maybe you’re scared,” you said quietly, stepping closer, refusing to be bulldozed. “Scared of being vulnerable. But pushing me away doesn’t make that fear disappear. It just makes you cruel.”

He slammed his palm against the edge of the kitchen counter, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the room. “You don’t get to tell me how to be scared! I’m trying, God, I am trying, but you don’t listen. You just push. Always pushing.”

The tears burned at your eyes, but you held your ground. “Because I’m fighting for us, Jongho. Because every time you shut down, I stay. I sit with you in the silence, I reach through your walls. But I can’t keep reaching if you keep backing up like I’m the one hurting you.”

He turned to face you fully, chest heaving. “You are hurting me.”

That cut deeper than anything else he’d said.

“I’m hurting you?” you echoed, voice barely a whisper. “By loving you? By trying to understand you?”

He didn’t answer. And that silence? That told you everything.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said, voice shaking but strong. “I’m trying to love you. Honestly. Patiently. But if every time I open up, you meet me with anger, then what the hell are we even doing?”

He stepped closer again, face twisted in conflict, voice lowering into something raw. “Maybe I don’t want to be loved that way. Maybe I’m tired of feeling like I’m never enough for you.”

You stared at him, stunned. Then the words came, thick with heartbreak. “You are more than enough. But I’m not enough for you. Not if I have to shrink myself just to keep you from shutting down.”

His breath caught. “Don’t say that—”

“I have to,” you interrupted, voice cracking. “Because I keep begging for the bare minimum and calling it love. And I’m done.”

Jongho’s face crumpled. “Y/n, please… don’t walk away. Not like this.”

You stared at him for a long moment. The way his chest was rising and falling, the unshed tears in his eyes, the tremble in his hands. It was everything you’d wanted to see, emotion, vulnerability, presence, but it was too late.

“I can’t keep being the only one who’s trying,” you whispered, tears finally falling. “The only one scared of losing us. If you can’t fight for me, then I have to fight for myself.”

He reached for you, his voice a desperate plea. “Don’t go.”

You stepped back, your voice steady despite everything inside you breaking. “I love you, Jongho. But I won’t lose myself just to be loved by someone who only notices me when I’m about to leave.”

You turned, grabbed your coat with trembling hands, and walked toward the door.

And this time, he didn’t stop you.

The door clicked shut behind you with quiet finality, and the echo of it hollowed out the entire room. Jongho stood there, unmoving, arms limp at his sides as the silence collapsed around him.

Only now did he understand the damage he’d done, not in the heat of yelling, but in every moment he made you feel like you weren’t enough.

And now, for the first time, you weren’t there to reassure him that he was.

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[formulafanfics13]

Please could you write Ollie with shy virgin reader who's too scared to tell him she's a virgin and when she does he's just the sweetest person ever 🥺❤️ tysm I love your work 🫶🏻

Nothing to be Scared Of - OB87 🔥

masterlist

The reader has never had sex — not from fear or judgment, but simply because it never felt right. But now she’s dating Ollie Bearman, who makes her feel so safe, so seen, and so loved that she finally wants to try. When she tells him the truth, he reacts with quiet patience and overwhelming care. Their first time is soft, emotional, and filled with giggles, slow touches, and sacred closeness. By the end, Ollie confesses he’s already in love — and promises this is just the beginning.

Warnings virginity mention, first time sex, soft intimacy, gentle fingering, protected penetrative sex, emotional vulnerability, praise, comfort, forehead kisses, safe aftercare, mention of overthinking/anxiety, no power dynamics or pressure, loving relationship, post-sex confession of love.

She didn’t mean to let it go on this long without telling him. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. In fact, it was the opposite. Ollie had always made her feel safe, so safe it scared her a little. He was careful with her in a way no one had ever been. Always asking before touching. Always waiting for her nod. Always holding her a little tighter when she started to overthink.

