✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
damsel in distress, obsessive obsessive obsessive, smutty
>20k
-
the life you lived was hardly one that many dreamt about.
you weren’t rich, successful or even remotely happy. you worked two gruelling jobs, one throughout the day and then a night shift at your local diner all whilst barely having enough money at the end of the month for basic necessities and food, all thanks to the horrible apartment you had moved into.
moving away from an abuser who had connections and knew everyone in the town you’d once lived in meant you were forced into the city - big streets, bigger prices and no safety net. you had been here for six months, still healing from the kind of trauma that lodged itself in your body as opposed to your overworked mind. the kind that made you flinch at footsteps, double check locks, keep your head down.
you weren’t sure you had ever experienced safety, and you weren’t sure you ever would.
the only building you managed to secure on such short notice was the building you lived in now - a concrete block rotting from the inside out. the water pressure was horrendous, shooting out cold water a majority of the time, with mould crawling up your walls like it was alive. you owned very little because you couldn’t afford to replace anything that broke, and the worst part of all? the rent.
triple what the apartment was worth.
you didn’t know at first, too blinded by your desperation to escape your abusive home, too tired, too exhausted - you had signed the papers without looking properly. by the time you realised, you were already trapped. you couldn’t move even if you wanted, not with all of the deposits you couldn’t afford, moving fees you couldn’t dream of paying or the even nastier landlords that somehow managed to be sleazier than your own.
and so, you endured. endured the way he would speak to you, all up in your business, breath hot on your neck and cheeks every time he’d lean in too close. sometimes he would move goalposts, forcing you to pay your rent early just to watch you scramble. you were in a constant fight or flight mode that you knew would kill you.
you woke up tired and went to sleep tired, body aching in ways that rest could never help recover. you didn’t complain, didn’t have anyone to ask for help, didn’t have the time nor the energy to believe anything would change. you moved through the world quietly, apologetically, as though your mere presence took up too much space.
jungkook had known that apartment long before you ever even stepped foot into it.
unit 4b.
as the resident’s on sight handyman, he had been inside it years ago. the building had been past saving then, but still pretending otherwise - he couldn’t even imagine what it was like now, but luckily, it had been unoccupied for so long that he had forgotten all about it thankfully.
he had fixed a pipe in there once, replaced a fuse another; every visit had left him with grime underneath his fingernails and a sour taste in his mouth. the place was a hazard waiting to happen, damp beneath the walls and faulty wiring. it was a display of neglect that didn’t show itself all at once.
when he had seen your name on the new tenants list, next to the apartment, something inside him had gone still.
he hadn’t bothered to knock on your door when you moved in. never introduced himself, that wasn’t how things were done in this place - it was rough living for rough people. you asked when you wanted something, weren’t just given it.
he, however, had met fragments of you.
coming and going whilst he fixed stair rails, brow collecting sweat as he watched you shuffle beside him to take the rubbish out. you moved like someone permanently bracing for impact with your shoulders curled in, bag clutched tight, steps uneven with exhaustion. sometimes you couldn’t even bring yourself to look up, but he could see the glassy mess of your eyes.
he doubted you had ever even seen him. that should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.
because once he noticed you, he couldn’t stop.
it wasn’t an immediate desire - it wasn’t that simple or crude, no. it was something slower, heavier. it carried in the way his attention snagged every time he saw you stumble slightly on the stairs. the way his jaw would lock tight when he noticed how late you’d leave and come home from your night shift, or the way his chest would tighten inexplicably whenever he imagined you unlocking your door and stepping foot in that fucking apartment all alone.
he didn’t like the thoughts that manifested because of you.
they were intrusive - possessive to the core. he felt sick at the thought of you. wanted to sink his teeth into your arms and legs, anything to grab your attention so you’d notice him head on. his brain was fucked up, wrong in the way that had less to do with morality and everything to do with intensity. jungkook had always known there was something twisted about the way he wanted - not in excess but in pure depth.
he didn’t give a fuck about the idea of all of his past girlfriends leaving him - they weren’t what he craved. they weren’t the missing puzzle piece he had been looking for, all differently shaped to the specific hole in his life.
he fantasised about his dream woman. fantasised about making her stay, making her feel good, providing something he knew he yearned to give.
wanted to provide until there was nothing left for them to worry about. wanted to make money irrelevant in their brain. rest would be mandatory - he wanted to come home dirty after a long day of work to his sweet girl cooking for him, just so he could breed her all fucking night.
it didn’t stem from kindness, but mere vice.
and watching you wear yourself thin inside a place he knew should’ve been condemned made that vice burn hot and ugly in his chest.
he started recognising the patterns. the way you always opted for the stairs when the elevator had broken down, despite it being incredibly dangerous in a messed up building like this one. it was the way you paused on the landing, trying to catch your breath after a long day of not eating enough and feeling a level of exhaustion that had settled into your body like home, your fingers tightening against the very metal he had worked on prior.
you never complained, never flagged anyone down, never even asked for repairs - he was marginally cheaper than anyone else you could hire considering his contract with your building and yet still, you lived in squalor.
jungkook had never been good at ignoring the things he wanted most. especially not when they had him hardening, balls tightening at the mere sight of you - the perfect candidate for the life he wanted to build. at first, he tried convincing himself it was normal to worry about any woman like this, tired and exhausted living in a bad area but he knew his motivation was anything but innocent.
this was a fixation. a maddening, obsessive one.
he could feel his brain warping, dripping in need whenever he’d catch you walking back to your place. couldn’t help the thoughts from straying, wanted to protect you, save you, he’d do it in anyway possible.
you shouldn’t be living like this, and one day soon, something had to give.
he’d make fucking sure.
—
the stairwell smelled like damp concrete and old cigarettes.
the elevator was broken again, and this time it had been down for weeks. you didn’t know if you were allowed to complain to anyone, didn’t have half the energy the act required and frankly, neither the time. your bag dug into your shoulder as you opened the door to the staircase, sighing quietly, beginning your painful ascend to the fourth floor.
your vision swam from your shift you had just finished with, whimpering lightly as your aching legs took you to your place, so you could get dressed for your night shift.
as you climbed, your keys fell from your hand, your hair falling into your eyesight, blurring it even more.
you watched as they clattered down the stairs, another small noise of complaint leaving you at the sight. the sound was jarring in the empty space, as you stumbled down to collect them, hand darting outwards whilst you swayed.
your body lagged behind your mind, causing you to slip, a squeak escaping as you began to fall forwards, bracing for impact.
an arm caught you.
fast. firm. heavy. rough.
fingers clung to the skin on your waist like they had been there before, pulling you harshly into an equally hard chest, the contact knocking air away from your lungs.
“steady.”
a single word. low.
you froze.
your bag had slipped from your shoulder to the ground, your soft palms pressing gently against a set of shoulders, heart pounding. the first thing you noticed when looking up was how big he was, wide shoulders, large pecs, biceps bursting from the t-shirt that sat on top of his body. his grip hadn’t loosened, it had even tightened, his thumb pressing in further to make sure you were steady on your feet.
you nodded quickly, coming out of your daze. “i..i-i am so..sorry.”
he didn’t answer.
instead, he manoeuvred you to his other arm, whilst he bent down to pick up both your bag and your keys, moving in a way that felt easy, controlled. he was blocking the narrow landing, making sure you were pressed firmly against him despite it being intense. you hadn’t been this close to anyone, regardless another man, in years.
his forearm flexed when it straightened, veins standing out underneath worn skin. he held them out to you.
your eyes were hazy, a mixture of exhaustion and the heat of the situation, lips parted as your eyes met with his. you felt suffocated by his gaze, you felt completely naked, as though he as looking at every crevice you tried to hide with mere ease.
“you live here.” he said. not a question.
you shrugged weakly, nodding, shamefully looking away from his gaze, unsure of what to say and not being able to stomach his stare.
something shifted in his expression at that. not sympathy. irritation, sharp and contained. his jaw tightened.
your fingers brushed his as you took your stuff, despite being held almost intimately still. the contact was brief, and accidental, and yet it held even more weight than the heavy arm around your waist, as though it meant something else entirely.
“late.” he gruffed out.
you nodded again, hands against his chest. “yeah.”
his touch loosened, but he remained inappropriately close. tired eyes, scuffed shoes, the way your shoulders were sagging from exhaustion.
“you shouldn’t be out at a time like this,” he said.
not gently.
your stomach twisted. “i don’t really have a choice.”
he looked at you for a long moment. his gaze flicked down the stairwell, listening, calculating, and when he looked back, he stepped closer, close enough that you felt it in your chest.
“pretty thing like you,” he said quietly, “working nights in a place like this?”
your heart fluttering was a shock to you. you could feel a stampede in your stomach, curling further into the warmth he was providing without even realising it, voice tough enough to carry heat. his words weren’t necessarily a compliment, but a mere observation, one that had you reeling regardless.
you nodded for a third time, small. “i have to.”
his hand on your waist squeezed, grunting vocally in response. he could feel his cock hardening, and he knew it was fucked up, but the prospect of such a pretty damsel in distress like you? you were out of his wildest dreams, an anomaly that only came once in a lifetime.
he held you for another moment, the two of you simply looking at one another. he liked watching you cower a little, knowing that there were bad people all over in the complex, and though he evidently wasn’t one, his sheer size alone had you hesitant. knew it made his brain fucked up, but he enjoyed it regardless.
“get inside.” he muttered slowly, arm slipping away from your waist.
your too large eyes blinked up at him, uncomfortable with the feeling cold seeping in. you wanted him to touch you again.
“okay.” you nodded through a whisper, pulling your bag further onto your shoulder more firmly. he admired you for another moment before nudging his nose up to the rest of the staircase, where the door to your floor sat. “lock your door.”
your cheeks were a deep pink, as you turned and walked up the rest of the stairs, nibbling away at your lip, heading through the final door, and rushing into your apartment.
you leaned against your door, locking it exactly as he ordered you, before sliding down the cold wood, legs giving out beneath you.
who was he?
so tall and so broad, his face alone had your thighs trembling but it was more so how manly he was.
you knew it was ridiculous, but just meeting someone like that had your stomach in knots. you assumed he was just being kind, if a man like that was even able to process that emotion - he was calloused all over, rough without meaning to. the type of guy to take up as much room as physically possible because he could.
you had no idea that as you sat pooled on your floor, eyes closed and lip bitten, jungkook stood on the other side, quiet, listening to make sure you had locked it. to make sure you were safe.
only then, did the loud sound of his boots echo into the hall, cause you to gasp.
—
the knock came too early.
it was the kind of early that felt cruel - sunlight barely stretched through the thin, stained curtains, your body still sunk deep into that half-sleep where breathing ached and nothing felt real yet. the sound cut through the quiet of your apartment too harshly, your brain short circuiting despite your legs carrying you out of the little warmth of your bed.
you were startled. no one knocked on your door. people kept to themselves around here until, well, they didn’t, like your neighbour on the left. his door had banged a few weeks ago just as you had come home, and you hadn’t heard or seen from him since, a thought that was now presenting deep in your mind.
with trembling hands, and aching feet, you padded your way over to the door whilst all remnants of sleep fell from you like droplets. your toes curled against the cold floor, grabbing a cardigan on your way over to shield your indecent outfit that consisted of a too thin, too see through tank and shorts set.
by the time you had opened the door, the person behind it had already knocked three separate times, raising the level of urgency and only adding to the stress on your shoulders. you had a rare day off from your night shift, meaning you were only heading out to your day job in a few hours. this was supposed to be decompression time.
your fingers finally slid against the cool handle, hesitating at the lock before opening it up, eyebrows furrowed lightly.
you froze.
it was him.
your brain stuttered for a moment as it took in his broad frame, shoulders wider than you’d seen on any man, with muscles in places you had only ever dreamt of. his biceps were practically spilling out of his uniform, which despite being sat seamlessly, showed signs of wear, indicating he had been working all morning. boots were planted solidly against the chipped hallway tile, sunlight shining onto the highest parts of his cheeks.
daylight did him no favours - made him worse. heavier. darker. stronger. the kind of man that felt realer than anything you’d ever experienced.
the kind of man that worked to an inch of his life.
his work belt sat low on his waist, sleeves pushed up, tatted forearms already streaked with things like grease and dust, and hair still damp from his morning shower. despite the hour, he looked awake and alert, something you knew you lacked in that very moment.
his eyes flickered over you, slow. real slow.
you felt it everywhere.
jungkook met your gaze as you finally looked up, your chest tightening.
“morning.”
his voice was even rougher in the daylight, like gravel dragging over concrete. you could feel it in your stomach.
“hi.” you whispered, barely audible.
“inspection.” he lifted his clipboard whilst staring you down. the eye contact was heavy. “pipe issues in this unit.”
you frowned faintly, confusion pulling at your features. “i..i didn’t call anyone..”
his mouth twitched. you were even cuter when you just woke up. he liked that.
“i know.”
his comment should have unsettled you, should have had you closing the door in his face, locking it immediately and ignoring him.
instead, jungkook took it upon himself to set forward. the door brushed your arm as he passed, your already too small apartment feeling somewhat suffocating as it became swallowed by his mere presence.
you hovered near the door, against the wall as he began to move around with a sense of familiarity that had you stomach churning again.
first, he crouched beneath your sink before checking taps, looking inside your cabinets for any sign of water damage, inspecting the dampness that clung to certain walls. he was efficient, practised - it was clear he was good at his job. he moved like a man who knew what he was doing, as though this was another task on his list that he had to get through.
not like he had been thinking of you in this wretched apartment all fucking night.
he was in your bathroom now, writing something down whilst you continued to hover, half out of curiosity and the other half merely weary. you had every right to be given where you were, the fact you hardly knew him if at all, and of course the knowledge he had simply let himself in.
suddenly, water began sprouting from your tap the way it usually did but judging from the small grimace on his face, you knew it wasn’t something normal despite it being that way from day one.
“this place is so fucked.” he huffed, with a shake to his head. “they shouldn’t be renting this unit out. it’s a biohazard.”
your fingers intertwined together nervously; as though the problem at hand was your fault. “i keep a towel..under there..”
he paused. slowly, he turned to look at you, savouring the way your cardigan was leaving little to his imagination. your nipples had pebbled, and a better man would have looked away, but jungkook was hardly good - assessing them for a moment longer before meeting your gaze.
“you shouldn’t have to.” his voice was hard.
the way he said it, flat, certain, unyielding. it made your stomach ache and your chest tighten, as though someone was looking directly through you.
he stood taller then, raising from his once crouched position. he towered over you, a reminder of the sheer size difference between you, something both of you secretly felt aligned on.
he wiped his hands on his rag, cleaning them before moving past you to the breaker panel. his arm brushed against your shoulder deliberately, watching the way you shuddered.
“power cuts at night?” he asked.
“sometimes.” you answered honestly.
he looked over you again. “figures.”
he opened the panel, taking his time with inspecting it before closing it off. he turned back around to face you once he was done, not bothering to walk away, but instead taking up more of your personal space.
he looked at you properly.
the sag of your shoulders and the shadows underneath your eyes, the way you stood hoping not to be noticed. too small for even the cramped space of your apartment. it made his head swirl.
“you eat?” he gruffed out, a slight edge to his voice.
you were shifting from foot to foot. “what?”
“food.” he clarified with narrowed eyes. “you eat it?”
“i-..when i can.”
you weren’t sure why you were being so honest with him and yet the worlds tumbled out before you could think. you were nibbling on your lip.
he wasn’t done with his line of questioning, finding himself stepping closer to you resulting in you stepping back.
“how old are you?”
“24.”
he exhaled through his nose. he seemed angry, or something adjacent, as though your words were aggravating him. “too young to look this tired.”
you looked down with heat creeping up your neck and cheeks. “it’s fine.”
“don’t say that.” his eyes narrowed once more. he ran a hand through his hair before exhaling deeply. “i’ll be around today, gotta fix some shit around here. don’t go out.”
your mouth opened and closed a few times, unsure of what to say. you watched as he walked towards the entrance, the warmth radiating from his body suddenly gone.
he paused at the threshold, one hand braced on the frame whilst looking back at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, your sheer pyjamas doing nothing to hide the way your body subconsciously leant towards him.
“next time something breaks, you call me.” his voice firm.
“i don’t have your number.” you weakly replied, as though it was anything to deter him. secretly, you hoped it wouldn’t.
he didn’t respond, simply running his eyes up and down you once more as though he was savouring the sheer look of you, all soft and pliant. it made that sick part of his brain swirl, the thought of you being all his, the side of him that tried to rationalise a man ten years older being with a pretty little thing like you. he’d fucking ruin you and he knew you’d be thankful for it too.
jungkook turned around, cock half hard and head swarming, veins popping out of his arm, leaving you be for a few moments.
—
working the diner on a late shift meant two things. first, it meant you would have to deal with cleaning the entire place top to bottom, which was easily your least favourite task of your entire job. second, and more importantly, it meant you would be forced to deal with the filthy, sleazy men that would come in hopes of riling you up in anyway they could.
you were pliant, too soft for a place like this, too clean, too scared. all the girls before you had been ran away with ease after experiencing a single shift, and here you were, tiny little diner dress that sat too high on your thigh as men ogled at you.
you knew it was going to be a long night by hour two when you had already been harassed by two newcomers, the cooks in the back not able to back you up as much as they wanted considering it was a busy shift. you had been fighting tears back the entire night, but this was borderline insane. it felt targeted, and you felt exhausted already - this was hardly helping.
the smell of burnt coffee and grease was all you could think about as you walked around the diner, filling coffee mugs everytime a man would smash it hard against the table to get your attention, ignoring disgusting comments like they had never even been uttered, eyes down.
you felt it before you saw it.
him.
a regular. late 40’s, unshaven, dirt under his fingernails. kind of guy to make you uncomfortable just to get him off. he made your skin crawl. made you want to hide forever and never appear again, but alas, you were a young, poor, twenty something year old fighting for the very will to live.
you felt the slow drag of attention on your legs, dragging up and settling on your tits. your dress was buttoned, and though you knew there was nothing to even ogle at, the shape of your breasts against your dress was enough for dirt like him to get riled up.
“there she is, about fucking time.” he grunted out, breath hot and legs spread underneath the booth table. “fetch me a coffee. make it good.”
you simply nodded, not trusting your voice as you grabbed him a mug before pouring it in in front of him, eyes trained on the drink.
“what time you finish tonight, sweets?”
your shoulders bristled immediately. he always did this, but it never made you feel any better.
“late.” you murmured quietly, but he was perceptive enough to hear you. didn’t like the bite in your voice.
“walking home alone again?”
your body went cold.
your stomach tightened uncontrollably, and though the line of questioning wasn’t anything new, it still messed with you more than you wanted to admit. you could feel the thin layer of threat coated in each word, and it scared you to know you were utterly defenceless.
you had been feeling watched recently too. on the staircases, when entering your home, walking through hallways. your building was shady, yes, but this was different - it felt charged. felt scary enough to notice, and paired with a line like that? this didn’t feel normal anymore.
you shake your head before you could even think it through. “no.”
“no?” he repeated with a smirk.
you swallowed nervously.
“i’ve got someone..so.”
your words surprised even you, and you tried your hardest to hide it, especially when his own was formed perfectly upon his features. he leaned back, drinking the coffee with his darkened features.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
you shifted from foot to foot. he didn’t believe you, you could feel it.
“he works in construction.” you added, nervously, breathing through your words to sound firm but instead, coming out like a fawn. “does long shifts too but takes care of me and..and he doesn’t..like men talking to me..so.”
your pad suddenly looked so much more interesting, shuffling it between your fingers as he stared you down, secretly seething at the idea of the pretty plaything at the diner no longer being accessible to mess with.
“he’s protective too. big cause he works with his hands.” you kept rambling on, describing the very protector you needed.
describing jungkook.
subconsciously, of course.
the sleazy man narrowed his eyes at you, tilting his head slightly. “don’t look like you have a man like that. you sure you’re not lying to me, sweets? cause i don’t like liars.”
“i do..i really do.” you nodded immediately but you were blinking fast, almost about to burst into tears from your lie that you begged wouldn’t come back to bite you in the ass.
“yeah? what’s his name?”
your throat constricted. you wanted to run away.
“he wouldn’t like me giving his name out.” your voice came out a whisper.
you knew he had you. knew he could see right through you.
he drank from his mug once more, filthy stare looking over you once more as though he had every right. his fingers tapped against the table for a few seconds before he leaned back.
“say hi for me.”
you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. you simply walked away.
later, once the diner had closed and every inch had been mopped to perfection, you finally grabbed your bag and your coat with a loaded sigh. the exhaustion was heavy today, you could feel it in the way your bones screamed with every passing movement. you had been shouted at non stop all night by customers, and though you weren’t doing anything wrong, it still was never good enough.
stepping out after you had locked the doors was stark, the cold air hitting you in your face causing you to wrap your coat even tighter around you, beginning the ten minute walk to your apartment block. you had long become used to the journey, and despite the late hour being terrifying at this time of night, it was one of the only chances you had to feel the wind hit you. to remind you that you were alive.
the streets felt different tonight, with the stark lighting above flickering with each and every step. you could feel a knot begin to form in your stomach, and you knew it was anxiety, you knew you were being ridiculous but that didn’t make the thoughts go away.
it only took another 30 seconds for your thoughts to be confirmed.
you could hear it. footsteps just a few metres away from you, and considering it was the early morning, the streets were completely bare save for yourself and whatever was trailing you from behind. you felt your legs quicken despite the tiredness in your body screaming at you, openly telling you it could take no more for the night and yet you were doing a full blown run home within seconds.
you could still hear it behind you, and it was real, wasn’t a figment of your imagination - someone was trying to get you, to hurt you.
you could see your apartment, could see the heavy doors, the rubbish bins all empty and random waste littered around on the floor. the most noticeable thing of all, however, was the beaten down truck, where a tall and bulky man stood, smoking his cigarette with furrowed eyes as he leaned against it.
you recognised him immediately.
he seemed to notice you too, watching as you all but ran over to him, your eyes wide and breathing heavy, your chest heaving up and down.
jungkook’s head tilted just slightly, grabbing you with one of his arms as his cigarette sat on his lip, watching as you burst out into crushing sobs almost instantly from the feel of his touch.
it was safety personified.
his arms wrapped around you as though it was second nature, one hand on the back of your head, the other harsh on your waist.
his cigarette fell to the ground, extinguished by a heavy boot whilst you sobbed in utter fear, clutching him like a lifeline, as though he was the only thing that could protect you from the outside world.
he was.
his touch wasn’t gentle, or firm - it was mean, harsh against your skin, grabbing and forcing you to look up at him as it did exactly what it needed to. it grounded you, enough to sedate the fear, just slightly, fingers pressing into your uniform.
“what happened?” his voice was equally as rough, as though he had barely used it all day, a man used to using his hands as opposed to his words.
you couldn’t get your words out, too big eyes staring up at him almost desperately as broken sounds and wet breaths fell into his chest, your hands bundled against his pecs.
his jaw tightened. he looked past you, eyes narrowing as he assessed the street, shoulders square. it was far too quiet considering the state you were in, and he could only assume whatever had made you so scared had quickly ran away the moment they realised you had sought shelter in him. he was a pretty intimidating guy, all height and muscle, a right hook that had people passing out in seconds.
“did someone touch you?”
you shook your head fast against him, sucking in a breath.
“n-n..” hiccup. “no.”
his hand travelled from the back of your head, running through your hair until it reached the back of your neck, eyes narrowing harshly. he was grounding you still, keeping you safe in his arms as you shook violently, a mixture of the cold air and the fear of what could have been had jungkook conveniently not been stood outside.
you had no idea that he had been waiting for you, almost aggravated at how late you were coming home.
“use your words.” he uttered, fingers digging into your skin just enough to leave pressure, something you found grounding. “talk.”
“was a m-man..at the..at the diner and..but he keeps..and then..” you were choking out words, hardly making sense but it was enough for him to gather the general gist of what was happening.
you watched as his face went completely cold.
“regular?” he asked.
you nodded, not trusting your voice through your sobs.
“he fucking follow you?”
you took a deep breath, shaky air leaving your lips. “i don’t know- i think..someone foll-followed me..” hiccup. “so i ran.”
he looked angry.
you barely knew the man, but from the emotions he had given you, you could tell it wasn’t directed at you whatsoever. you could feel it in the tension of his arms around you, the warmth his body exuded - it was fury.
“alright.”
decision made.
he pulled your face back, the hand on your neck forcibly tilting your head, so he was looking down at you. you shamelessly had never felt so protected ever before. he wiped the mascara underneath your eyes, despite the constant stream of tears, making sure to rid you of the blotchiness on your skin.
“listen to me,” he began, watching you nod like the good girl he knew you were. “you’re not going upstairs.”
your lip trembled again. did this mean you couldn’t go home?
“b-but..”
“if he knows the building, you ain’t going up there alone.”
you let out another sob, this only adding to the pile of problems you were already drowning in. you couldn’t handle this. could feel your brain splitting from the stress of it all.
“i’m scared.” you admitted in a small voice, fingers curled into his work jacket so delicately. “what if he knows which one is mine?”
that fucking killed him.
jungkook rolled his shoulders before letting go of your neck, grunting lightly as he pulled you even tighter against him. suddenly, you were turned towards the entrance of the building, his heavy hold on you guiding you inside.
“where a-are we-“
“my place.” he cut you off immediately as he walked you inside, head turning back to make sure no one was following him.
“you live here?” you asked through a hiccup, desperately still clinging to him, giving him no option but to hold you intimately as he guided you downstairs instead of up, where you and the other residents lived.
everything moved so quickly as you were ushered into an apartment, your eyes hazy as they began to blink away tears to register what was in front of you.
jungkook’s place was clean, tidy, meticulous. the furniture looked expensive, everything crafted perfectly, open plan living room and kitchen with a dining table sat as though he had a family he could dine with. dark wood floors and a couch so plush you were sure it was softer than anything you had ever sat on in your life.
you heard the clink of the door behind you, even watched him lock the door, bolting it for your comfort as opposed to himself.
he turned to face you again, observing you clearly.
you stood, shaking still, body slowly calming down from the sobbing you were doing earlier and instead replaced with a string of hiccuping breaths. you looked so small, so defenceless - a sick part of his brain wanted you like this always so he could play the knight in shining armour. wanted you to need him.
he exhaled through his nose. “sit.”
you obeyed instantly, moving to the couch and taking a seat on the edge as though you were terrified to touch anything. he walked over to the kitchen, where you could still see him before he returned to you, glass of water in hand.
he handed it to you, watching you take it with both shaky hands and take small sips.
he suddenly crouched in front of you. his calloused hands took a hold of either side of you, fingers digging into the sides of your thigh as he situated you on the couch properly, your bare legs brushing against him with ease due to the position he had now put you in.
“look at me.”
and so you did.
his shoulders were tight against his work jacket, frame so large you longed to be underneath it, just to know what kind of warmth would seep into your skin and bones. his forearms were thick, veins visible and tattoos on show, with bruised and bloody knuckles showing signs of scarring display too.
“is he going to try something?” he asked you, eyes trained onto your own.
“i don’t know.” you answered honestly, and the acknowledgment of being uncertain had your anxiety spiking again visibly, causing him to hold you even firmer.
“recount the conversation for me.”
“he a-asked when i finish..and then..something about if i-i was walking home alone..”
jungkook’s jaw was ticking; his shoulders rolling as he ran a heavy hand through his hair. he met your fearful gaze, your fingers intertwined in your lap shaking.
“what’d you say?” his voice was direct, and his presence felt calming.
“i..told him i had a boyfriend.” you admitted through a sniffle, rubbing underneath your eyes. “made him sound scary.”
the silence between you became thick, jungkook’s fingers digging into your skin. not painfully, but enough to certainly remind you of his hold, with his gaze never leaving your own.
his face remained stoic, but his actions gave him away.
“yeah?” he quietly responded; to which you nodded. “mhm.”
“how’d you describe him?”
“well..” you sniffled again, making jungkook wipe under your eyes for him, the harsh skin on his hands a stark difference to the soft surface of your face. “said he works in construction..and that..that he’s big and he doesn’t like guys talking to me.”
his tongue began poking his cheek, eyes closing for a mere second before his fingers then moved to sit on your hips, pulling you into him, making sure you were much closer than you initially were sitting. your hands situated on his shoulders through hiccups, sniffling away as you tried to ignore the severity of the situation.
“construction.” he repeated.
you nodded, the intake of your breath shaky.
“don’t like men talking to you.” he repeated again, but his fingers gave him away again. he was being prodded by you and you didn’t even realise it.
you nodded again, realising then that you had just been openly describing him, a beat of acknowledgment filling the room as silence filled the empty cracks between you.
there was something dark shining in his eyes, something that wouldn’t soften no matter how hard you sat there and tried. jungkook was a hard wall, but it didn’t mean he was unfeeling. emotion swirled deep in his stomach, igniting an internal need to take you for himself, to keep the door locked and protect you forever. how could someone be so oblivious to their own nature? did you know how sweet you were? his jaw ached at the mere thought of how you’d taste, so sugary he’d get a fucking toothache just imagining it.
“you lie good?”
your stomach dropped. “i-i don’t usually..”
“did he believe you?” his gaze dropped to your mouth, before returning to your eyes, lip curled.
“i don’t think so.” you whimpered then at the memory, the feeling of suffocation running back as you remembered the implication of the situation. you weren’t safe anymore.
silence settled between you once more, a norm considering he was hardly a man of many words. his hands on your waist tightened before sliding up and down, soothing you subconsciously, your bodies so close.
“if he comes near you again,” he said, voice low and void of overt emotion, “don’t engage. don’t talk. call me immediately.”
you blinked through a hiccup.
“but i don’t have your num-“
you were cut off immediately as he stood up to his full length, towering over you as he grabbed his phone, unlocking it and opening his contacts app.
“give me yours.”
you fumbled for your bag, hands still shaky, pulling out your phone before handing it to him.
he grabbed it, inputting his number and making sure it sat at the top of your contact list. there were no frills, no emojis, just his name staring at you as he handed your phone back to you, eyes sweeping over your face.
“don’t let him scare you so easy. guys like that thrive on this shit.” his words came out gruff, and you blinked up at him quickly.
“i know, i just-“
“i know.” he cut you off again, shaking his head.
that did something to your chest. he knew. he didn’t need the details, didn’t want to hear you make an excuse for how you were feeling because you didn’t need to, he had seen enough for himself. he had watched you long enough to know you liked to pack yourself way in too small boxes in hopes you’d go unnoticed, in hopes you wouldn’t be a bother.
the intimacy of him simply cutting you off to remind you he didn’t need to hear an explanation, he understood. it was music to you.
he was still looming over you.
“you don’t eat.” his thumb suddenly pressed down on your bottom lip, as you hiccuped, big eyes staring up at him. “don’t sleep enough, work too much, walk home on your own in the middle of the night. live in a unit that should be fucking condemned.”
your throat tightened, but his thumb was firm, the tip of your tongue slightly grazing it. he liked it.
“not anymore.” he shook his head.
the way he said it wasn’t intended for romance, it was ownership. you could feel it deep in your stomach, inbetween your thighs and in the traitorous thump of your very soul.
“you’re staying here.” he suddenly dropped his thumb from your lip, your brain a buzzing mess as his words began to register in your brain, your eyebrows shooting up on your face.
“what?”
he didn’t respond, simply walking over to the kitchen area and grabbing a beer can, rolling his shoulders gently. you found yourself standing then, shaky legs taking you over to him, big eyes capturing his as he took a swig despite the late hour, his adam’s apple capturing your eye.
your smaller fingers tugged at his jacket lightly, capturing his attention as his own stomach pinged at the sight of you, yearning for him to address what he had just said.
“you eaten yet?” he simply uttered.
your mouth opened and closed, nodding your head lightly making him do the same.
“don’t want you going up. not safe. bathrooms down the hall to the left,” he put his beer down. “you can wear one of my t-shirts to bed.”
your shoulders were slowly dissipating before his very eyes. you had never been taken care of, not for a moment in your full 20 odd years of living and you were almost unsure of how to act as your fingers remained on him, large eyes still glassy from your earlier emotion.
jungkook wanted to take care of you, wanted to dominate every negative emotion in your head until you were nothing but lullabies and sweet nothings, no more echoes of stress or negativity. what he hadn’t expected was to see you utterly melt at the prospect, as though the very notion was the one thing you had always wanted.
oh.
you were perfect for him in every way - that he could see clearly.
you made no effort to move, the act alone feeling like it would take too much out of you and so jungkook took one last swig, before grabbing you by your waist. his rough hand sat low on your back, half on your ass in honesty, as he lead you there himself, dark eyes trailing over your much shorter figure against him.
within seconds, you were in the bathroom, fresh clothes given to you, and the shower already on awaiting you. the first step into it had you moaning quietly, the patter of warm water being completely foreign to you considering you were so used to cold shooting bursts that brought no comfort whatsoever. you helped yourself to his shampoo, his body wash, his products just as he intended and were taken aback by how familiar it smelled to you.
there was a sense of protection in carrying his scent that was messing with your brain, and as you washed yourself, you couldn’t help but recognise your situation properly.
you, who had only met jungkook twice before, were now naked in his shower, using his products to wash yourself, imprinting his familiar scent into your skin like it was a lifeline. you were in a stranger’s home, seeking refuge from a bad man and yet you knew secretly, the big bad wolf was merely a few metres away from you - not that it deterred you.
the protection. the safety. it felt like a drug. you couldn’t bring yourself to reason with the fact it was batshit insane to be sleeping over at his home, your handyman for goodness sake, instead of going to the police or any other normal avenue.
no, instead, you pattered out, towelling your body down before putting on his t-shirt, eyes closing at the even stronger scent of his cologne. your uniform and underwear sat in a neat pile, ready to be taken away when you woke up in the morning, leaving you utterly naked underneath the way too large top that sat just below mid thigh.
once you were completely refreshed, all remnants of fear stolen from you by the warmth of the water and the comfort of his presence, your bare feet padded back to the living room. he wasn’t here, causing your eyes to narrow slightly in confusion before hearing a noise in the room adjacent, making your way over.
walking in, you were greeted by two things.
first, jungkook’s bedroom, which like him, was as manly as you imagined it to be. clean, precise, darker in colour and void of any real personality - a nagging, desperate little voice in your head practically screaming that it needed a woman’s touch. if only you knew the thought alone would have him cumming.
the second? jungkook’s naked back, littered with scars and muscle in places you didn’t even realise one could have. to say he was big was a gross understatement, for he defined the very meaning of buff - wide shoulders, insane biceps, back rippling with every move.
you could feel yourself growing wet at the mere sight of him, a quiet little gasp leaving you, causing him to turn around, only for you to see his pecs, his abs. god, he was just massive all over, a sight for your already sore eyes indeed.
jungkook didn’t say anything immediately, but he let out a deep grunt of appreciation at the sight of you. your bare legs, your wet hair; the way your hands were shuffling together. you looked like a vision.
had he been a better man, he would have guided you to the bed and walked out, designating to sleep on the couch but he had no intention of doing so. especially not when he could see your nipples poke straight through the cotton of his shirt, no doubt suggesting you had nothing underneath. his mouth watered at the thought of the sugary nectar inbetween your legs, could feel himself growing hard at the prospect.
“where do you want me to sleep?” you softly asked him, voice so gentle he wanted to ruin you.
that broke him from his trance, realising he was half hard just from looking at you. he felt like a fucking teenager, but could you blame him? you were his dream woman, circumstances and all, dolled up in his room like a present just for him.
“bed.” he muttered, nodding towards it which made you shyly play with your hair, watching him leave the room to no doubt go to the bathroom, his body brushing firmly against yours purposefully on the way out.
you closed your eyes for a moment once you were alone, heart beating fast, before walking over to the bed. you felt bad thinking he would take the couch, a little frown forming on your lips as you settled into the plush covers. another soft moan escaped you at the feel of such softness, the mattress delicate underneath you as you settled into it, feeling more comfortable than you ever had.
jungkook was back in a few minutes, also sporting wet hair suggesting he had just showered. this time, he returned merely in his boxers, a towel running through his locks as he examined you, all curled into the covers, not asleep just yet, as though you were waiting for confirmation from him.
fuck. he liked that. liked having you wait for him so he could decide your next move, like you were a little fawn unsure of what to do unless someone told you. he’d be that someone.
he watched as your eyes instantly fell to his bulge, eyes widening at the sheer size of it, your thighs pressed tightly together under his sheets as he approached you. he watched you stare at it, cock only hardening further at the attention, before pulling back the covers.
“oh..a-are you..sleeping here?” you managed to choke out, your tshirt having ridden up to sit at the tops of your thighs, big eyes peering up.
“not sleeping on a couch in my own home.” he grunted back at you, before sliding in beside you.
a once massive bed suddenly felt claustrophobic as you realised why he needed the space, though you managed not to touch him, you shyly moved to your side, your back to him to give him his privacy, your cheeks painted pink at the implication.
you were sharing a bed with a stranger. a big, tall, tatted stranger who was currently hard as fuck, whilst you laid on your side, pussy soaked from his attention, body quivering.
he was on his back, body taking up a massive majority of the space in the bed and he was utterly shameless about it. you, however, had tried to make yourself as small as possible in the corner, body scrunched up, unable to sleep as your brain worked round and around and around and around and arou-
big, beefy arms suddenly were grabbing you, one on your leg, the other on your waist as you were suspended in the air for a moment or two. you squeaked loudly, stomach dropping at the confusion of being moved and in the air.
jungkook was grunting at you, his preferred method of communication as you were finally placed firmly onto his chest, stomach first. your t-shirt had ridden up to the middle of your back, meaning your bare ass was on display, causing jungkook to place his hand on it as though it was the most normal thing on earth.
the position also meant you were pressed against him intimately, with your wet cunt now pushed against his too large bulge, causing a soft whimper to escape you, right into his ear. your breasts we’re pushed against his chest, your head resting into his shoulder as you both settled in as though this was the most natural thing on earth.
“sleep. you’ve had a long night.” his voice was rough, coarse, as though he too was fighting something.
as though the hand on your ass and the push of his weight, making you feel him intimately in every single way, was just as much punishment for him as it was for you. it was suffocating and you needed more, yearned for it.
your hands settled on his chest, your nose nuzzling into his neck as you nodded, eyes snapping shut. you truly were the picture perfect definition of obedience.
you weren’t sure how long either of you stayed like that, unmoving, unspeaking, just the understanding you were truly no more than strangers seeping in as sleep finally took both of you.
—
the diner was equally as busy the next day, with a particular scent that wouldn’t escape your skin no matter how hard you tried.
burnt oil soaked through the cracking walls, whilst the coffee that had been brewing for far too long sat in its pot, in your hand as you walked around the dining floor, filling mugs to whoever demanded more. you had disinfected the entire place with a cheap lemon solution that morning, the scent lingering slightly, causing you to feel nauseous.
you had been out of it all day.
you had woken up still in the same position as you had fallen asleep in, only this time, jungkook’s arms were hugging you tightly to him. one hand was curled into his hair, the other pressed into his chest, whilst you both slept deeply, safely.
you had slept better that night than any other in your entire lifetime. the feeling of protection was immense, and for the first time, your brain wasn’t racing in anxiety all night - you were able to rest comfortably.
that only made it so much more jarring once you had left his apartment whilst he was still sleeping, wanting nothing more than to stay in his arms, sleep a few more hours, relish in the warmth he was so happily providing for you. you felt guilty leaving like that, but the constant thump in your head brought you back to reality.
you did not know him. he was a stranger.
that was what you were telling yourself anyway, knowing that the traitorous thump of your heart gave you away. you hadn’t been focused all day, spilling drinks, dropping plates of food - your manager had been on your case your entire shift, the cooks even shouting at you at one point. you were utterly overwhelmed with jungkook and he wasn’t even there.
your feet were aching, but you knew you only had 20 minutes left. 20 minutes and you could go home, no night shift, just a long day that would be over in less than half an hour. that gave you a sort of excitement you rarely afforded yourself, and despite the fact your cheap flats were digging into your feet, and your apron felt too tight, you couldn’t wait.
that was until you heard a voice.
“are you fucking deaf? asked for a coffee 3 times now.”
you looked up from your spot behind the counter, meeting the gaze of the horrible, sleazy regular from yesterday, your blood running cold.
he usually only showed up in the late hour, and this was the first time you had see him during the day. it felt like a confirmation of some kind, one in which you had gathered he had either been watching you or was now looking closely, something that unsettled you. how else would he be here? why else?
you swallowed the thump in your throat, shaking hands grabbing the coffee pot and filling his mug as he sat at the diner bar, your eyes avoiding his at all costs.