That first kiss had felt like floating. That second kiss had made her knees go weak. And by the fifth or sixth, she’d been sure: this boy could ruin her in the best possible way.

But even with all that certainty, she hadn’t told him. She was nineteen and had never had sex. Not because she was waiting for marriage or because of some dramatic vow, just because the right moment never came. It never felt safe. Never felt like hers. And maybe she was waiting for someone who didn’t rush. Who didn’t make her feel like she had to perform. Someone who made her laugh so hard her cheeks ached and knew when to pull her into his arms without needing a reason.

Someone like Ollie. And now here she was, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, heart in her throat, watching him move around the room post-shower in nothing but sweats and wet hair. He smiled at her like she was the only girl on the planet. Which made it harder. 

He leaned down, kissing her forehead, then her lips. “You okay, love?”

She nodded. Lied. “Yeah.”

He frowned gently. “You sure? You’re quiet.”

She bit her lip. “Can we talk?”

He sat beside her instantly, still warm from the shower, his hand finding hers. “Of course.”

Her voice barely made it out. “I’ve never done this before.”

Ollie blinked. “What do you mean?”

She couldn’t look at him. “Like. Ever. I’ve never had sex.”

Silence. She winced. “Baby,” Ollie said, voice soft, “look at me.”

She forced her gaze upward, terrified of what she might see, pity, judgement, shock, but it wasn’t any of that. His expression was just gentle. Calm. Loving. “You really thought I’d be mad?”

She swallowed. “I thought you’d think I was… weird. Or immature. Or lying. Or-”

“Hey.” He squeezed her hand. “I think you’re amazing.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Of course I do.” His thumb traced small circles across the back of her palm. “That doesn’t change because of something like this. And it’s not something you ever have to be scared about telling me.”

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to fix anything-”

“I’m not here to fix anything,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m here because I like you. All of you. And if you want to wait, we wait. If you’re scared, I’ll go slow. If you need me to stop, I stop. This isn’t about doing something perfect. It’s about doing something that feels good for you.”

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. Ollie leaned in, brushing his lips across her temple. “You don’t have to be scared. Not with me.”

“I’m not scared of you,” she whispered. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And when he kissed her again, softly, slowly, hand cupping her jaw like she was made of glass, she believed him.

The first time they undressed each other felt sacred. There was no rush. No pressure. Just stolen kisses and flushed cheeks, giggles and whispers and slow touches that built and built until her chest felt too full of something unnameable. Ollie treated her like something precious. Every time she breathed too fast, he paused. Every time she trembled, he held her. When she wasn’t sure where to put her hands, he just smiled and guided them gently.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmured, running his fingertips down her bare side.

“You’re not disappointed?”

He smiled, nose brushing hers. “I’m fucking honoured.”

That made her laugh. He kissed the sound from her mouth. He let her explore first. Let her press kisses to his chest. Let her look. Let her ask questions. Let her touch. When he finally slid inside her, he was careful, barely moving, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

“Okay?” he whispered.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“I will.”

He didn’t move until she relaxed. And even then it was slow, patient, more about closeness than rhythm. Every thrust was a question. Every kiss an answer. And when she moaned for the first time, really moaned, he smiled so wide she nearly cried again.

“There she is,” he whispered, kissing her jaw.

“Ollie,” she breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I’ve got you.”

And when she came, soft and shaking beneath him, he held her through it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Let her bury her face in his neck. Let her breathe him in. Let her feel safe.

Later, curled against his chest with his arm slung around her waist, she whispered, “You didn’t have to be so nice.”

“I didn’t have to fall in love with you either,” he murmured, “but here we are.”

She looked up at him, startled. “You love me?”

“Since the second week,” he said simply. “Been trying to wait for the right time to say it.”

She smiled. “This was a pretty good time.”

“Yeah?” He kissed her nose. “Guess I’ll have to make the second time even better.”

“You think there’ll be a second?”

He grinned. “Baby, we’re just getting started.”