“you look tired.” he said through a yawn, making no attempt to hide the fact he was ogling your tits. “your ‘boyfriend’ keep you up?”
you flinched at his words, knowing the implication - he still didn’t believe you. that made you feel sick. you chose to ignore him, tending to something at the till, in hopes he’d leave you alone.
“don’t know if i believe ya, sweets. been thinking about what you said about him, construction guys don’t go for girls like you.” he mused, as though he was the smartest man in the world, watching the way your hands shook lightly. “you’re all shy and shit. what you know about pleasing a man?”
you felt heat crawl up your throat and down your spine, feeling a level of shame you couldn’t quite place. you hated it. even reacting to a man like him was giving him power, and he relished in it.
“you better be usin’ what you got.” he leaned back, hand openly palming himself as he grinned, dirty teeth on display. “tight little ass like yours? should let him use it or he’ll start lookin’ elsewhere.”
you flinched once more, this time harsher.
“that’s inappropriate.” you found your voice, though it was shaky, desperately looking over at your manager who was conveniently pretending like he couldn’t hear a thing.
“i’m helpin’ you, sweets. should be grateful.”
your eyes narrowed. “you don’t know anything about me.”
at that, he leaned forward, grin even wider. it was sinister. “yeah? know you walk home all alone.”
your heart dropped.
“i see you.” he added. “late. every night.”
you couldn’t breathe. it felt like someone had grabbed your lungs, suffocating you from the inside and out, a confirmation of your wildest fears before your very eyes.
“see, i like to watch who goes in and out of that building. got some buddies, and you know..bad area. should be careful.” he was all but fucking gleeful. “pretty girls like you, they’re the most fun to play with.”
your hands were beginning to shake violently, as one reached for your phone, clumsily putting your password in, not being able to think.
“you sure your boyfriends real?” he asked lazily. “or you just sayin’ that to throw me off the scent?”
“i have one.” you immediately interjected, panic visible in your voice, desperate to be believed. “he doesn’t like when i talk to other men, so..” you pathetically whispered, turning on your heel and immediately going into the back, where the staff room was located.
you didn’t come out for the rest of your shift, your chest in a panic, hands shaking and eyes leaking tears once more. he had been watching you? did that mean something could have happened had you returned to your unit last night, instead of staying with jungkook?
you couldn’t believe this was a reality, and the fact you knew you had no escape plan was even worse. you couldn’t move out, you didn’t have the funds, and it was a terrifying thought to know you were simply waiting to be violated. the thought alone had you crying into your hands, shakily hovering over jungkook’s contact.
you didn’t want to bother him. he owed you nothing, and you had already taken so much from him.
with that, you grabbed your things and snuck out the back, beginning the 10 minute walk back home.
jungkook had been in the same position as you all day. his work was rendered useless, and considering he had well paying clients, it was enough to drive him to the point of anger. every thought, every crevice of the world around him brought him back to you, how you’d slotted against him so easily last night, so pliant and ready. to then wake up to an empty bed and a wet patch on his boxers from where you were both pressed together was frustrating to say the least - he wanted to wake up to the sight of you.
he had every intention of sitting you down, telling you to leave your job, telling you exactly what he could offer you if you just let him. hell, he would do it against your will too if you kept this shit up, more than ready to fund a lifestyle you had only ever dreamt of.
he was outside the building now, loading up his truck with shit he had been using all day, his tools, extra pieces of wood he had no use for at the minute and what not. his hands were beyond rough, calloused from daily use but that was the payoff for working with them carelessly. he couldn’t help but remember the feel of them on your ass, squeezing all night, sometimes dipping lower subconsciously just to hear you whine in your sleep.
fuck, he was half hard again just remembering it, but half annoyed recalling the way you had just left.
he was taken out of his thoughts when he looked to his right, just as you walked into the apartment complex, not seeing him, tears streaming down your face once more and shoulders sagging as though walking alone was too exhausting for you. he felt his chest break into tiny little pieces at the sight, it was enough to anger him for a completely different reason.
he was walking towards you before he could even rationalise it, a hand slipping over your waist within seconds and pushing your back straight into his chest, his bigger frame engulfing you. you let out a strangled gasp, looking down and visibly melting fully as you noticed the tattoos on his hand, letting out a quiet whimper.
“what happened?” jungkook immediately asked, the two of you stood in front of the building.
your tears wouldn’t stop streaming, your breathing already difficult as your bag dropped from your shoulder. your hands instantly went to cover your face, as you broke out into quiet sobs, body raking in his arms. the exhaustion had finally got to you.
your brain had broken.
jungkook didn’t waste any time. he grabbed you fully, picking you up with a single arm, to which you immediately hid your face in his neck, holding onto him as you ruined his uniform with your body shaking sobs. your bag was in his other hand whilst he made his way to his own apartment, not saying anything but simply allowing you to get the bulk of your emotions out, before walking in, and settling you down onto his couch.
“talk to me.” suddenly, you were in his lap, completely cradled by the older, bigger man as though you were a little baby, and your body moved closer in hopes of more comfort.
it took you a while until you were able to speak, holding the sleeves of his jacket desperately, his large hands on your back and cupping your legs to him. he was soothing you with his presence, patting gently to get you to calm down and soon enough you did, unable to look him in the eye, feeling embarrassed enough that you had done this two days in a row now.
“the guy from the diner came..came back and..” you breathed deeply through your hiccups, his forehead now against yours, making sure you could feel him. “told me he watches..the building..knows i walk home alone and, said he knows..said he knows people from the building.”
the more you recounted, the more restless you became as you began to sob once more, your hands covering your face again. his anger was beyond anything he could describe, he could feel it coursing through his veins as though it was part of his dna, the need to protect you stronger than every other emotion.
“look at me.” he managed to say, voice strangled, causing you to do exactly as he said, despite your shaking body.
“you’re not going back upstairs, you hear me? i’m gonna go get your things, and you’re staying here.”
you startled for a moment, eyes narrowing up at him in confusion. what did he mean?
“but that’s my apartment..”
“it’s a fucking shoebox with a busted lock.” he hissed.
“jungkook, i can’t just..” you shook your head, your shaking hands piled at his chest whilst he pulled you closer, nose nuzzling yours for just a moment to gather himself. “you can. what do you need from it, and i’ll grab shit.”
you shook your head, pushing him away lightly despite it being the last thing you wanted him to do, and he knew that. your hands were now tightening against the material of his jacket, tears streaming, eyes wide and head shaking.
“this is crazy. you don’t even know me and i don’t even know you.” you said through another half sob. “i can’t stay here, okay? you’ll get sick of me, and..and i’ll annoy you, or you’ll wake up, and..and you’re gonna..you’re gonna decide it was a mistake and i..”
he simply stared at you, eyes narrowing dangerously. if he had felt anger at the situation before, now it was beginning to direct at you.
he exhaled sharply. “stop.”
you let out another shaky sob at his command, head dropping to his shoulder, the confusion in your mind so clear. it wasn’t that you didn’t want it, but you didn’t feel worthy of it. all you had ever known was abuse, from the moment you were born until this very second - happiness was foreign to you, a notion you truly believed wasn’t in the cards for you, and to have someone openly wish to shelter you felt confusing.
“i’ll bother you, i know it.” the voice in which you admitted your darkest fear had him tightening his grip on you.
suddenly, your positions had changed. you were no longer on his lap, cradled, but instead, on your back laid on the couch, with your hands positioned above your head and jungkook’s entire body hovering over you. he was rendering you useless, and you couldn’t bring yourself to fight it.
“listen to me, y/n.” his eyes were dark. “i work all day, like a fucking dog, breakin’ my back doing all this shit, fucking my body up. you think i do that for fun?”
you shook your head in a little no, still crying.
“got all this money, got a nice job, stopped doing all that bad work that gets me in trouble, no back door shit. do it so when i got myself a lady, she rests good, you hear me?” his voice was rough, almost mean. “so she don’t have to lift a fucking finger a day in her life.”
your chest tightened at the notion, and a subconscious part of you screamed inside, begging to be the very woman he was discussing; yearning.
“you move here, and you do nothing. don’t want you working, don’t want you doing anything other than lookin’ pretty. don’t want a single thought in that brain ever again, unless it’s when i take you out, or when you want something.”
his head pressed against yours, the conviction behind his voice causing you to quiver. you had stopped sobbing now, reduced to silent tears that continued to stream, your cute nose all pink and the fucked up part of him was fighting the fact his cock was hardening at the sight.
“i’m gonna go upstairs, gonna get your shit, and you don’t do nothing, understand me? don’t think about rent, or food, or sleep - you don’t stress about nothing no more.”
“but why?” you asked through a shaky breath, sucking in air as you hiccuped, a pool of wetness forming on either side of your head from how much you were crying. “you don’t even get anything out of it.”
he doesn’t hesitate. “i get you.”
at that, a strangled noise left you, your eyes shutting tightly as your heart thudded harshly in your chest. he wanted you? truly? even without the frills, even without you being able to offer anything real, or tangible?
“i get to take care of you, spend my money on you, get you in my bed every night where you can’t run off before i wake up.” he grunted down at you, grabbing one of your hands from above your head and pressing it firmly against the growing bulge in his work trousers. “you feel that? feel how fucking hard i get just thinking about it, baby?”
you nodded through your sniffles, hiccuping a few times as your hand gently massaged his cock, the layers of clothing dulling the sensation but it was enough to have him press his head against yours once more, cooing at you. his hand slid on top of your own, pushing it harder, and despite the action being intensely sexual, it felt intimate more than anything.
“couldn’t get bored of you, wouldn’t ever. look at you..fuck. were meant to be spoilt, not built to be working out there and stressin’. need to lock you up here so you never worry again.”
again, you nodded, more desperate, whining out for him as both of your hands interlocked with his. the one above your head, sweet and reassuring, and the other, massaging his cock, demanding and grounding. you were his, and it was only then that you realised it - strangers or not.
the next hour was spent with you washing up in the bathroom, having the longest shower of your life, crying all of the remnants of your emotions out whilst jungkook went upstairs, grabbing your things. considering your situation, it took him no longer than ten minutes, something deep pinging in his stomach knowing you had never even tasted luxury. he’d change that.
by the time he had come back down, he was settling your things into your now shared room, watching as you shuffled out in another one of his t-shirts, wet hair, big teary eyes and an unsure demeanour. he took his time with you then, arm around your waist so you could watch him work, putting things away like it was second nature.
he left you curled up all nice and warm on the couch, blankets covering you whilst he gave you the remote, urging you to watch something. he had shit to do.
first, he was going to cancel your lease and threaten your landlord.
second? he was going to fuck up the man who had scared you.
—
two weeks.
two weeks of living a life you were sure was never supposed to be yours.
from sleeping as much as you wanted, and eating whatever your heart desired, jungkook was spoiling you rotten. the glee in his eyes every time he could see a small smile form on your face was enough to render you a mess.
you’d wake every morning flush to his chest, with your bodies pressed together intimately, his hard cock poking against your own panties in a way that had you breathless. on one occasion, you had woken up to find yourself all but grinding against him, only aware of it once you realised you were orgasming, causing your cheeks to flush a deep plum.
he fucking loved it. finally, everything made sense, his life has purpose, tangible purpose. the sight of you on his couch, resting on your stomach with your bare ass to the door just as he would walk into the apartment was enough to drive him insane - it was the sight he’d masturbate to daily. he didn’t want to push you, he was enough of a gentleman to know it wasn’t right to push his needs on you, and he was trying. god knew he had put every bit of his restraint into his situation.
you were both dancing a fine line of evident need and want, yet one couldn’t admit it to themselves and the other didn’t want to push.
the first night was the moment you realised that jungkook wasn’t any ordinary man. all of the kindness aside, it was when you awoke from the nap on his couch to him walking back into the apartment that you realised he was indeed every bit of the man you wanted.
bloody knuckles, and a slight bruise already forming on his cheek, he had walked over to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead, telling you everything was now taken care of. your rent, the piece of shit that had been scaring you, hell, even your nasty manager who made it a habit to be rude to you.
you had washed his knuckles yourself, sniffling away your tears whilst apologising for being so weepy. he simply nuzzled his nose into your forehead, grunting something about how he liked it. liked how you wore your emotions openly and how honest you were about your feelings. it felt refreshing.
after that, he made it a habit to break any wandering thought left in your brain. he’d wake up to you all curled into his body, making him leave kisses all over your hands and cheeks whilst you slept, leaving you to go to work. he’d think about you the entire day, only to return to you with different boxes of food for you to try so you could find out what your favourite cuisines were.
in two weeks, jungkook made you feel more seen and recognised than you had ever felt in the past 24 years.
you still felt awfully shy in his presence. just yesterday, he had taken you out shopping, your hand tucked gently into his arm as you both walked up and down the high street. you shook your head vehemently as he tried to get you to go into the expensive, designer shops, your heart practically failing out of guilt just thinking about it.
“buy what you want.” he’d say to you, or, “don’t look at the price.”
you had once done so, picking out a lipstick marginally cheaper than the ones you could see in hopes that it would satiate him. he saw right through it, his eyes narrowing down at you as you shuffled from foot to foot, unable to meet his gaze.
“don’t annoy me. get something good.”
and so, you’d leave with bags upon bags of things, with flushed cheeks and a thundering heart.
his favourite shop, obviously, was victoria secret. you had clung to him almost desperately out of shyness, often hiding your face in his chest whenever he’d hold up a pair that he thought were nice. he let you browse, watching you shakily pick out a pair or two before you peered up at him, large eyes shining.
“which ones do you like?” you had whispered, so sweet, so inviting that he swore he could have came right then and there.
his arm around your waist tightened as he looked down at you, jaw clenched slightly at the way you had asked him. maybe it was the genuine curiosity that stemmed from you that had him guiding you to a cute, lacy pink pair. he bought them for you immediately, leaving you a flushing mess.
going home, eating together, curled together as you watched things, his legs spread wide whilst he played with your hair. it felt domestic. it felt freeing, and frankly, it felt like everything you had ever prayed for. something in the back of your mind screamed at you, reminding you that you still didn’t know enough about him, that he was no more than just a random man a month ago and yet here you were.
and so, here you sat, at the dining table with your legs crossed. it was 2pm, so jungkook was well within his work day, leaving you at home with a racing mind and shaking hands. you wanted to do something for him, something to show him just how grateful you were for all of the kindness he had bestowed upon you.
you grabbed your phone, embarrassment heavy in your chest as you began searching in anything that came to mind.
‘how to keep a man happy’
you frowned at the results, not finding anything that applied to jungkook in particular.
‘how to be a good girlfriend’
you flushed furiously writing that one out, but you knew it was the closest equivalent to the relationship you had with him. even then, all the results catered to people that didn’t align with jungkook’s personality. you sighed.
‘how to please a man that takes care of you’
now this, this was different. you sat up, seeing multiple different hits but the one thing you kept seeing over and over was the same line. you shuffled in anticipation, eyes reading it continuously, biting down on your lip.
“keep his stomach fed, and his balls empty.” you whispered out loud, repeating what you had read.
your cheeks flamed red as you shut your phone, setting it down like you had an audience around you, feeling a level of embarrassment creep up your neck. that..that felt fitting. you knew he loved his food, was always eating with a can of beer whenever he got a chance.
you also knew him to be hard nearly every instance he got. you weren’t an idiot, you had felt it against you to know that you probably couldn’t take him fully without prep, but the thought had your eyes shutting tight, a small whine leaving you - you wanted him just as bad.
soon enough, you had decided on your plan of action. you got changed, grabbing the card jungkook had given you and quickly made your way to the grocery store, hand shaking around your phone as you searched in popular dishes. you figured a steak would do, since you knew most men enjoyed meat, despite knowing you had never really cooked before.
you stood in front of the meat section hopelessly, shyly asking the workers there a million questions until a lovely older lady walked you around the shop, telling you how to prepare it, what ingredients to use, pushing you to purchase the more expensive options as ‘you could taste it in every bite.’
waddling home, you steadied yourself as you put everything in the kitchen, wrapping your new apron around you tight. you were determined. you wouldn’t fail, not when this was for jungkook, not when he had done so much for you.
hours had passed, and you were finishing up the last details of the dinner. the table had been set, with candles and plates positioned in a way you had seen in a youtube video. you had his favourite beer chilled and ready, even going the extra mile to have a shower, do your hair and makeup using the products he had bought you. you still had your apron on, knowing he’d love the sight of the cute frilly material around you.
your hair was clipped behind your head as you heard the door unlock, causing you to squeak quietly, gathering everything together as quickly as you could.
jungkook had had the longest day of his entire existence. from clients taking the piss, to fixing rushed jobs from other men in the industry. he had even had a phone call from an old friend, asking to stash some cash - it came with a hefty profit, but he had to decline, despite it souring the relationship. he had his girl waiting back home for him, and he had to make sure he was on the right track. no more illegal shit, no matter what that meant for the legacy he had built in his twenties.
walking inside his home, only to find you nervously smiling at him, was enough to take the wind out of his lungs. looking down, however, and seeing the full home cooked spread, was enough to have a man like him on his knees.
“hi..” you shyly grinned, hands shuffling.
“what’s this?” he asked, putting his tools down, uniform heavy as he approached you.
the sound of his keys dropping on the dish you had placed by the entrance made you jump slightly, as you nibbled away on your lip. he approached you, standing in front of you, eyes never leaving your own.
“i just..you do so much for me and, i’m so grateful and i wanna take care of you too.” your voice was no louder than a whisper, almost flushed at the admission as you immediately reached for his jacket, playing with the buttons, peering up at him. “it’s okay if you don’t like it, i just thought it would be nice for you to have something home cooked.”
he grunted, deep from his chest as his face fell into the space between your neck and shoulder, breathing in your scent. his hands were roaming all over your stomach, your hips, your waist, a soft giggle finding its way out of your lips at his reaction. it made you giddy to think he was enjoying this.
“you cooked all this?” he asked, walking towards the table, dragging you along with him, to which you lightly bounced, nodding. “went to the shops, and asked the nice lady and she told me what to get and she said that you’d like steak and she showed me what video to follow-“ you rambled.
he was enamoured by you, taking a seat at the head of the table, where you had positioned all of his plates. instead of moving towards your own seat, he grabbed your waist once more and pulled you firmly until you fell into his lap, your tiny dress doing little to provide modesty as you curled into him.
you watched him intently cut a piece, big eyes peering at him as he took a bite.
“you really made this?” he asked you, hand harsh on your thigh.
you offered him a shy nod, anxiety swirling in your stomach. it was okay if he didn’t like it, but the thought made you want to weep - this was supposed to be all for him. you didn’t want to mess it up.
“good girl.” he murmured, before cutting up a piece for you, watching as you ate from the same fork, a look of pure glee across your face.
his words had you leaning into him properly as you both ate, his grunts of approval worth a million words as you recounted how you cooked it, all whilst he listened carefully and ate. you truly couldn’t have been happier with yourself, your fingers curling into the hair behind his neck.
he had finished his plate, but was now properly feeding you, and despite a shake of your head, was making sure you finished your plate. the two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your arms around him and his around yours, breathing in one another’s scent.
he was so manly all over, the faint smell of sweat alongside his cologne and skin was intoxicating and you wanted it ingrained in your mind forever.
“well done.” he murmured down at you, soft for a change, causing you to look up.
the smile that formed on your lips was enough for him to dedicate his entire life to praising you, wanting to see it every single day for the rest of his life. he couldn’t fathom how lucky he was to have the object of his desires all pretty, in a cute apron and dress; cooking for him, just so he’d feel good. fuck.
“i’m happy you liked it.” you admitted in a small voice. “i really wanted to make it good for you.”
“you don’t have to do anything, y/n.”
“i know, you always say that but i just..i wanna, okay?” you shook your head, nibbling away at your lip once again.
his thumb darted out, capturing your lip and releasing it from your teeth. god, he couldn’t get enough of how cute you were, looking up at him like that. his thumb pushed against your lips for a moment, letting it sit on your tongue, watching the way you wrapped your mouth around it.
the moment was gone within a second as he pulled back, a sudden look on his face you couldn’t decipher. before you could ponder on it, his lips finally connected with your own.
kissing jungkook was unlike anything you had ever expected. you knew him to be dominant, direct and manly, but this? he was all but devouring you. it wasn’t gentle like first kisses often tended to be, but demanding - rough. his lips moved against yours like he owned you, and you deflated immediately, letting him do whatever he wanted to you. your hands were in his hair, tugging him closer, your legs moving around him to now straddle instead of just sitting.
the second his tongue began exploring your mouth, you couldn’t hold back the moans.
he kissed like a man starved, his hands running up and down your body, cupping your ass, your breasts, before settling on your waist, chasing you every time you pulled away for breath.
by the time you had fully managed to depart from his lips, you were panting, eyes lidded and heart beating faster than you could keep up with. your hands slid from his hair down to his chest, as he captured your lips in small pecks.
jungkook could feel the day washing off of him. the dinner, your excitement, the kiss - fuck, even the thought of you paying for all of the things you wanted at the grocery shop with his card. he was visibly melting, more relaxed than he’d allowed himself to be in years and it was a sight for you too.
“go shower.” you whispered lightly to him, pecking his lips. “i’m gonna clean up.”
he simply nodded, capturing your lips in another heavy kiss that lasted far too long before letting out a grunt, setting you on your feet, and heading to the bathroom.
you stood there for a moment, eyes fluttering closed and breathing out through your nose.
god, you were so fucked.
—
later that evening, jungkook sat in front of the tv, legs spread, a can of beer in hand and the game playing loudly. he was the picture perfect image of relaxation, in a pair of sweats and a white tank, his hair still wet from his earlier shower, he truly didn’t think life could get better than this. he had jumped you the second he had gotten out, smothering you in as many kisses as he could get in before you started pushing him away, flushed pink and giddy.
his cock had been straining against his sweats for hours.
you, however, were a slight nervous wreck.
you stood near the edge of your now shared bed, nibbling away on your lip as you looked at yourself in the mirror. you had showered yourself, dried your hair, even did your makeup really nice. you were in a tank and tiny little cotton shorts, but underneath? the pink underwear he had bought you.
your only objective tonight was to make him cum.
a shaky breath left you as you ran your hand through your hair, making sure you looked okay. you wanted to make him feel good, wanted it more than anything else in the world, and you knew that once you started, the door would be wide open and your relationship would completely change.
you weren’t sure how many more times you could withstand the feeling of not quite being able to satisfy yourself. being home alone for most days, waiting for him to return with the thought of him heavy on your mind and mouth, trying to keep your hands out of the space inbetween your legs was impossible.
waking up to his boner pressing into you? unfair.
you knew he wanted this badly, maybe even more than you did, but he wasn’t about to push that on you given your strange dynamic. luckily for him, you were heeding the internet’s advice - you had fed him, now you were ready to drain his balls.
and so, you walked into the living room, his eyes completely trained on the tv as you sat beside him on the couch, not looking up at you. his hand, however, sat high on your bare thigh immediately, all whilst his cock strained against his clothes.
you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, noticing him taking a swig of his beer, attention entirely on the game playing, easing your nerves massively. you shifted, his hand dropping from your thigh as you began your plan of action.
jungkook finally looked at you, only to catch you pulling your hair up into a ponytail. he would have thought nothing of it had it not been for your outfit, your pretty lipstick, the way you looked like you were ready to be fucking used. his lips parted as he watched you drop to your knees in front of him, innocent eyes no longer feeling as naive as he once thought.
before he could even say anything, your smaller hands began reaching for his waistband, fingers hooking until you were able to push them down enough for his fat cock to spring free.
he watched you gasp. watched you take in his length and girth, a fucked up part of his brain eager to break you finally as you blinked away your visible fear. he wasn’t just big, he was monstrous. the type of cock to break you from the inside, the type to hurt and make you sore for days. the type that had you moaning just at the sight of it.
your hand finally wrapped around it, although your fingers didn’t touch and that alone had your head dropping to his thigh, mouth already drooling.
“so pretty.” you whimpered up at him, causing him to jolt in your grip, a low grunt filling the air. “gonna break yourself trying to make it fit in your mouth.” he nudged your chin with his fingers, his words condescending but they only made you wetter.
a surge of confidence ran through you as you huffed up at him, tongue laying flat as you let his cock tap against it a few times, licking up all the salted beads of precum. soon enough, you were suckling at his tip, moaning and circling your tongue.
his hand shot to the back of your head with a loud curse, his eyes closed. he hadn’t had anyone warming his bed in months upon months, and now that he had you, he knew no one else would ever be good enough.
watching you finally begin to suck and bob your head was enough to have him pushing down your head, forcing you to accommodate another inch or two. it made you gag, but the wet patch forming on your shorts was proof enough you liked it. your hands pumped the rest of his cock in unison as you eagerly sucked, whimpering against the most sensitive part of him.
“fuck, look at you.” he hissed out loud, continuing to bob your head. “wanted this from day one, didn’t you?”
you parted from his cock for air, gasping lightly as you pumped him faster, nodding despite already feeling lightheaded. god, jungkook had barely begun and you were already so needy - he yearned to know what you’d be like once he finally impaled you fully.
“wanted it so bad.” you admitted through a small voice, eyes never leaving his as you tapped his cock onto your tongue again a few times before opening your mouth and starting it again.
this time, jungkook pushed your head down further and further, watching his cock disappear down your throat until you couldn’t take anymore, pulling off for breath once more, your shattered gasps and gulps enough for him to cup your cheek.
“that’s my girl, look at you.” his coos were hardly sweet, with a clear edge to them as you bounced your head up and down, sucking him with all of your energy. he swore, throwing his head back. “should’ve done this a long time ago. look how good you look choking on me.”
your legs were quivering with want, wanting nothing more than to play with your clit in that moment but focusing on him regardless. jungkook was already close, and as much as he wanted to paint your throat in his cum, he had no intentions of cumming anywhere other than your fucking womb.
suddenly; his hands on your head were pulling at your hair, forcing you off of his cock as you panted for air, chest rising and falling. your lips were covered in spit, and yet you looked like a vision made just for him, his cock tweaking at the sight of you.
he forced you to get up, which you happily did, falling onto the couch beside him as he grabbed onto your legs, hand grabbing your shorts and harshly pulling them down only to be met with the pink lacy set he had been thinking of all day.
his silence was met with a shaky giggle from as you spread your legs once more, your panties absolutely soaked through, and yet you wanted more.
“i hope you like them.” you hummed, as he began to hover over you. “wanted to wear them for you.”
“yeah?” he groaned quietly, fingers tracing the shape of your pussy through them. “fuck, you’re tiny. i’m gonna break you, you know that?”
“promise?” you whispered back, causing his eyes to flicker back to you, his cock jolting.
you were a secret minx.
his lips were on yours within seconds, tasting himself on your tongue as he devoured you, moving against you with utter ease. instead of taking your panties off, he simply moved them to the side, pulling your tank down to reveal your tits spilling out of your matching lacy bra. pink was a colour he wanted you in every waking moment, you looked better than he could have ever imagined.
his hand was on you immediately, fingers rubbing away at your clit causing you to whimper at the feel of relief finally. you were wound up so tight anyway, to have someone touching you after so so long was a feeling you had forgotten. to be touched by jungkook was a whole other ballpark.
you both moaned into each other’s mouths as your hand began to pump him, bodies moving in unison as you focused on pleasuring one another. it only took a few minutes for you to succumb to your first orgasm, loud moans leaving your lips as you shook in his arms.
he watched you hungrily, his brain chemistry changing before for your very eyes.
this is what you looked like cumming.
oh. how had he lived? how had he survived a life without your face scrunching up, whining out his name so pathetically, legs shaking around him whilst your hand only gripped him tighter.
it wasn’t enough, though. never. he allowed you a moment or two of rest before circling your clit once more, watching you jostle in overstimulation. his fingers were inside you without any prior warning, pumping as he heard you whine loudly.
“j-jungkook!” you shrieked, hand falling from his aching cock as you grabbed onto his shoulders, grounding yourself.
“fuck, there you go. c’mon.” he was hissing down at you, fingering you deep, bigger than anything you had taken in a while.
the stretch was delicious, and you already felt so full - you couldn’t even fathom being fucked by his cock, but the thought had your hips lifting for more.
jungkook coaxed two more orgasms out of you just like that, leaving you a shaky and dazed mess, before removing his fingers, sucking on them with a loud grunt. he went to move inbetween your legs, to make good work of the slick dripping from you only to be stopped by your smaller hands.
“want you.” you whimpered with a shake of your head. “don’t wanna wait anymore.”
“need to stretch you baby, you’re still tight.” he shook his head back at you, grabbing your legs and pulling you closer.
“no.” you huffed, voice suddenly bratty. “you said you’d give me anything i want..”
he closed his eyes at that, cock throbbing. fuck, you already knew his weak spots, and he had every intention of making you feel it just as deeply as he could. he departed from you entirely, leaning back, pulling you up by your arms firmly.
“get on the bed.” he simply uttered to you, voice dark. he was so firm, so direct - his words sat in your stomach as you shakily did exactly that, leaning on the walls as you wobbled your way over.
even in moments of heightened passion, he couldn’t get over how tooth achingly sweet you were.
you laid on the bed, head plush on your shared pillows as you managed to catch your breath. jungkook walked in, hair a mess, shoulders sore from the scratches you had left behind, cock hard and against his stomach as he approached. neither of you could look away from one another, as he grabbed your hips and yanked you down closer to him, hovering over you immediately.
“give me a kiss.” he hushed down at you, causing you to lean up, pressing a sweet peck to his lips. you were so cute to him.
he lined himself up with you, rubbing his cock up and down, causing you to whine, the size of him against you already addicting. soon, he started to push in, the tip of his cock already stretching you wider than anything you had ever taken.
jungkook hovering over you, his arms caging you in other side of your head as he pushed deeper, deeper and deeper. you could feel your thighs quivering, your wide eyes shutting tight as you felt you couldn’t breathe by the time he was half way in. he wasn’t fairing any better. this was out of his wildest dreams, panting on top of you, cooing down at you.
“my good girl, so so good to me. look at you taking it so well. were born to take me, weren’t you baby?” he cooed down, causing you to whimper as you could feel the familiar sting of tears forming in your eyes.
you nodded, sucking in a shaky breath as your arms wrapped around his neck. “s-so big.”
he hissed as he continued to push inside, managing to fit his entire length in after multiple minutes. you were breathing deeply, chest rising and falling as jungkook waited for you to settle down, watching the way your stomach bulged from the intrusion.
“you can take it.” he assured, hand pressing down on your stomach, against the bulge causing you to shriek loudly, eyes closing tight again. tears were beginning to stream, and he could feel himself getting harder.
“you c-can..can move.” you whimpered out.
with seconds, jungkook began to thrust.
if you thought you had experienced pleasure before, you were sorely mistaken.
you knew then that nothing would ever feel like this, nothing could compete or compare - this was everything your body has subconsciously craved for years, given to you by the much older, stranger who had taken you in for his own.
the pain was overshadowed by the thrill and pleasure, his deep thrusts hitting a sponge part of you that was already pulling you closer and closer to the edge. your tears were streaming as he rested his head against your own.
“needed this from you, baby. been thinking about you for so long, you know that?” he grunted out loud. “now you’re all mine..all mine to fuck.”
“yours..all y-yours, kook.” you nodded vigorously, hands pulling at his hair. “feel so big.”
he hid his face in your neck as his pace began to quicken, causing you to borderline scream out his name. you didn’t care who could hear you, the feeling of being pounded into by a cock too big for you euphoric. he couldn’t get enough of you, the taste of your skin on his tongue as he sucked on your neck, leaving heavy hickeys to mark you for the entire world to see.
you couldn’t hold back on the sobs, crying out from the overstimulation; the pleasure, the stinging pain. it was too much and not enough, at one point finding yourself even beating your fists against his chest, only causing him to fuck you harder.
soon enough, jungkook flipped you around, so you were on your stomach, his chest pressing harshly on your back. you could barely move in this position, couldn’t breathe very well either, merely forced to endure the pleasure of jungkook taking care of you. your shallow breaths alongside the chant of his name were like music to his ears, as he kissed and bit on your shoulders.
“my girl. gonna make you my wife, you know that?” he promised down at you, pounding at this point.
“don’t..say that.” you gasped loudly, his words making you clench harshly around his cock, clearly liking it far too much than you wanted to admit.
you had been in house for two weeks and yet the thought of this treatment for life, belonging to jungkook for the rest of your days, was enough to make you sob in joy. your cheek was smushed into the pillow, as you grabbed onto the sheets for life, only for him to intertwine his fingers with your own from behind.
“you like that, huh..” he let out a small laugh. “wanna be my wife, pretty girl? wanna be mrs jeon?”
you were clenching uncontrollably, only edging him closer to his own orgasm.
“fuck..just like that.” he grunted. “gonna wake up to a ring on your finger one of these days. don’t give a fuck that it’s too soon, gotta make sure you get what this is.” he was picking your body up from the bed, your ass in the air suddenly as his thrusts only got more brutal. “you belong to me, you understand? every part of you, all mine.”
“wan’it.” you admitted, through a small sob. “wanna be your wife, kookie, want it so so bad.”
“yeah?” he closed his eyes at your admission. “god. need to get you a house, make sure you decorate it just how you like. gotta spoil you like my wife deserves.”
you were seeing stars, the sound of skin slapping against skin louder than either of your whines, moans or sobs. he slid one of his hands down, circling your clit once more despite the fact you were already a bundle of over sensitivity.
at that, you squealed loudly.
“gonna cum soon, gonna fill this pussy up just like you deserve. get you all nice and round for me.” his words cut through you like a knife, causing you to lose your breath.
“please, please, please.” you begged, through harsh sobs. “cum inside, kookie, please, wanna have your baby.”
you couldn’t take it any longer. the movement of his fingers, the harshness of cock, the way you could feel his entire weight on your much smaller body - you could hardly breathe as your orgasm hit you like a freight train, rendering you useless.
you completely blacked out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you choked lightly, only causing jungkook to orgasm himself. he buried himself deep inside you with a final thrust, feeling you clench and milk him for all that he had.
the shared orgasm was unlike anything you had ever experienced before. it felt the closest to euphoria you’d ever felt, and you knew the feeling was mutual with the way the usually stoic, manly man on top of you was moaning into your shoulder, fucking you both through your orgasms.
he settled on top of you for a solid minute, still inside of you, repositioning you so you could breathe freely. he was breathing in your scent, his shoulders sagging as though the full stress of the day had finally escaped you. it was like he could breathe again, having bared his entire soul to you mid thrust only for it to be reciprocated in the filthiest of ways.
your eyes remained closed, even after he pulled out, and pushed his cum back into you with his fingers, secretly praying it would stick. you were a panting, dazed mess as he picked you up and took you to the bathroom, drawing you a bath all the whilst holding you firmly into his arms, not letting you worry about a single thing.
and once you were settled in, warm bubble coated water surrounding you as you nuzzled deeper and deeper into jungkook’s chest, only then did you open your eyes, meeting his gaze with parted lips.
“did you mean it?” you whispered quietly, almost afraid of his answer.
he didn’t respond to you at first. instead, he brushed a wet thumb over your cheek, watching the way you nuzzled into his cheek gently. he was were enamoured by you, both body and soul, and if he was a man of words, he would have professed his feelings for you grandly. alas, he was not, so instead, he did the next best thing.
jungkook took a hold of your left hand, easing it to his lips and planting a sweet kiss to your ring finger, right where he promised he would decorate it with jewellery soon.
he meant every fucking word.
—
three months had passed and welcomed pure bliss into your life. you knew that life with jungkook was a pleasure in itself, but from moving into a completely new home, one he had put under your name as a testimony of his love for you, to the ridiculously expensive gifts he would come home with each and every day. you were living a reality that you couldn’t have ever dreamt would belong to you.
you looked healthier - from your long hair to your flushed cheeks, your eyes brighter and your ribcage no longer poking out. you were head over heels in love with the man who had claimed you for his own like a modern day stalker, and yet you had never felt so sure of your safety.
jungkook loved in a way that was visible, not explicit. he wasn’t one to tell you those three words, instead opting to show you any change he would get, something that had you weeping constantly out of pure joy. something he couldn’t ever get over.
you liked the dynamic you had built for each other too. you got to play house, spending all of your time being domestic, cooking meals, trying new recipes, baking, adding furnishings to the home, making it completely and entirely your own whilst he went out and worked. he was a manual labour kind of guy, coming home with sweat lined skin and grease all over him, but that only made you want him so much more.
to know he worked so hard just to provide the picture perfect life for you had you riding him most nights, giving him the love he bestowed upon you in the best possible way you knew how. through milking his cock until his cum sat deep in your womb, a favourite pastime for you both.
even now, you were stood in your kitchen, phone in hand as you read the text jungkook had sent to you only moments prior. he never texted. ever.
your stomach flipped as you reread it over and over, trying to decipher the meaning for the text, instead of him calling you, your head tilted as your stomach sat doing somersaults.
‘don’t cook. bringing you something home.’
seemed innocent enough, but this was your man. you knew him intimately in a way many could only ever dream of - he was up to no good, you were sure of it.
you stared at the screen longer than you needed to, chewing on your bottom lip, bare feet cold against the kitchen tile. the apartment was quiet, save from the soft music playing from your tv, warm lighting dancing around your shared space whilst the low hum of the city rumbled through the walls.
you were already cooking. of course you were.
you liked when he came home to food, a visual manifestation of the fact you had been waiting for him to arrive - a kiss to his soul that told him directly that you wanted him to know you were thinking of him.
regardless, you turned the stove off, forever obedient to your older boyfriend.
you were in a matching loungewear set, soft and pink, his favourite duo as the shorts barely covered your ass, your breasts bulging out of the low cut t-shirt thanks to the pretty bra you were wearing. your hair remained damp from your shower, clipped up and out of your face, skin soft and flushed.
you checked the time.
like clockwork, the door began to open, making you look up, smoothening the strands around your face. after all the moments spent together, you still felt so incredibly shy in his presence, something he would never get over.
his footsteps were heavy down the hallway, weight against hardwood, announcing his presence with every creak of the floor. the air changed the second he stepped inside of kitchen, as though the temperature warped to accommodate him and him alone.
he shut the door behind him with his foot, looking you up and down hungrily as he placed a brown bag on the dining table unceremoniously.
“you eat?”
his voice was rough from the day.
you shook your head gently. “no..waited for you.”
he glanced at the stove, noticing the cooling pan and your sheepish little smile. he tilted his head.
“told you not to cook.”
“i turned it off.” you murmured just as he grunted softly. you walked over to him, helping him out of his work jacket; watching as his veins protruded from his arms, making you trace them immediately as a small habit.
you peered up, standing on your tip toes to plant a soft peck to his lips, with blazing cheeks that flushed too pink for the occasion.
he watched you for another instance, enamoured by you as per usual but there was something unreadable in his gaze. something darker, something raw that had been left untouched for too long, like a glass of water finally over spilling after being continuously poured into. you tilted your head at him gently.
you barely noticed it at first, too busy maintaining the intense eye contact, but jungkook reached into his pocket, grabbing something.
you watched as he placed something on the counter inbetween you.
something small.
velvet.
square.
the world suddenly fell completely silent as your eyes fell on it, your mouth completely drying up as your hands travelled up to your mouth. your breath had caught so sharply it left an ache in your chest.
your pulse thrummed harshly in your fingertips as you stared, and stared and stared, unable to bring yourself to open what you assumed was insane, unable to fathom this was a reality.
jungkook didn’t say anything for a few moments, before looking down at you, observing your reaction.
“open it.”
your eyes snapped up to him, finally.
“..what?”
his jaw shifted slightly. amused. “you know what it is.”
you do. of course you did, but it felt too big to say out loud. your fingers hovered over the box, desperate to touch but almost unsure.
“you’re serious..” you whispered faintly. it wasn’t doubt in your voice but absolute disbelief, like something you had only ever dreamt about was about to take place before your very eyes.
his eyes darkened at your tone. “i wouldn’t joke about shit like this.”
he stepped closer to you now, his chest touching the side of your body, caging you against the counter, his head dropping down so you could meet his gaze properly, without having to look up.
“you think i’ve been saying this for nothing?” he continued, voice low, rougher now. “you think i’m talking just to hear myself?”
you shook your head up at him, chest rising and falling as one of your hands gripped his shirt, hand on his hardened abs to ground yourself as you blinked tears away, trying to comprehend this was really happening.