[andy-15-07]

Jiiii

Can we have another Joaquin Torres x reader fic where she gives off little sister vibes pls

Wait… Do You Like Me or Something?

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 746 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

“You’re drinking my orange juice again.”

You didn’t look up from the couch. “You left it in my fridge, Torres.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your fridge?”

You flashed him an innocent grin, feet propped on his coffee table, his hoodie swallowing you whole. “Mi casa es tu casa, remember?”

“That’s not what that means.”

“It does when you basically live here too.”

He tossed his keys on the counter and flopped onto the couch beside you, eyeing the half-empty glass in your hand. “You’ve got the personality of a gremlin and the appetite of a raccoon.”

“Yet here you are, choosing to spend time with me.”

“You’re like a walking bad decision that I keep making on purpose.”

You smirked. “Flattering.”

You’d always had a teasing, chaotic friendship. The kind where Joaquin rolled his eyes every time you showed up in one of his sweatshirts, but still made sure they smelled nice. The kind where you pestered him at the grocery store, but he always handed you the cart first.

You gave off the kind of energy that made people say, “She’s like a little sister.” You didn’t mind,mostly.

But lately, Joaquin had been… weird.

He stared at you longer. Got quiet when you laughed with other guys. Got tense when you touched his arm and then pulled away too fast. You weren’t sure when the teasing stopped being just teasing and started feeling more like something else.

And you were definitely not sure what to do about it.

“Okay, be honest,” you said one night, stretched out on your belly in his bed while he scrolled through his phone.

“That’s a trap,” he replied without looking up.

“I’m being serious.”

“That’s even worse.”

You smacked a pillow at him.

He caught it midair. “Okay, okay. Shoot.”

You propped your chin in your hands. “Do you ever think we’re… I don’t know. Weird?”

Joaquin looked at you. Really looked this time. “Weird how?”

“Like. We hang out 24/7. I wear your clothes. You act like my bodyguard every time some guy flirts with me. People think we’re dating.”

His jaw ticked, just slightly. “And?”

You tried to keep your voice light. “And I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if we are.”

There was a pause.

Then, carefully, he said, “You think we’re dating?”

“No, I,okay, yeah, sometimes. Or like we could be. I mean, you treat me like I’m,”

“Yours?” he said, soft and fast.

You blinked. “I was gonna say your problem, but that too, I guess.”

He gave a tiny breath of a laugh. “You’re definitely both.”

You sat up, heart thudding. “Joaquin.”

“What?”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.”

That was new.

You stared at him. “You always said I give off little sister vibes.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. At first. Because I didn’t want to admit how badly I liked you.”

Your heart skipped. “What?”

“I didn’t want it to be a thing. You were chaotic and loud and so different from what I imagined I’d fall for. But you… just fit into my life. And the more I tried to ignore it, the worse it got.”

You sat up straighter. “Wait… do you like me or something?”

He scoffed, but his eyes were serious. “Yeah. I like you. Obviously. You think I’d put up with all your glitter and weird energy if I didn’t?”

You were suddenly shy, which was very unlike you. “So, you’re saying you didn’t mind the stolen hoodies.”

He smiled. “They look better on you anyway.”

You nudged his knee with your foot. “So you’re saying you don’t see me like a sister.”

He leaned forward, his hand brushing your knee now. “I used to. Then I realized I kept thinking about kissing you, and that got real confusing.”

Your heart was going haywire now.

You whispered, “So… what do we do?”

He looked nervous. Honest. Soft in a way you didn’t see often.

“You tell me.”

You laughed, breathless. “I don’t have a plan.”

“Good. Let’s make it up.”

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Not a big, dramatic movie kiss. Just something real and warm and right. His thumb brushed your cheek. Your fingers tugged the collar of his shirt. The kiss deepened, then softened again, like neither of you wanted to break it.

When he finally pulled back, your forehead stayed against his.

You were smiling.

He was too.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But this was worth the wait.”