“open it.” he nudged his nose towards the box, eyes trained on you intensely as your hand finally reached out to hold it, letting out a shaky breath.
opening it up caused you to let out a soft whimper, something that had your knees almost buckling.
the light of the kitchen caught on the heavy diamond sat comfortably in the box, a vision of both taste and money - it didn’t take a jeweller to tell you that this ring was worth more than every pay check you had ever gotten. there was nothing delicate or dainty about it, he wanted you to wear the best of the best and this was exactly that.
you pressed your fingers to your lips as you tried to control your breathing, looking up to meet his gaze through a teary gaze that he was already devouring. you were such a crybaby, and he fucking loved it - you cried over everything and anything, with the only remedy being himself.
“you like it.” he murmured, fingers pressing into your waist to ground you, voice certain.
you nod rapidly, letting out a shaky, teary exhale. “kookie, it’s so..it’s beautiful..”
“good.”
silence settled between you both again, but it sat thicker now. charged. your chest felt too tight, your stomach aching as you tried to keep your tears inside, all the whilst he began peppering your neck in kisses.
“you don’t have to-“ you started softly, tears beginning to stream. “i’m already yours, always.”
the words slip out before you could stop them, as you tried to stifle your sobs to no avail, hand shaking enough where you placed the box down onto the counter gently, too in awe of it to even comprehend it being real.
he stilled.
he stopped his kisses, leaning up to his full height before cupping your cheek with his hand, making your own head lean back to stare up at him. he swiped at your tears, humming lightly down at you. “yeah, you are.”
he took your fingers in his hold then, planting a sweet kiss to each finger, to your palm, to the tops. he took hold of the ring, feeling the weight of it for a moment before sliding it onto your finger slowly, letting you experience it first hand.
his calloused fingers were warm against your own, the size difference hitting you as it often did. it was the way in which it sat on your body, the weight of jungkook’s presence settling into your own and the love you both shared blatant and on display.
you were safe.
loved.
but more importantly? jungkook had chosen you, openly, directly, without fear of scrutinisation. he knew he was a man that moved fast, but it came with an understanding of exactly what he wanted.
you.
—
ahhhh!! handyman jungkook is finally here, thank you all for your patience - if this was something you enjoyed and you want to support me and my writing, here is my kofi <33
« p-puh-lease, clark! lemme cum! wanna cum s’bad– c-can’t fucking think anymore! » you pleaded, eyes squeezing droplets of tears out of the orifices when he pushes deeper against you, folding you completely in half in the meanest mating press you think you’ve ever felt in your life.
this was probably the filthiest and dirtiest fuck you’ve had with clark, and gosh if you didn’t adore it.
you don’t know what came through him, why he was being so ruthless, or why he insisted on neither of you two cumming for so long, but the pleasure that erupted in your brain and corrupted it beyond conscience was too prominent for you to even think of question the man.
he had you trapped between the denting mattress and his lean muscles, abs tightening and clenching with every thrust his hips punished you with.
« s-s’okay, my love… sooo okay.. just gotta- hold on f’clarkie a bit more, yeah? wanna do that? gonna be a good girl f’me? » he cooed to you as if he was talking to an obedient dog, and the somewhat belittling praises rushed straight to your core as you clenched down on him, tighter and tighter, so tight that his eyes roll back into his skull, searching for a salvation only your wet pussy could give him.
you nod, drool dripping down your cheek as he gets faster and faster and faster, the line between pleasure and exhaustion blurring as your body finally went limp, allowing him to truly handle you as he wished and clark jumped on the occasion, folding you even more and spreading your unmoving legs wide open.
his thick, sticky cock rendered your walls raw as he pumped it in, thrust after thrust knocking the wind out of your lungs and the reason out of your skull.
he whimpered when your pussy started to spasm around him while still stretching to welcome more of him because of course he wasn’t fully inside of you, he’s clark kent!
but right now, the way he’s fucking you is so primal that you might as well refer to him as…
« k-kal-el! kal! ffffuck!! m’cumming! » and that almost does it for him. you referring to him as kal of house el, fuck, he should really put a baby in you.
but what really does it for him was the way your eyes rolled back toward him, staring at him wide-eyed as your abs clenched and your entire body locked up, squirt spraying out of you like a fountain, coating his abdominal muscles. the change in your position and in angle caused him to repeating hit that spot that made your clit flare up, prolonging your orgasm.
he gripped the headboard and slammed, slammed, slammed into you, grip tightening so hard the headboard cracked, before the entire bed did. it collapsed onto the floor, right in the middle where he had you. suddenly, gravity pushed him way deeper inside you, his bulbous tip smooching your cervix.
« o-oh, fuck! » he screamed out, balls finally tightening and allowing him to spurt out rope after rope of thick, potent cum, coating your insides with it. he shook above you when his eyes zeroed on your pelvis and he activated his x-ray vision, watching his cum really fill you up to the brim.
when he pulled out and collapsed on top of you, you were both sticky and out of breath. he kissed you jaw quietly, before breaking the comfortable silence.
« i-i’ll… i’ll pay for all the damages, baby… trust.. »
SUMMARY. Life after high school has been pretty mundane. Give or take a few breakups, a few quarter life crises, you’ve done well for yourself. Enter Jeon Jungkook: a blast from the past and your ex-Chemistry tutor, except now, it seems he's traded in his glasses and textbooks for a lip piercing and tattoos. The universe is clearly testing you... or maybe it's giving you one last shot to get it right.
pairing. jeon jungkook x reader
word count. 21.7k
warnings/genre. ex-cheerleader!reader, oc used to be a mean girl, ex-nerd!jungkook, jungkook used to be OBSESSED with oc, like clinically obsessed (what is wrong with him), slight sexting (kinda maybe) alcohol consumption, jimin instigating but what’s new, making out in dirty club hallways, fingering in an uber, he’s HUNGRYYY, he has a d*ck piercing!, oral (f receiving), you bounce on it, he fucks you while carrying you, idk read the rest they have sex, he cums inside you
note. WE NEED TO BRING BACK THE DYING ART OF A 10k+ WORD ONE-SHOT. the concept of publishing a 7k celly when my 6k celly hasn’t even been posted yet… i hate me too. i hit 7k a few days ago but this has been in the works since man’s best friend dropped. i’m quite proud of this, if i do say so myself. also before anyone yells at me, this was NOT on the to-do list but when there’s a will, there’s a way (or in my case, if you get a little tipsy, your brain starts thinking of ex-nerd!jungkook and this happens). this is just a fun little thing. porn with plot! but anywho, thank you all for following me, for engaging with my work, for continuing to give me a platform to share my passions. i love you all. here’s to many more celly’s!
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| when did you get hot? by sabrina carpenter
banner creds | masterlist
Saturdays. 3 PM. Brunch. It’s been carved in stone since the day you met Park Jimin during your freshman year at Yonsei University, when he was still closeted and you were still treating every night like your last on earth.
Today, he’s on a rampage about his fiancé of two years, Kim Taehyung.
“Do you know what he did? He bought a twelve foot cactus. Twelve. Fucking. Feet. And guess where it is now?” Jimin waves his fork dramatically, almost stabbing two nearby patrons in the process. “In the middle of our beautifully crafted living room. He’s lost his fucking mind.”
You hum, twirling a straw in your iced latte, half-listening and half-focused on the couple next to you who seems to be arguing. “So sorry, Jiminie. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Thank you.” He sighs. “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen when I inevitably walk into it. You know, when I told Tae to pursue art, I didn’t think it meant this.”
Taehyung and Jimin have the kind of love story that makes romantic comedies look documentary-level realistic. By comparison, your love life is a blooper reel that never made it to air. They’ve been disgustingly in love since senior year of university, and you’ve been their trusty little third wheel. While it’s comforting to hang out with a couple that has a dynamic as healthy as theirs, you do have to fight the pang of jealousy that hits you everytime.
“Last week it was the sculpture made of kitchen utensils. This week, desert plants. Next week? Probably something with a blow torch,” Jimin carries on, poking at his salad mercilessly.
You snort. “Tae doesn’t know how to work a blow torch.”
“He could, is my point. He’ll try anything once.” Jimin’s eyes light suggestively, and the gag reflex hits fast and mercilessly. “Like that one time he wanted to try out suspension and—”
“Jimin. Please. I am trying to enjoy my coffee,” you plead.
He rolls his eyes. “Like you don’t love us.”
“I do,” you reply quickly. “But please spare a girl the details of your sex escapades.”
“Maybe you’re bitter because you need some sex escapades of your own.” Jimin shrugs. He’s not saying it to be rude—the man doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, unless someone’s rude to his fiance.
Poor Park Jimin has been running a one-man campaign to get you laid for months. The last time you remotely showed interest in a man was a year ago, and that catastrophe ended with you sobbing on their couch for 72 hours straight while Taehyung made you soup and Jimin burned sage to ‘cleanse the toxic energy.’
You have no interest in any of it.
Sure, sex is cool and all, but the idea of the emotional turmoil that comes with the territory seems like something you can do without.
“What did I say about bringing up this topic again?” you groan.
“C’mon, please tell me you have something new that’ll make me feel better about my cactus situation.”
Your fingers collect the condensation on your plastic cup, pretending to be deeply engrossed by it. “I have nothing.”
“So as exciting as my cactus?”
Your foot kicks his ankle under the table and the noise he makes in retaliation is enough to get dirty looks from the other patrons. “Jesus Christ. Aren’t you a ball of fucking sunshine?” he moans in agony. “This is why you need to have sex. You get all crabby and violent when you don’t. When’s the last time you had sex again?”
Okay—there was that guy from the marketing conference in March…. No wait. That was last year. February? No, that was the guy who ghosted you after two dates. January? You weren’t even in the country in January. December feels like a decade ago but that was... oh god, was that really eight months ago? Nine? The guy with the man bun who worked at the bookstore and couldn’t find your—
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Yikes.” He gives you a dramatic side-eye, one that screams you are a pathetic loser, but lovingly. “You need to stop getting coffee with me and go get coffee with a man.”
You frown. “Well, you’re a man?”
He rolls his eyes. “A man who doesn’t enjoy the good ol’ cock up his ass.”
Fair play. Jimin leans back in his chair, studying you intently. Never a good sign. “You know what your problem is?”
You pick up your latte, taking a few sips. “Enlighten me, Park Jimin.”
“You’re too picky.”
Coffee snorts out of your nostrils, landing right onto the table. Jimin flings napkins at the mess, disgusted. “I’m sorry, have you met me? I’ve went out with some weirdos.”
“No, no, not the weirdos.” He waves a hand in the air. He;s about to go on one of his famous monologues, and all you can do is sit back in horror and watch. “I’m talking about the good ones. The ones you actually like. You find one tiny flaw and suddenly it's ‘oh, he chews too loud’ or ‘he uses the wrong there, their, they're.’ Like, relax. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Really? Says the guy currently plotting his fiance’s death over a home decor choice.”
“That’s different.” Jimin’s pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, something he truly only does when you’ve exhausted his last nerve. “Taehyung and I are past the point of no return. We're in too deep. You, my dear sweet angel, are sabotaging perfectly good opportunities because you're scared.”
Of course, you’ve had this conversation with your therapist numerous times, and you’ll do anything to avoid the topic in your personal life.
But before you can open your mouth to argue, a voice cuts through. It’s low but polite, maybe a little uncertain.
“Jimin-ssi?”
You don’t bother looking up to see who it is. Jimin knows everyone and their mother, their cousin, probably their dog too. Walking down the street with him is no easy feat, considering half of Seoul stops to talk to him. So, you do what you always do: focus on your phone and ignore the small talk about someone’s new job or whatever mundane life update they’re dying to share.
You scroll through Instagram, half-listening as they exchange pleasantries. Something about the gym, mutual friends, weekend plans. Standard small talk that you've heard a thousand times.
“Yeah, bro, it’s been forever,” Jimin’s saying. He sounds happier than he normally does when he talks to these people. “I saw your LinkedIn update. How’s the new job treating you? Still insane?”
“Better now that I’m settled in,” the mysterious voice responds, and there’s something familiar about it that tickles the back of your brain, but you’re too busy watching someone's Instagram story about their breakfast to pay attention. “The team’s chill, and I don’t have to be on call on weekends anymore.”
“You deserve it after all that overtime hell,” Jimin laughs. “Oh, hey, you should totally meet my friend [YN] here. [Y/N], this is Jeon Jungkook.”
Your head snaps up. Your phone falls to your lap.
What. The. Fuck.
You haven’t heard that name since high school.
High school you, to put it mildly, was kind of a bitch.
You were a cheerleader, top of the social food chain. Naturally, you failed a few classes because you were too busy making out with Kim Mingyu behind the bleachers and planning which party to hit up on Friday night to care about things like academic integrity.
When your GPA started looking tragic enough to threaten your spot as cheer captain, the guidance counselor assigned you a tutor. And since the universe loves to have fun with you, you were paired with Jeon Jungkook. Lanky, awkward Jeon Jungkook, with messy brown hair that looks like he cut it himself with safety scissors, thin silver glasses that slid down his nose every five seconds, and wide, innocent boba eyes.
All that to say—you did what any mean girl would do and took advantage of him. Batted your eyelashes, laughed at his terrible jokes, and suddenly your chemistry homework was getting done without you having to lift a finger.
Tests? He'd leave his answer sheet just visible enough for you to copy.
Lab reports? Practically wrote themselves, if by ‘themselves’ you mean Jungkook wrote them while you filed your nails and complained about how boring science was.
So, this? This has to be a comedic joke. This is a prank. Jimin is pranking you—it’s an elaborate one, you'll give him that. That's the only logical explanation because there is absolutely no way that the scrawny, stuttering kid who used to turn tomato red everytime you asked him to explain a chemistry problem is now standing here, towering over your table.
The man who stands before you has a lip piercing, one that hugs the curvature of his pink lips. A sleeve of tattoos that curls down his arm in vivid ink. His hair is perfectly tousled, dark chestnut locks falling into each other.
And most importantly, those arms. Biceps. He could probably bench press you. Why are you thinking about him bench pressing you? Stop thinking about him bench pressing you. Oh god, you're staring. You're definitely staring. Say something. Anything. Be cool.
He is—there's no other word for it—buff. Like, really buff.
And he's looking right at you with dark eyes that definitely weren't that intense in high school, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“[Y/N] [Y/L/N]...” His voice has a deeper timber to it, with a confidence that high school Jungkook could never have. His tone alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine. “It’s been a minute.”
“Uh, I—yeah,” you gulp down a quarter-sized lump that magically appears in your throat. “It has.”
Smooth. Incredibly smooth. Someone needs to hand you a medal for conversational excellence.
His eyes narrow into slits, like he’s analyzing you and your pathetic life. Sizing you up to discover that you’ve lost all importance in the world, and are now just another girl in the world.
Jimin, completely oblivious to everything, beams at the two of you. “Amazing! You two already know each other.” He claps his hands together. “Jungkook, you should sit. [Y/N] and I were just catching up on her sad little love life.”
Damn you, Park Jimin.
Maybe ten years ago, you wouldn’t have cared if he knew about your romantic failures, but with the black shirt hugging his biceps so perfectly, you resent Jimin’s openness.
“I was not—” you protest, but Jungkook’s already got a hand on the empty chair between you two, plopping into it.
“Was she now?” Jungkook tuts, looking over at you expectantly. “How sad is sad?”
“Okay, not sad.” You roll your eyes. “It’s just… quiet.”
His eyes dance with amusement, and you sink into the chair. “I can’t imagine you having trouble in this department.”
If only he knew the half of it.
You open your mouth to combat the embarrassment, maybe to come up with some elaborate lie about how you have three dates lined up tomorrow night, but a server interrupts you before you get the chance. She smiles at Jungkook, and you can't help but note how her eyes twinkle when she realizes how utterly attractive he is. You sink one inch lower into the chair.
Please don’t order, Jungkook. Ordering means staying and your brain (or your ego, for that matter) can’t take a second more.
She asks what he wants, pearly whites on display, and he replies smoothly, “Just a black coffee is fine. Thanks, sweetheart.”
He turns back to you and Jimin, smiling lightly. Behind him, the server trips over her own two feet a bit before adjusting her shirt and walking off. You watch the whole exchange with a weird feeling in your chest. It's not jealousy—you have no claim to be jealous. But it's something. Maybe annoyance that she was so obvious about it. Maybe annoyance that he didn't seem to notice.
“So, how do you two know each other?” Jimin’s smile resembles a mischievous cartoon villain who just tied someone to railroad tracks. Vibrating with joy, eyes gleaming, the whole nine yards. You don’t even need to hear him speak to know what he’s thinking.
“High school.”
You and Jungkook both say in unison, surprising even yourself. He glances over at you before elaborating. “I was her Chemistry tutor.”
The memory alone sends shivers of disgust down your spine. You can still picture it so clearly: high school you in your cheer uniform, sitting across from him in the library with phone in hand, texting Mingyu about whose parents were out of town that weekend while Jungkook explained electron configurations. He’d push his glasses up his nose, stumble over his words when you’d sigh and lean forward, watch him turn crimson red and stutter through the rest of the explanation.
Evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.
“You needed a tutor in high school?” Jimin snorts, taking a long sip of his drink.
“Hey, that shit isn’t easy.” You push his shoulder playfully.
Jungkook cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward in his chair. “Definitely not easy when you’re too busy with cheerleading practice to study.”
“And you were a cheerleader?” Jimin gapes.
“Okay, that’s enough reminiscing for today.”
Jimin raises his hand. “I’m not done reminiscing. I want to hear more about cheerleader [YN].”
Your face falls flat. Luckily, before Jungkook can embarrass you more with tales from a decade ago, the server comes back with his coffee, making sure to toss him the widest smile her pearly whites can muster.
Jungkook’s lips wrap around the cup. Your eyes just so happen to fall on the movement, on the way they hug the rim. Were they always that kissable or did he get lip filler?
He meets your gaze.
Shit.
You turn back to Jimin, who’s eagerly awaiting more from Jungkook. “What else don’t I know about high school [Y/N]? She’s never told me anything.”
“Well,” Jungkook starts, and by the way his lips curve upwards, you can tell the next anecdote won’t be endearing. “She did ask me once if we could ‘skip the math parts’ of chemistry.”
Jimin bursts out in laughter. “You’re kidding me.”
“In my defense, chemistry is like, ninety percent math,” you retort. “That’s a reasonable request.”
“It really wasn’t,” Jungkook counters, and his grin widens. There’s something almost… predatory about it. Like he’s enjoying watching you squirm. “But then again, you always did think the rules didn’t apply to you.”
For a moment, you can’t do anything but stare at him. This confidence, this self-assured way he’s teasing you without a hint of anxiety that used to color every interaction, is foreign.
The absolute worst part of it all is that if he wasn’t currently roasting you for being a shallow human being, this might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever witnessed.
The eye contact, the slight smirk playing at his lips, the veins poking out of his biceps. All of it both excites and confuses you.
“What do you mean?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, laughs to himself. “Just that some things never really change.”
A pregnant pause fills the space. Jimin’s eyes dart between you two like he’s at the US Open and this is the match of the century.
“You know, she also once asked me if atoms were contagious," Jungkook adds, turning to Jimin like you’re not even there. It’s a fucking power play—one that high school you invented—and you hate how effective it is.
A long exhale leaves your mouth, and you have to bite back a thousand venomous words in retaliation. Jimin laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. In college, she asked me if square roots were plants.”
Okay, so math wasn't your strongest suit. Sue a girl.
Jungkook’s hands wrap around his cup, taking a quick sip. They’re bigger than you remember, rougher, with calluses to match.
Truthfully, everything about him is just… more. Bigger, broader, bolder.
You shift gears, clearing your throat to interrupt whatever powwow Jungkook and Jimin have going on regarding your academic life. “What do you do now?”
“Software development.” Jungkook almost seems surprised that you have an interest in his life. “Started at a startup, but I just moved to a bigger company.”
“What kind of software?” you ask mindlessly, happy to have the attention finally off you.
“Mobile apps. Some web development.” Jungkook shrugs like it’s nothing, but you catch the hint of pride in his tone. “Nothing crazy.”
Jimin chimes in, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, [Y/N] works in marketing for a tech company. You guys probably have tons in common now.”
You want to sink through the floor. Actually—scratch that. Sinking through the floor isn’t enough. You need the floor to open up, swallow you whole, digest you, and then launch whatever remains into the sun.
You can see exactly what's happening here. You can see the gears turning in Jimin’s pretty little head. He’s planning your wedding, probably picking out centerpieces. He thinks this whole encounter is fate, some kind of romantic star-crossed lovers nonsense where the nerd gets the girl who was too stupid to notice him the first time around.
He’s going to be insufferable about this. Probably loop Taehyung into this delusion as well. There will be betting pools on when you finally hook up with Jungkook.
Which—okay, fine—you wouldn’t be completely opposed to. Hypothetically. In theory.
“How’s that going for you?” Jungkook turns to you.
“Good. I’ve been at my current company for a few years now. I just got promoted last year.” Your chest puffs out a little. There’s nothing you need to prove to him. But it doesn’t hurt, especially as he validates your words with a slight nod in approval.
“That’s awesome. I’m happy for you.”
Not said with even an inch of malice.
“Thank you.” You flip your hair over your shoulder. “See, and I didn’t even need math or chemistry to be successful.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough.”
“I know how emotionally tolling it was to tutor me, so at least your efforts didn’t go to waste,” you joke, and he cracks a smile at that, bunny teeth poking out.
“It wasn’t that emotionally tolling.” He shrugs, lifting his coffee to his lips. “It was fun. Y’know, when you weren’t texting that guy you used to date.”
He maintains eye contact with you as he takes one, two sips, and you have to clench your thighs to ignore the second heartbeat that’s beating in your vagina.
Jimin opens his mouth—probably to ask approximately eight thousand invasive follow-up questions about your high school love life—but his phone buzzes violently against the table, the vibration loud enough to rattle his fork.
Glancing down at his phone, his expression shifts from pure glee to actual panic. “Shit, I need to head out. Taehyung’s making dinner and if I’m late, he’s gonna put that weird purple pesto in it again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Purple pesto?”
“You know how he is, babe.” Jimin frantically flags down the waiter, motioning for the check.
You and Jimin always split Saturday brunch. It’s a tradition, one that you don’t plan on breaking. You reach for your wallet in your bag, prepared to pull out your trusty debit card.
But before you or Jimin can get too far, Jungkook smacks his AMEX Platinum card down like it’s nothing.
You blink at the shiny metal. “Jimin and I always—”
“I’ve got it,” he says, all casual, like dropping 100,000 won on lunch for three people is normal for him.
To your left, Jimin has the biggest shit-eating grin of all time. “Thanks, Jungkook. You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s my treat. It’s nice to run into old friends.” He tosses you a side glance when he says the word friends, because that’s hardly what you two ever were.
Jimin’s phone buzzes again, and his eyes widen as they scan the new message. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
“What?!” You lean forward, trying to peek at his phone.
“Yeontan threw up all over the new rug. Taehyung just sent me a picture, it’s…” He makes a sour face. “I gotta go. Code red dog situation.”
“Is he okay?” you ask, because despite Jimin’s dramatics, that little ball of fur is your ray of sunshine.
“He’s fine.” He stands, shrugging on his thin sweatshirt. “He probably ate something he should have. This was great though! We should all hang out again soon!”
And then he’s sprinting out of the cafe, leaving you all alone at the table with none other than Jeon Jungkook.
If you didn’t know better, you’d say Jimin planned this. Although, to be fair, you do know better, and he one hundred percent planned this. You're going to kill him. You're going to actually murder your best friend.
The waiter comes by, charging Jungkook’s card while you sit there awkwardly, twiddling your fingers. You don’t know what to do with yourself, quite frankly.
“Jimin isn’t very subtle,” Jungkook says, signing the receipt and placing it aside.
“Jimin doesn’t do subtle.” You fidget with your napkin. “He probably planned this.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You think so?”
“I know so. He’s been trying to set me up with someone for months.”
Crossing his bulky arms over his chest, he leans back in his chair. “How’s that working out for him?”
“Well,” you begin, “Considering the last attempt was one of his coworkers who turned out to be married, I would say pretty terrible.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m not really into the whole polyamory thing,” you joke.
Jungkook laughs and stands, and you follow suit, realizing how much taller he is than you. Not that he hasn’t always been tall, but now he has the ego to match it.
“Want me to walk you to your car?” he asks.
You bashfully look down at your feet. In your years of living in Seoul, you’ve never once been embarrassed about taking the bus before. The Korean bus system is efficient and better for the environment. But Jungkook, with his fancy tech job, probably has some sleek car that makes the bus system look like a clown car.
“I took the bus, actually.”
Immediately, without so much as a second thought, he goes, “I’ll drive you home.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I know I don’t need to.” He strolls towards the exit, holding the door open for you to glide through first. “I want to.”
Wait. Is he… is he flirting? That was definitely flirting, right?
If he is very specifically flirting with you, that means he either has a terrible memory or some kind of revenge plot in the works. Both options seem likely and panic-inducing.
When you finally get outside, the crisp afternoon air dances across your skin. The autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. You keep a few inches for God between you and Jungkook, and he falls into a comfortable pace beside you, matching you.
His hands are nestled into his pockets, kicking leaves as he walks. Now that you two are alone, he’s returned to some of his old habits, like being quiet around you when there’s nothing to fill the noise with.
“How do you like your job?” he finally decides upon asking, and your head lifts to peer at him. He’s gazing at you intently, clearly waiting for an answer.
“I like it. Most days, it’s creative, but we do a good amount of analytical work too.”
“Why did you choose marketing?” He seems genuinely interested in your answer, which sends tingles down your spine. It’s been a while since someone has cared enough to ask about your life beyond the standard two questions.
“Well, you know I suck at math,” you start, and he laughs at that. A deep sound that reverberates in his chest and makes your insides mushy. “I also hate science, so that wasn’t an option. I like being creative, and I’m a visual person. I took an intro class and it stuck.”
He nods, soaking it in. “Was college you the same as high school you?”
You know what he’s asking. Was college you also the biggest bitch alive, or did you grow out of that phase?
“Nah.” You shake your head. “I’m not as shallow… or annoying.”
He smiles. “Good to know.”
You reach his car—a black BMW that looks like it was ripped right off the set of Fifty Shades of Grey—and he unlocks it with a soft beep.
“Your car is nice,” you note, and his cheeks turn a soft pink at the compliment.
“Thanks. I figured I should probably upgrade from the bus at some point.” He opens the passenger door for you, causing you to almost trip getting in at the sheer thoughtfulness.
You frown. “Hey! I still take the bus.”
He raises his hands up in surrender. “Not hating on the bus. I took that bad boy for years.”
Jungkook closes your door, rounding the car to the driver's seat and hopping in. the inside of the vehicle smells like leather, mixed with the faint scent of his cologne. Your brain can’t help but go a little fuzzy—scents are your weakness. Any man who smells good deserves to get their dick sucked, period.
“Address?” he asks, starting the engine.
You give it to him, and he inputs it into the GPS. Fifteen minutes, it spits back. Fifteen minutes in a car alone with Jeon Jungkook, the most confusing blast from your past.
Peeking over at him, you take his appearance in. His jaw is defined and sharp. Could probably cut glass on that thing. His nose juts out, big enough for you to wonder if he’s ever let a girl sit on his face. God, you really need to get laid. You’ve resorted to sexualizing the man you used to tease in high school like some kind of medieval man who just saw an ankle for the first time.
The guilt of your past sits heavy in your chest, but your body doesn’t seem to care. It wants what it wants, ethics be damned.
You don’t deserve to be this turned on by someone you treated like human furniture for two years. But here you are, wondering about the logistics of his face between your thighs, and maybe that makes you exactly as terrible as you’ve always suspected.
Your eyes wander down to his biceps, down to his arms that are cluttered with tattoos. Different designs snake down his skin, some with color, and it takes all your might not to reach out and trace them. Fuck, now you’re thinking about his hands gripping the steering wheel. The veins. Those long fingers—
“You have a lot of tattoos,” you blurt out.
His eyes remain on the road, but his lips curl upwards. A little bit like a smirk. “I do.”
“When did you start getting them?” you wonder aloud.
“College. I started with one, but then I got addicted and kept going.” He glances at you for a second before turning his attention back to the road. “You disapprove?”
“No! No, they’re… they look good. Really good.” You want to die. “But it is different from what I expected from you.”
His gaze hardens. “A lot of things are different from high school.”
Silence fills the air as you two continue along the highway in the direction of your neighborhood. Your town is quaint, not too far outside of the main downtown area of Seoul. It’s so peaceful that your neighbors are two elderly women who treat you like their daughter.
You wonder where Jungkook lives. If you had to guess, he probably lives in Gangnam, the upscale area in Seoul. Fancy tech job, fancy car… he must have a fancy house to match. Or a fancy girlfriend.
“Do you live near here?” you ask, hoping to sound as casual as possible. Although, realistically speaking, there is nothing casual about interrogating your ex-Chemistry tutor.
“Not too far. I’m about ten minutes by car.” His grip loosens on the wheel a little. “Near Hannam-dong.”
So, you were kind of right. Hannam-dong, where all the celebrities and rich people live.
Before you can stop yourself, you say, “Do you live alone, or…?”
It’s possibly the least subtle question in the history of subtle questions, but you need to know.
Jungkook’s grip on the wheel tautens, and when you look over at him, there’s a scarlet flash creeping up his neck. “I—yeah. Alone. It’s just me.”
Is he… blushing?
“Oh, cool.” You try not to sound too pleased by the information. “That’s really cool. I mean, not cool that you’re alone if you don’t want to be alone, but cool that you have your own space and— y’know, everything.”
Nailed it.
“It’s—yeah, it’s good.” He clears his throat, and suddenly, you get a glimpse of the man you remember in high school. Less like the confident, macho guy from the cafe, and more like the boy who used to stumble over his words when you asked him questions. “No one to, uh, bother me or anything. Not that having anyone would be bothering, I just meant—I live alone. No girlfriend or—”
He stops himself, like he’s just realized what he’s saying, and the flush spreads to the tip of his ears. Oh my god. He’s flustered. Jeon Jungkook, with his tattoos and lip ring and his whole sexy confident energy, is flustered because you asked if he lives alone.
The ex-mean girl in you rises to the surface, bubbles in your throat. It’s been a while since you’ve activated her. Not since college, that one time when Park Eunji threatened your spot as sorority president. That version of you knew exactly what to do: touch his arm, squeeze once, watch him stutter. Make him want you so badly it hurts, then pull away. It's muscle memory, this kind of manipulation. You hate that it's still there, your instinct to weaponize attraction.
You want him to be nervous around you. It’s a sick, twisted thought you have, and you don’t know where it comes from, but you want it. “No girlfriend,” you repeat, trying to hide your smile. Reaching out, you place a small hand on his bicep, squeeze once. His bicep is firm under your palm, and the second you make contact, you realize what you've done. That was flirting 101. High school you would’ve done that without thinking twice, but current you? Current you doesn’t have that kind of game anymore. Abort mission. Abort.
You yank your hand back to your lap like he’s made of volcanic ash.
“I didn’t—that’s not—” He runs a hand through his locks, messing it up even more. “I’m just giving context about my living situation.”
“No, I got it.” You keep your eyes trained on the road, even though your heart is doing somersaults in your chest. “Though, I have to admit, I’m shocked.”
He gulps thickly. He pulls up to a red light, finally looking over at you directly. There’s vulnerability in his expression, polar opposite to his earlier reactions to you. “Are you making fun of me?”
Huh. You don’t know why, but the fact that old, anxious Jungkook still lives somewhere deep within him makes your stomach backflip. “I would never,” you reply dramatically, waving your hand for emphasis. “I’m just speaking aloud.”
Jungkook hums at that, focusing his attention back onto the street. It’s quiet again, if not for the sound of the engine purring and the awkward tension that’s loitered in the car since you stepped inside.
He doesn’t need to ask you anything else anyway, since Jimin did a good job of outing you as the most single girl in the history of single girls. He might as well have just admitted you’re a born again virgin.
The familiar road of your neighborhood looms ahead, and a pit of despair swallows your stomach whole. You really don’t want to get out of the car that smells like him. It would be embarrassing how you’ve begun to thirst over him, but after not getting laid in a while, you’re about ready to unzip your pants and jam your fingers in there.
“Is it the building up ahead?” he questions, pointing to the cream apartment complex that you reside in. You nod sweetly, smiling brightly. You dial up the ol’ high school charm.
“Thanks, Jungkook. I really appreciate it.” Another quick flutter of your lashes as he puts the car in park, taking a deep breath and angling his body to look at you.
“Of course. Anytime.” His face remains stoic, probably hoping to not look like you affect him anymore than you already have.
Your fingers land on the handle, pushing it open to let the brisk air in, replacing the suffocating tension in the car. “Well, I wish you the best. It was nice running into you today.”
Maybe you should invite him to come up. Maybe you should invite him for a nightcap? Granted, it is midday and there’s no actual alcohol in your home, but you can think of something real quick.
But he doesn’t move toward you, or show any other inclination of interest. In fact, you’re feeling kind of slutty right about now. He probably thinks you’re some kind of embarrassing gold digger—which like, yes, you might be. For him only.
Quietly, he says, “You too,” and that’s the end of that.
And just as you’re about to slam the passenger door shut and head upstairs to scream into your pillow, Jungkook abruptly speaks. “[Y/N].”
You whip around as fast as your body will let you. “Yeah?”
His big eyes twinkle under the sunlight rays reflecting on the car, two bunny teeth poking out as he sheepishly smiles. You’re going to have fantasies about that mouth later.
“Just so you know, today wasn’t planned. But I’m really, really happy I ran into you.”
Huh Yunjin’s birthday bash has never been an easy feat. Every year, without fail, there’s a table bought at an exclusive club, and your entire friend group blacks out within the hour. You’re not sure how she gets away with it, but your love for her and mild fear of disappointing her clearly gets her very far.
Hence why you’re standing in a shopping mall at 3 PM, trying to decipher what makeup product she would like best. Her birthday gift needs to be top notch, because you’re up against Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, and those two have some kind of gaydar for gift-giving. Last year, Taehyung got her a vintage Chanel bag he “just found” at a thrift store. The year before, Jimin surprised her with tickets to see Beyonce. You’re operating at a disadvantage here.
You pick up another lipstick, eyeing the two intensely. A salesperson loiters over your shoulder, waiting to pounce at any given moment. In the end, you opt for a sleek red lip gloss, one that you know will pair well with her peachy skin. The relief that washes over you at finally securing her gift is endless.
Pushing past the doors of the shop, you blend into the rest of the mall-goers. It’s pretty packed for an afternoon, but you figure it has something to do with the sales going on. 50% off for shoes… hm. Across the way, you see a sign for 25% off scarves, and you squint to try and make out the tiny writing. Buy one, get one free—
“Oof!”
Your body collides into something firm, something warm. It’s fleeting, and you jump back several feet, immediately armoring yourself with numerous apologies. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going—”
A deep chuckle. “I’m not mad about it.”
You know that voice. That voice has been haunting your wet dreams and your poorly-written mental fanfiction.
When you were ten, you got chosen to attend a unicorn retreat. It was a glorified horse camp, but it was five days of pure magic. Horses walking around with plastic horns on their head, offering unlimited rides to anyone who wanted one. Magical doesn’t even feel like the proper word to describe it.
You thought that was the most enchanting moment of your life. But this… this rivals any stupid pony. This makes those ponies look like donkeys. In fact, with the luck you’ve been given, you might rent a unicorn and a castle.
In front of you stands Jeon Jungkook, looking somehow more scrumptious than he did a few days ago. Defying the damn laws of hotness. You’d spent a good few hours tossing and turning in bed, dreaming about his lips, his eyes, his veiny hands. He looks like he stepped straight out of your wet dream, adorned in a zip-up sweatshirt and black t-shirt, fluffy hair askew.
His eyes still carry that same twinkle from the last time you saw him, and you wonder if they’re like this all the time, or if it's just for you.
“Hi,” you exhale breathily.
“Hello.” He smiles at you, and it’s sweet, just a little dopey, and so decidedly adorable that you want to gnaw on his cheeks like a dog with a chew toy. “Must be my lucky day to run into you again.”
“Clearly.” He is flirting. Sure, there were doubts in your mind before this, but anyone who says those kinds of things, is someone who wants to be balls deep inside you. “I don’t normally treat pedestrians like bumper cars, though.”
Jungkook laughs at that, a melodic sound that sends vibrations from your head to your toes. “If I was a better man, I might’ve moved out of the way to make room for you.”
“Well, then I guess it’s my lucky day you’ve decided to not be a better man,” you counter, and he takes a step closer to you, allowing the people behind him to filter around. A mom of three tosses him an evil glare, but you could care less.
“I was actually hoping to talk to you again so I could ask you a question.” His eyes bore into you, the eye contact making the walls of your vagina contract incessantly. His confidence from the cafe has returned with a vengeance, and you’re not sure what’s gotten into him, but you hope it never leaves.
“I might have an answer,” you tease.
His lips quirk upwards into a soft smirk, one that would normally disgust you but doesn’t whatsoever. “I was thinking you and I should get dinner sometime. Maybe catch up one-on-one.”
If this were a game of tennis, you just won match point. He served, you returned, and now the ball’s sitting in his court while he watches it roll away. Checkmate. Victory. Crowd goes berzerk.
But you know how to play this game. Even though you’re a little out of commission, you still invented half the rules in high school. And rule number one: never let them see you sweat. Rule number two: make them work for it.
Tilting your head, you pretend to consider it like you haven’t thought about what underwear you would wear to this hypothetical one-on-one time. “Maybe,” you say, drawing out the syllables. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
Your calendar is wide open. Your calendar has been wide open for months. Your calendar is begging for plans. Your calendar is weeping with joy at the possibility of having something on it besides ‘therapy 2 PM’ and ‘don’t forget your lexapro.’
But here’s the thing: if you say yes immediately, if you're too eager, too easy, he’ll figure it out. He'll realize you're still that girl who only wants things because they're shiny and new, who gets bored the second the chase is over. Except this time, the thing you want isn’t a spot on the homecoming court or the captain of the basketball team’s attention—it’s him.
“Maybe?” He’s grinning now, full teeth, like he’s finally been let in on how the game works. “I pour my heart out and I get a maybe?”
“You didn’t pour your heart out. You asked to get dinner.”
He scoffs, “Same thing.”
“Not even remotely close, lover boy.” You migrate an inch backwards, so miniscule he hardly notices.
Something flickers across his face at the nickname—amusement, or something darker, more interested. His eyes track your movements like a predator watching prey.
“I feel like you’re just testing fate at this point,” he jokes. You can see the gears turning in his head, shifting and transforming to try and get to his end goal: you.
“It’s worked once before already.” You shrug, taking a few more steps back.
“Alright, well, can I at least get your number? Not really feeling like leaving it all up to the universe.” The color drains from his face slowly as he realizes you’re really, truly, going to walk away. His voice raises a little at the end of the sentence.
“I’ll see you around, Jungkook.”
With that, you turn on your heel, bags in tow, and make your way towards the exit of the mall with what you hope exudes confidence, and not like someone who’s about to sprint outside and scream into the void. His eyes burn into your back the entire way. Don’t turn around. You’re doing so well. You’re a mysterious enigma. You’re unattainable.
You trip over your own two feet and have to do some weird stumble-hop recovery move just so you don’t eat shit in the middle of the mall.
Okay, so maybe not entirely mysterious. But you do make it outside with a goofy grin on your face, caught in some kind of daze, all because your ex-Chemistry tutor has made it abundantly clear he wants to see you again.
The following Saturday, you and Jimin cozy up at a nearby cafe—a different one than last week’s. You suggested it over text a few days ago, after you had run into Jungkook, because there was some perverse thrill to testing fate and the universe’s weird way of working. Jimin, who could care less where he got his cup of coffee, agreed with a shrug of his shoulders.
“So, tell me again why you didn’t give him your number,” Jimin furrows his brows, picking at his limp salad in disgust. He’s trying this new diet that only allows for 1000 calories a day, and it’s made him even more judgmental than usual. “Walk me through your thought process here.”
You sigh. “Jiminie, I told you already. I’m playing the game.”
“The game… I hate straight people.”
“Hey, you did the same thing with Tae when you guys first started out,” you frown, taking a prolonged sip of your iced latte. Senior year, Jimin refused to see Taehyung more than once a week in fear of seeming too desperate and clingy, even though he texted him every five minutes anyway.
Jimin lets out a long-suffering sigh, pushing the soggy lettuce into the corner of his plate. “Tae and I are different. We’re homosexuals. There’s no rules when society already hates you anyway. But you are playing a dangerous game with him.”
Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “I’m not. I’m playing hard to get.”
“How do you know he won’t get bored?” It’s an innocent question that, when asked, makes you want to bash your head into a concrete wall. “I mean, you’ve seen the guy. He probably has a roster of girls throwing their phone number at him.”
You pause mid-sip, straw frozen against your lips. You… hadn’t actually thought about it like that. In your mind, this whole thing has been about you trying to regain an inch of the upper hand, about making Mr. Cocky work for it. But Jimin's right—Jungkook isn’t the same nerdy kid who would wait around forever for a crumb of your attention. You’re also not the cheerleader that everybody’s dying to get their hands on. He could have anyone, and yet his sights are set on you (or well, as far as you know).
“Then I guess we’ll just have to see how into me he is.” You shrug, but no ounce of you feels calm.
Jimin quirks an eyebrow. “Really? Off of one conversation after ten years, he’s supposed to be magically in love with you?”
“Okay, first of all, it was two conversations, and second of all, do you have no faith in your hot and sexy best friend?” You swish your hair for good measure, but Jimin doesn’t buy it for a second. Your charms have no effect on his gay self.
“I do have faith in you. However, I can’t recall the last time you’ve successfully kept a guy around after the first kiss…” he trails off, pretending to count on his fingers. You gasp, appalled by the insinuation.
“Park Jimin,” you scold. He bursts into a fit of laughter, wiping faux tears from his eyes, and you really can’t help but follow suit at the hysterics of it all. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m honest, babe,” he says through another fit of giggles. “You hate to see it.”
“Jimin? [Y/N]?”
The laughter dies down within a millisecond. Somewhere in the distance, you swear you hear a record scratching.
Tentatively, you crane your neck upwards. Lo and behold, Jeon Jungkook stands before your table, holding an iced coffee and looking between you and Jimin in bewilderment. He must have a tracker planted inside you, because although you had daydreamed about this scenario approximately ten times in the past few days, never did you actually think it would come to fruition.
“Why are you here?” you blurt, and Jimin throws you a glare, facepalming. You slap a hand over your mouth. You have the sudden, embarrassing, debilitating urge to vomit.
Jungkook laughs, and you notice the tip of his ears turning pink. “I could ask you the same thing. This is my regular spot.”
“This is—” You glance around the cafe, like the answer will appear written in invisible ink. “Since when?”
“Since I moved to the area?” He’s donning a massive grin now, one that lights up his entire face.
Your face falls flat. In your frantic search for a new cafe, you neglected the fact that the new spot you selected is located in Hannam-dong. Exactly where he told you he lived last week.
Jimin’s completely forgotten his salad, jumping in to save you from the depths of shame. “Jungkook! Join us.” He’s already pulling out an empty chair before he can protest.
Jungkook shakes his head, the hoop earrings in his ear moving with him. “I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Don’t be silly,” Jimin retorts quickly, shooting you a look that both screams: you’re an idiot and this is fate knocking at your door. “Come, sit here.”
Jungkook hesitantly sets his drink down, sitting down in the chair. “So, what were you guys laughing at before?”
You blink a few times, utterly speechless. There’s no universe in which you admit to Jungkook what you two were discussing before his appearance.
“Nothing crazy,” Jimin starts, and he has this glint in his eyes he only gets when he’s about to do something so diabolically crazy you’ll have to second-guess your friendship. “She was just telling me about this guy she’s playing hard to get with. Real shame, honestly. He sounds great.”
What the fuck is going on? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is shooting blanks.
Jimin sips his water nonchalantly as if he didn’t just throw you under the bus.
You finally muster up the courage to speak. “Jimin’s being crazy,” you say, trying to recover some dignity. “There’s no guy.”
“Really?” Jungkook’s smirk is unrattled. “At the mall, you said you had to check your calendar. It sounds like you’re pretty busy.”
Oh, he wants to play this game.
“I am busy.” You lift your chin in defiance.
“Doing what?” Jimin chimes in. After this lunch date, he’s lucky if you ever respond to one of his texts ever again. “You texted me yesterday saying you were bored.”
“I hope you die, Park Jimin,” you mutter.
He turns to Jungkook, a conspiratorial grin plastered on his face. “She’s playing hard to get. I told her it's a terrible strategy, but does she listen? No.”
Jungkook’s eyes don’t waver from your face. “Hard to get, huh?”
“That is not what I’m doing,” you huff, even though that’s exactly what you’re doing, and all parties present at the table know it.
“No, it makes sense.” Jungkook nods, leaning forward in his chair. “After all, you have that busy calendar… you know, the one you need to check.”
“Exactly,” you agree.
“And have you? Checked it, I mean?”
You stare blankly at him.
“I’ve been meaning to.”
“Mm,” Jungkook hums, sipping his coffee. The white t-shirt and grey sweatpants combo he’s wearing today makes you feel like a rabid animal who’s been deprived of food for too long. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“Get this,” Jimin jumps in eagerly. “She met him at the mall.”
“The mall?” Jungkook asks incredulously, dropping his chin into his open palm.
“And she didn’t even give him her number.” Jimin continues this charade as if you’re not even sitting there. Which, you really wish you weren’t. In fact, you might just bury yourself six feet under this cafe after everything’s said and done.
“Wow,” Jungkook tuts. “I hope that guy gets her number somehow.”
“Seems like a long shot.” You shrug, fiddling with your straw.
“Right. I mean, we can’t forget about fate, because fate’s probably working in that guy’s favor.”
It hits you square in the chest, that Jungkook really does know exactly what he’s done, that he is perfectly aware of the effect he has on you.
There's a pause. A long pause. Jimin is grinning like the Cheshire cat, and you're seriously considering faking a medical emergency.
Jungkook’s biceps strain against his shirt, tongue darting out to play with his lip ring. “You know what I think?” His voice drops several octaves, low enough for you and Jimin to hear. “I think this guy should just show up at your door. Skip all the games.”
“That would be weird,” you quip.
“Would it?” Tilting his head, Jungkook observes you. Feels like he’s seeing right through you with x-ray goggles. “Even if you’ve been thinking about him too?”
You’re painfully aware of how close he is, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips. Your brain is short-circuiting. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except stare at him and wonder what would happen if you just gave in.
“There’s rules to be followed,” you finally mumble.
“Rules for what?” Jimin snorts.
In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the smartest excuse you could’ve conjured up. No one seems to understand the dying art of playing hard to get anymore.
But, really, it was only a matter of time before you lost your temper and threw in the towel. You were never good at winning anything besides cheerleader championships, anyway. “The game, Jimin. The fucking game I explained to you already. Just so we’re all clear, by the way, I was trying to enjoy my lunch before you two decided to gang up on me, so thank you both very much.”
Jimin and Jungkook deadpan, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
Embarrassment courses through your veins, choking your throat. It’s not like you meant to have an outburst and openly admit you’re playing the game with Jeon Jungkook, a man who you used to ignore as if he were invisible. Sometimes a girl gets sexually frustrated and it manifests in interesting ways.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” you grumble. You speed-walk as fast as your legs will take you, all the way to the restroom, locking yourself in one of the stalls and plopping down on the toilet. You can’t pinpoint why you’re suddenly overcome with some silly desire to win this ‘game’ you conjured up in your head, why you won’t just give in to what he so clearly wants to offer you.
But maybe—and you don’t want to admit it—there’s a residual guilt that lives deep inside you. One that when you really face, reminds you of just how cruel you were to others in high school. There was a time in your teenage life where you thought being the queen bee of high school meant you were at the apex of the universe. Now that the tables have turned, and you’re not as big as you once were, maybe you don’t deserve what the universe is trying to offer you.
Maybe you don't deserve what Jeon Jungkook is trying to offer you.
It’s Sunday, but it’s hardly peaceful or restorative. Saturday night was spent partying with Yunjin and Chaewon at some club in Gangnam that served drinks comparable to battery acid, which is why you’re currently battling the worst hangover of your entire life. Your head is pounding so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your eyeballs. And you're pretty sure you're still drunk, which means the real hangover hasn't even hit yet.
There’s no one to blame but yourself. Your brain was a broken record last night: Jungkook, high school, the game. The only way to stop the endless loop was to wash it down with copious soju shots.
Groggily, you roll over and unplug your phone from the charger. A quick scroll through your missed notifications and it’s the usual suspects: Jimin, Yunjin, Taehyung…
Wait.
Your eyes squint into slits, trying to make sense of the unknown number that sent you one message at 8 AM. You don’t recognize it. Spam, probably. Or maybe someone from last night asking if you got home okay. You don’t remember giving your number to anyone, but then again, you don't remember much after midnight.
You unlock your phone, rub your eyes, and adjust to the bright white light of your messages.
+823137565798 waited ten years to run into you again, [Y/N]. im not really interested in waiting another ten to see if fate brings us together a fourth time
It doesn’t take much time for you to put together the puzzle pieces.
You gasp, nearly flinging yourself off your bed at the realization. You reread the message one, two, three times, just to confirm he really said your name in it. You try to do a little excited kick under your covers, but your legs are tangled in your sheets and you nearly fall off the bed.
After yesterday’s temper tantrum, you had exited the bathroom to see Jeon Jungkook no longer present at the table. Jimin shrugged, said ‘he was tired, so he went home,’ and that was the end of that. You were under the impression that you ruined the entire charade, that you wouldn’t have to worry about the game because you already lost anyway.
But here he is, in your messages, contradicting your worst fears.
you who’s this?
Squealing, you throw your phone to the side, but within a few seconds, it lights up again with a new message.
+823137565798 wild guess?
you my amazon package?
You snort as you watch him read it and begin typing.
+823137565798 close. even better
An unwarranted smile sneaks its way onto your face.
you enlighten me
+823137565798 it’s your ex chemistry tutor from high school. that weird dude
you weird dude is how you’re choosing to introduce yourself?
+823137565798 trying to be humble
+823137565798 so about yesterday
Your hangover creeps back into your skull, your head pounding to the beat of a drum.
you we don’t need to talk about yesterday
+823137565798 why not?
you because i embarrassed myself?
+823137565798 you didn’t. thought it was cute
+823137565798 may have also told your best friend i needed your number in the name of saving you from your drought, so you’re not the one who embarrassed themselves
Staring at the message, your alcohol-riddled brain struggles to make sense of the words in front of you. Heat spreads from your chest to your neck to your cheeks. The guilt tries to claw its way up—you don’t get to feel this giddy, not about him—but your body overrules it with a decisive vote. Your hangover is completely forgotten now, replaced by a warm flutter in your stomach that has nothing to do with last night's tequila.
It’s so unlike him, the polar opposite of what Jeon Jungkook used to evoke in you, but the mere thought of him ending your sex drought sends a tingle down your spine.
You’re grinning like a foolish schoolgirl now, dignity be damned. You save his number to your contacts, makes it official in your brain.
you are you offering to get me out of my drought?
You fling your phone to the opposite side of the bed, and scream into your pillow.
The buzz causes you to shoot back up, heart thumping in your throat as you read his response.
jungkook possibly
Somewhere in the sky, your guardian angel is doing backflips.
Hands shaking, heart pumping blood erratically, you type back:
you take a girl to dinner first
The three dots pop up almost immediately, and then:
jungkook tried that already. the girl ran away from me :/
Technically, he’s right. You did run away. And now he’s resorted to joking about it, like it doesn’t bother him. But it should bother him. Should annoy him that the girl who didn’t acknowledge his existence in high school is now playing games with him like she has any right to.
You don’t know how to let him be nice to you, how to let him want you, when all you can remember is a younger you rolling your eyes while he patiently explained molecular bonds. You were cruel. Mostly in small ways that probably hurt more than massive shows of dismissiveness, but harsh nonetheless.
Guilt sits burdensome in your chest, a thorn in your side. Deep down, you’re terrified that when he finally sees you clearly—really sees you, not the filtered version you're trying to present—he’ll realize what you already know. That you were never worth the wait.
Your fingers loom over the keyboard, twiddling. The guilt is there, always there, always a dark cloud hanging. You were cruel to him. Casual about it, even. Used him like a tool and never once considered that he was a person with feelings that could be hurt.
But maybe—and this is the thought that's been needling at you since the cafe—maybe the worst thing you could do now is waste his second chance on you by playing games. Maybe the cruelest thing would be pretending you don’t want this when you so obviously, desperately do.
On the one hand, honesty is terrifying and vulnerability makes you nauseous.
But, on the other hand…
you well maybe the girl wants to see if you’re full of shit or not
Your heart speeds up behind the confines of your ribs.
jungkook i’m not the same guy from high school. i don’t play about what i want
With bated breath, you type your response. It’s a question that you know the answer to, and you don’t know why you need him to say it, but he will anyway.
you and what is it that you want?
jungkook you.
The night of Huh Yunjin’s birthday creeps up slowly on you, amidst a week busied with work, adult errands, and most stupidly, thoughts of Jungkook. The thoughts of him play, pause, tape spooling, and then rewind on a constant loop, unrelenting in their nature.
You hadn’t spoken to him much after your last exchange, minus some ‘good morning’ texts from him that you responded to politely. It’s foreplay, if nothing else, because even a few words from him are enough to leave you giddy for days to come.
You fully intend to take him up on his offer, you just don’t know when. .
Sinkhole is packed to the brim, sweaty bodies colliding in an attempt to feel human intimacy. A disco ball hangs loosely from the ceiling, transmitting silver light across the dance floor. The DJ is spinning up cringy Top 40 hits you haven’t heard since college, but the amount of soju shots you’ve consumed within the past hour masks the embarrassment you feel.
“Cheers to my 28th!” Yunjin yells in your ear, raising her shot glass in the air. Jimin abandons making out with Taehyung in favor of lifting his shot glass with hers, and you can’t help but join in on the festivities.
Yunjin keeps toasting to things that get progressively more unhinged. ‘To being 28! then ‘To my IUD!’ then ‘To tax evasion!’
You're not sure she's even joking on that last one.
You’ve lost count of how many you’ve taken, but the liquor burns less with each passing shot.
“Happy birthday, baby!” Jimin leans over the table you’re all perched at, pressing a chaste kiss to Yunjin’s cheek. She giggles in delight, smiling brightly in the way only a drunk person could.
“Oh, why thank you, Jiminie,” she laughs. “And thank you, Tae and [Y/N] for buying the table!”
It was 75% Taehyung and 25% you, but you’ll accept her gratitude. Buying a table at the club with unlimited alcohol was also part of your master plan to get absolutely obliterated and halt all thoughts of Jungkook, at least for the night.
“[Y/N], we need to find you a hot guy tonight. That dress is doing insane things to your legs,” Yunjin whines, pushing your shoulder. “There’s soooo many boys here.”
Jimin and Taehyung share a meaningful look, one that you don’t miss. Rolling your eyes, you say, “I’m not looking for anyone tonight. I want to spend it with you.”
“Booooring.” She pokes your side, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of Usher. “If you ditch me on my birthday to fuck a hot dude, I won’t be mad.”
“But I don’t want to fuck a hot dude—”
Jimin clears his throat. “Well, actually, you do. He’s just not here right now.”
There goes your vow to ignore all Jungkook thoughts this evening.
“Jimin.”
“What? It’s true,” he giggles, cozying up into Taehyung’s side. “The guy practically sexted you last weekend.”
Feeling caught, you busy yourself with the hem of your black bodycon dress. “Whether I fuck him or not is nobody’s business but my own,” you mumble.
“Oh, please,” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “You’ve been needing to get laid for months. We’re your best friends, which makes it our business.”
“She’s just upset that she ignored him in high school and now he’s this big, hunky guy,” Jimin snickers.
Taehyung frowns. “Bigger than me?”
“Okay, enough,” you snap, pouring more soju into the empty shot glasses. “I just wanna get drunk and enjoy my night.”
“I’m sure you would enjoy your night more if you had a big, sexy man to take care of you. I know I would,” Jimin chuckles. Not in a mean way, but your heart does sink a little as you watch him give Taehyung an open-mouthed kiss.
Yunjin turns to you. “Why haven’t you fucked him?”
You don’t know when this became an intervention, but everyone seems arduously interested on whether or not you fuck Jeon Jungkook.
You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t want to—trust me, I do—I just… feel a little bad about how I treated him in high school.”
Your friend snorts, rolling her eyes with an affectionate smile playing upon her lips. “If he felt bad about how you treated him, he wouldn’t be pursuing you.”
“She’s right,” Jimin jumps back in, and you fight the urge to slam his head into the table. He picks up a soju shot. “It’s kinda cute how desperate he seems for your attention. That’s a guy who’s gonna eat you out like his life depends on it.”
The mental image of his moist, plump lips wrapping around your clit has your thighs trembling under the table, but you clamp them before anyone can notice.
“I’m gonna fuck him,” you promise. “I swear.”
Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “I hope you do, before someone else snatches you up.” He tilts his head in the direction of a man eye-fucking you, and your stomach queases.
“He’s cute,” Jimin takes his shot, and you follow suit. There’s no way you’re getting through this night without getting absolutely obliterated.
“Oooo, there’s a really cute guy over there. 12:00,” Yunjin leans into the group, whispering as lowly as she can over the sound of Kesha.
You refuse the desire to look. Taehyung, however, lets his eyes wander to who she’s talking about. Luckily, Jimin is too entranced by pouring himself another soju shot to care. “Oh fuck me. He’s fucking sexy. I would let that man give me a rimjob.”
You slump into the chair. Somehow you have a feeling you’re about to undergo the world’s least subtle setup.
Jimin’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull. Slowly, he angles his body to see who his boyfriend is talking about. “He can’t possibly be that hot—oh my god. Oh my god.”
“What?” you and Yunjin say in unison. If you had to guess, based on Jimin’s track record and the specific tone of that ‘oh my god,’ he’s either spotted a celebrity, a firefighter in uniform, or someone from his legendary whore phase. And given that you’re at a nightclub, you're betting on option three. Jimin’s whore phase is the stuff of legend—a six-month period during sophomore year where he worked his way through half of Seoul's gay club scene. He doesn't talk about it often, mostly because Taehyung gets a very specific look on his face when it comes up, but every once in a while someone from that era will resurface and Jimin will make that exact noise.
“Who is it?” you press on, heart thumping in excitement.
Jimin’s blonde hair sways as he turns to look back at you. “Okay, don’t panic.”
Furrowing your brows, you start, “Don’t—”
“That’s Jungkook, you idiots. The fucking guy from [Y/N]’s high school we’ve been talking about,” he says in a hushed tone, punching Taehyung’s shoulder.
There’s a warm feeling hugging your chest, your body feeling as though it’s been lit on fire. It might be the alcohol, or the sheer joke of it all. Out of all the scenarios you’ve conjured up in your daydreams, this wasn’t one of them.
You turn your body to track where your friend’s eyes were just a minute ago. Even though Jimin already confirmed it, there’s a tiny part of you hoping his eyes deceive him. But there he is, Jeon Jungkook, in the flesh, talking to one of his equally attractive friends. He’s wearing all black—black t-shirt that sculpts his biceps, black baggy jeans that sit tightly on his slim waist. His hair is ruffled, hoop earrings dangling from the holes in his ear. And really, the most sickening part of it all: he has two lip rings instead of the usual one. You’re gonna be sick.
“Earth to [Y/N]...” Yunjin waves a shot in front of your face, and without preamble, you take it from her, swallowing it in one easy sip. The alcohol travels down your throat, but you barely feel the burn.
“You good?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow.
“Just peachy,” you lie. You smile at your friends, but they don’t seem convinced.
Jimin guffaws, leaning back in his chair with an evil grin. “Is that why you just downed another shot?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“For alcohol or for Jungkook?” Yunjin bursts into a fit of giggles, high-fiving Jimin across the table.
Groaning, you let your head fall into your hands. “I hope all of you die a slow and painful death.”
“He’s gotten even hotter since the last time I saw him,” Jimin notes, sipping his untouched margarita. “How is that possible?”
“Can we please talk about anything else?” You reach for the soju bottle, pouring the last of the clear liquid into your glass. Your second in thirty seconds. A new personal record.
“We will do no such thing,” Jimin’s eyes are gleaming with elation. “You need to go talk to him.”
You nearly choke on the liquor. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Go. Talk. To. Him.” Jimin enunciates each word like you’re a toddler.
“Are you insane?” you deadpan. “Like, actually stupid? Have you suffered a brain injury I don’t know about?”
Both Jimin and Taehyung share another unspoken look. “I’m trying to help you.”
“But I don’t want help—”
“[Y/N].” Jimin doesn’t often get very serious, but the expression on his face makes you squirm. “I’m not letting you fuck this up.”
“I;m not fucking anything up by staying exactly where I am.” You cross your arms over your chest. Realistically, you know he’s right. If you were more drunk, maybe you would bite the bullet, march over there, and plant a kiss right on those lips you haven’t stopped thinking about. But you’re not, so at the table you will stay.
“This is fate. This is the universe putting him a few feet away.” Jimin gestures vaguely at Jungkook.
“The universe can fuck off, honestly.”
He sighs, “I’m doing this for your own good.”
And before you can process his movements, a lag in your brain, Jimin turns in his seat, arm raising in a wave, mouth opening to call out his name.
“No!” You lunge across the table, knocking over Taehyung’s drink, causing him to groan. You latch onto Jimin’s arm, yanking it down forcefully. “Don’t you fucking dare, Park Jimin—”
It’s too late.
Because in your desperate scramble to stop Jimin from committing social suicide on your behalf, you've made a scene. Swiveling your head slowly, you see Jungkook staring directly at you.
His eyebrows are raised, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips. His tattooed fingers toy with the straw in his drink. It feels as though time drags on for hours, as if the hands of a clock are being lugged through molasses.
You slowly extract yourself from on top of the table, slinking into your chair with as much dignity as you can muster. Your hand comes up in the world’s most awkward, tentative wave. The tiniest flutter of your fingers.
Jungkook’s lips stretch wider, raising his hand in return. It’s a proper wave, filled with that newfound confidence of his. Then he turns back to his friend, resuming their conversation. It’s not like you expected him to drop everything for you—or well, you kind of did. You exhale a deep breath. “Oh my god.” You slump in your chair. “That was horrible.”
“That was… bad,” Jimin tiptoes around the word, twiddling his thumbs.
“I’m going to have to fake my death and move to a different country—”
“Stop being a drama queen,” Yunjin cuts in, sliding a shot towards you. You don’t even know or care where it spawned from, but all you know is you need it. “He waved back. He probably thought it was cute.”
Sighing, you shake your head. “There is nothing cute about what just happened.” You down the shot, and you’ve completely lost count at this point of how many you’ve ingested.
“Okay, new plan,” you announce, slamming the glass down. “None of that happened. We enjoy Yunjin’s birthday. We do not make eye contact with Jungkook, we do not speak about Jungkook.”
“Yeah, about that,” Jimin trails off, eyes glued to somewhere behind your shoulder. “It’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“He’s coming over here.”
Your entire body halts all movement, rigid like a statue. “What?”
“He’s coming here. Right now,” Taehyung repeats, and your heart drops to your feet. A hornet’s nest of anxiety swarms your stomach, filling your body with buzzing fear.
You shake your head frantically. “Please say you’re messing with me.”
Yunjin turns to see where Jimin and Taehyung are staring, and the moment she touches your arm, you realize you’re trapped. There’s no way out but through.
“[Y/N]. It’s nice to see you here.”
His voice is deeper, a low timbre that makes your brain go all fuzzy around the edges. He stands in front of the table, and you peer through your eyelashes to look up at him.
Fuck. Fuck, he looks even better up close.
The two lip rings catch the light of the disco ball. A silver chain dangles from around his neck and you briefly wonder what it’ll look like hanging over you while he pounds into…God, get a grip. You can catch a whiff of his cologne, something citrusy and woodsy that causes a pool of arousal in your underwear.
“Hi,” you manage a smile, struggling to hold the intense gaze he’s sporting.
He breaks it for a moment, turning to your best friend, nodding. “Jimin, good to see you again.”
“You too, Kook. You should join us!” He scooches closer to Taehyung, patting the minimal space beside him. Jungkook stares at it, then looks back at you with a hunger in his eyes that almost has you keeling over.
“Actually,” Jungkook begins, “I was hoping I could steal [Y/N] for a drink. If that’s okay with you all?”
He wants to... what? Steal you? For a drink? Alone? You turn to Yunjin, eyes pleading. Help me. Save me. Make up an excuse. But she was never going to let you escape where he’s involved. She looks you dead in the eye, smiles sweetly, and says, “No, she’s all yours.”
You’re going to remember this. You’re going to bring this up at every possible opportunity for the rest of her natural life.
Jungkook’s hand extends towards you, palm up, awaiting yours. For a brief second, you stare at it, at his long fingers, at the veins running down his forearm, at the silver rings stacked on his nimble fingers. The hand that's now being offered to you, in public, in front of all your friends.
You can either take his hand and let whatever this is happen, or you can make up some excuse and run away for the fourth time.
Your heart starts cartwheeling in your chest. You can’t look away from his hand, the one you desperately want to take. Jungkook watches patiently, confidently, like he knows just what you’re deciding between.
Fuck it.
You place your hand in his, let your fingers intertwine with his warm ones. It’s secure, and his fingers tighten around yours as if to remind you he has you. Jungkook pulls you to your feet gently. He doesn’t let go as he guides you through the crowd toward the bar, and you’re trying very hard not to think about how right it feels, how you never want him to let you go.
He parks you at the bartop, where a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else is serving alcohol to a group of minors. Jungkook pats the stool beside him, and you’re more than grateful to take the chair. Your heels have been hurting like a bitch all night. When you sink into the chair, his eyes follow the way your dress hugs your thighs, revealing more skin than your old cheer uniforms. You debate tugging it down, but a warm feeling is flooding your insides at the thought of him wanting to see more of you. He towers above you, his AMEX hanging loosely from his deft fingers.
“What do you like to drink?” He leans down, whispers it directly in your ear. The heat of his breath makes your entire body feel like molten lava.
The bartender begins to make her way over, eyes gleaming when she spots Jungkook. If you were less tipsy, you might come up with a witty response, but your current state only allows you to say, “A dirty shirley, please.”
He doesn’t make a face at the girly drink, nor bats an eyelash when the bartender touches his arm four times while he recites his order. You can only watch in awe as he hands over his card and turns his attention back to you, body angling toward you as if to shield you from every other patron who might be able to see you. The slight possessiveness he’s exhibiting would normally make you hurl, but he’s so unapologetic about it that you could care less. You hope he puts his mark on you so no man will ever speak to you again.
Jungkook fiddles with his fingers on the counter, unsure where to put them. The only glimpse of high school Jungkook you’ve seen in days. His hand hovers near your thigh, then his jeans pocket, then back to the counter. For all his cockiness over text and possessiveness, still lies a man who’s intimidated by the thought of truly having you.
The soju in your body hums through your veins, making everything feel hazy and like a really good idea. Liquid courage, Yunjin calls it. Liquid stupidity, sounds more precise.
But right now… you’re thinking liquid courage might be onto something.
Because he’s standing so close you can smell his cologne, something that smells like grapefruit and lemon. Because he angled his body to block out the rest of the bar like you’re the only person here. Because his hand is right there, inches from you, and looks like he wants to touch you so badly it’s causing him physical pain.
And you’re tipsy enough to think: yeah, liquid courage is real.
Before the sober, anxious part of your brain can intervene with a thousand reasons why this is a horrible idea, you reach out. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, and his eyes snap to yours, surprise written across his features.
You don’t utter a word, just simply guide his hand until his palm settles at the small of your back. Every place where his skin connects with yours seems to tingle.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low and chest rumbling with the sound. Again, his mouth is right by your ear, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can't hear anything but him.
“Would I have moved it there if I wasn’t?”
His thumb strokes once against your side. “Just making sure.”
“I’m tipsy, not drunk,” you clarify, only because you need him to know this is a choice. This is something you tried to talk yourself out of over and over again, but you want this. Liquid courage is making you brave enough to admit out loud what you only ever thought to yourself sober. “I know what I’m doing.”
“And what are you doing?” His breath hits your cheek, the side of your mouth, and it’s laced with peppermint and whiskey, and you’re dizzy with need.
“Giving you the green light,” you say, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are hooded, trained on your lips that are coated in shiny gloss. “That okay with you?”
His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you incrementally closer. He doesn’t need to say anything.
“Very okay,” he murmurs into your hair.
The bartender returns with your drinks, but Jungkook doesn’t move his hand. He takes your dirty shirley with his free hand, passing it off to you. His grip becomes more secure, more selfish, like now that you’ve given him permission, he’s never planning on letting go.
Good, you think. You don’t want him to.
Jungkook’s hand wraps around the glass of whiskey, taking a slow sip. “Seems like fate was on my side tonight.”
You take a gulp of your dirty shirley, the sweetness coating your tongue. “I’m starting to think you might be stalking me.”
His eyebrows raise, a tiny upward twitch in his mouth. “How do I know you’re not stalking me?”
“Oh, you would know.”
“Really?” He leans in, brown eyes sparking like pools of chocolate. “And how’s that?”
“Because I’d be better at it,” you proclaim, emboldened by the alcohol. “You wouldn’t catch me three times in two weeks. I’d have a whole system. Disguises, a wig collection..”
He laughs loudly. You notice that his dimples pop when he does so, eyes crinkling. “A wig collection.”
“At minimum. Maybe some fake glasses and a trench coat.”
“Clearly, you’ve thought about this,” he hums.
You raise your hands in defense. “I’m just saying, if I were stalking you, you’d never know it unless I wanted you to know.”
“Should I be concerned?” he questions, but he’s grinning.
“Depends,” you tilt your head. “Are you worth stalking?”
His fingers spread across the expanse of your spine. “I’d like to think so.”
“Confident.” Another sip of your dirty shirley snakes down your throat, your lips toying with the straw as you peer up at him.
His gaze never leaves yours. “Besides, you’re the one who guided my hand to your back. If anyone's being forward here…”
That almost makes you choke on your sugary drink. “I was just—”
“Giving me the green light,” he finishes. “I remember. Trust me, I remember.”
Your mind stumbles, then short-circuits.
You resort to drinking more alcohol, needing something to do with your hands that’s not touching him. “This is crazy, right? Us, here?”
“Crazy how?”
“You know how. I mean, ten years ago, I was copying your chemistry homework, and now you’re so… you’re…”
There’s not a single English word that properly describes what present day Jeon Jungkook does to you, with his tattoos and lip rings and expensive cologne and platinum credit card and… fuck.
“I’m what?” He leans closer, waiting, expecting.
“This.” you say helplessly. “All of this.”
“Is there something wrong with.” he uses his free hand to motion over his toned body, “this?”
“No. Nothing. That’s the problem.” It slips out before you can stop it. “It would be easier if something was wrong with it.”
The hand not looped around your waist moves from the bartop to your dress, fingers finding the hem where it’s ridden up on your thigh. He plays with the fabric absentmindedly, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “If no one’s told you, by the way,” he mutters just loud enough for you to hear him over the music, “this dress looks insane on you.”
The wind is knocked out of your chest, a jolt of electricity flashing through your core. “No one’s told me yet. You’re the first.”
His eyes drag up from where his fingers are flirting with your dress, traveling up your body until they meet yours. “You look fucking gorgeous,” he says. “There. Now I'm the second to say it.”
It’s hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Even harder to find words, or form a coherent sentence.
“You—I—you can’t—”
“Can’t..?” His hands don’t dare move from your dress, knuckles occasionally brushing against your thigh. “Can’t tell you the truth?”
“You know what you’re doing, Jungkook.”
“I do,” he agrees. “Is it working?”
You want to lie. Want to play it cool. Want to maintain some semblance of the upper hand.
But your downfall was inevitable, right from the moment you saw him standing in the cafe. Like a champagne bottle that someone shook a little too hard, a balloon pressed against a thumbtack. It was always meant to explode.
“Yes,” you admit.
“Good.” Both of his hands move to grip the side of your barstool. In one smooth movement, he turns you to face him completely. His legs spread, creating space, and he guides the stool forward with his toe until your thighs slot between his. He’s caging you in, hands landing atop your thighs, palms warm against your bare skin.
You’re practically pressed against him, his face level with yours, “Is this okay?” he asks again, fingers digging into the flesh.
Suddenly, it’s like you’re painfully aware of all the places where he isn’t touching you. Your faces, your chests. You want more, need more.
“Stop asking me that,” you mumble, looking away, but he guides your gaze back with a finger under your chin.
“I need to know, princess.” His tone is serious, but you want to smile from the pet name. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not,” you whisper. “It’s not too much.”
“No?”
“No.”
His hands slide up your thighs, hiding underneath the fabric, pushing a boundary that hasn't been tested in a long time. “What about now?’
You’re going to combust. Right here, in the middle of Sinkhole, surrounded by people, you're going to burst into flames.
“Still okay,” you exhale.
For one exhilarating second, his eyes drop to your lips, and you think you’ll get what you’ve been seeing in your dreams the past few nights. You need to get out of here. Away from the crowd, away from the noise, somewhere you can actually hear yourself think—or not think. Preferably not think.
“Do you want to…” you start, then hesitate. The words die on your tongue.
He cocks his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “Do I want to…”
Your heartbeat reverberates in your throat. “Talk somewhere more private? It’s loud here.”
His composure shifts, and you watch the realization hit him. What you're suggesting. What that implies.
“Private,” he repeats. “To talk.”
“Yes.”
“About?”
You deadpan, brain racking for a subject, any subject. “Stuff,” is what you come up with.
A dry laugh escapes him. “And maybe things as well?”
You pout. “Important stuff.”
“I’m sure.” His smile is lopsided, goofy and full of light. He pulls you up from the barstool until your feet touch the ground again. His hand finds your fingers, easily lacing them. “Whatever you want, princess.”
Where the fuck did that come from? When did he become the type of person to use pet names? And why is it working? Why is that single word making your entire nervous system light up like a Christmas tree?
Tugging you through the crowd, he peers behind him every few seconds to make sure you haven’t floated away. His hand is firm around yours, guiding you through the mass of bodies, and you try and catch a glimpse of any of your friends.
Unfortunately, you do spot Jimin and Taehyung, pressed against a wall, entranced in a makeout session so intense that they’re definitely not coming up for air soon. At least you won’t have to explain to them where you went. Yunjin is nowhere to be found, probably on the dance floor or already home with one of her many flings.
Jungkook pulls you through another section of the crowd, leading you down a side hallway that’s mercifully empty. The music is muffled, bass still thumping through the walls but not deafening anymore. You lean back against the cold concrete, the chill a shock against your overheated skin. The wall vibrates with each bass drop, humming in your chest.
Jungkook stops in front of you, and you have to tilt your head back to see his face. “What did you want to talk about?”
Your mind shoots blanks. In this dim hallway, you’ve become aware of how completely the tables have turned. Ten years ago, you held all the cards. You were the girl who made him nervous, who had him stumbling over words, who could get him to do anything with a smile and a flutter of your eyelashes. But now you’re the one who’s heart is racing, who feels like you might explode from a single touch. He has the upper hand, utterly, entirely. And you handed it to him willingly. Put his hand on your waist, guided him here, and now you’re putty in his hands and he knows it.
“You make me nervous,” you blurt out.
The silence that engulfs you feels like punishment. Your mouth goes dry, palms sweating under the guise of his stare.
He takes a step closer. There’s little to no space between you. “That’s interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” Your back is pressed against the wall. Nowhere to go.
“You used to make me nervous,” he says, bracing his hand on the wall. His bicep strains and you have to fight the urge to ogle at them. “For years.”
“That was different, Jungkook.”
“Was it?” He studies you. “In what way?”
“Well, because now you’re you, and I’m—“
“I’m me?” His eyebrows raise an inch, lips curling upwards in a smirk. “What does that mean?”
Why did you drink so much alcohol? Why, why, why? Maybe if you hadn’t, your lips wouldn’t be so goddamn loose. Your filter would still be in tact. You wouldn’t be staring at him like you want to devour him whole.
You peer up at him, eyelashes fluttering. His cheeks are flushed from the amount of drinks he’s consumed, and he’s close enough that you can see the moles that litter his face. The one under his lip. The one on his nose. You want to kiss each and every single one of them. Map them out with your lips until you have them memorized.
You give up on any pretense of playing it cool. “You know you’re hot, Jungkook.”
“Do I know?” The smirk on his face grows tenfold, and god, you want to kiss it off him. “You’ve never told me this before.”
“High school was different.”
“You’ve said that a lot, but it’s actually not that different,” he murmurs.
“Hm?”
His gaze drops to your lips for the hundredth time tonight. “Because I’m still so fucking unbelievably, out of my mind, attracted to you.”
Your brain struggles to process it—that he’s felt this way for years. That it never went away. That all the confidence and cockiness is built on top of the same desire that made teenage Jungkook stutter around you.
“You’re just saying things,” you whisper. But you’ve known. You’ve always known.
His hand falls from the wall to cup your jaw. “You think I begged Jimin for your number because I was just being polite? You think I showed up at three different cafes hoping fate would bring us together because I’m casual about this?”
“But you said that cafe was your regular spot—”
He fights to hide the smile creeping onto his face. “I’ve wanted you since I was a teenager.” His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. “Somehow, impossibly, I want you even more now.”
Your heart is trying to break out of the confines of your ribcage. “Jungkook.”
His forehead is almost touching yours. “What’s different is that now I’m not terrified to tell you.”
You don’t know what else to say to him, so you smile as brightly as you can, letting your happiness live on your face.
“How many drinks have you had tonight?” he asks.
You scrunch your brows together. “A lot of soju. That dirty shirley. Why?”
Bluntly, he says, “Because I want to kiss you. But not if you’re too drunk to remember it tomorrow.”
You squeak, back slightly arching off the wall. You’ve never wanted anything more, never ached to feel someone the way you do him. Heat travels through your veins, burning you to your core.
“I told you, I’m tipsy,” you rush to protest. “I’ll remember this tomorrow.”
It should be embarrassing how quickly you reassure him, how the words tumble out of your mouth.
His forehead presses against yours, and it’s a miracle you don’t dissolve into a puddle. “Then can I—”
“Yes,” you interrupt. If he doesn’t kiss you in the next five seconds, you might actually die.
“I didn’t finish the question.” His lips ghost over yours, a gentle taste of what you yearn for.
“I don’t care what the question is,” you exhale. “The answer is yes.”
And then his lips are on yours.
Never in your high school years did you imagine how Jeon Jungkook kissed. Never thought about how his lips would feel against your own. Never cared to think about it.
This past week, however, you’ve spent more time imagining this exact scenario than you’ve spent breathing. But reality is superior to whatever your brain could conjure up. Your imagination could never describe Jungkook’s demanding kiss, or the way his lips melt into yours with utmost certainty. His hand slides from your jaw to your cheek, cradling it. The other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him.
A mix of a gasp and a moan falls from your lips, and he swallows it wholly. Your fists find his shirt, tugging on the fabric, pulling him closer even though there’s no space between you. His lip rings are cold against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his lips and the heat between your thighs. Parting your lips, his tongue sweeps in, tastes just like you smelled earlier—whiskey and peppermint. Your lip gloss is definitely everywhere at this point—on him, on you, probably on the wall behind you—but you couldn’t care less.
His strong hand travels from your cheek down, down, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat. Claiming, holding. The possessiveness of the gesture sends heat pooling low into your stomach. Jungkook’s thumb presses into your pulse point, feeling how your heart is racing.
And when you do finally pull away, your heart is still going berzerk. His lips are shiny with your gloss, pink and swollen and thoroughly kissed. You can't help but giggle at the sight.
“What?” he asks, breathless. The tips of his ears are tickled pink.
“You’re wearing my lip gloss,” you giggle again, reaching up to wipe it with your thumb. But he doesn’t let you get far, catches your wrist and presses a kiss right where your flowery perfume is sprayed. He takes a deep inhale and smiles back at you like you hung the moon and stars. Your heart is pumping so wildly you’re worried it might actually burst out of your chest.
Then his lips are on your neck, trailing down to your exposed collarbone, finding every sensitive spot with ease like he already knows you, like he holds the map to your body. He holds you tight to him, grounding—and thank god because your legs are shaking so badly that you're not sure you could stand without him holding you up.
“Jungkook,” you gasp, and he hums against your skin. His mouth finds your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to pass out. Your fingers thread through his unruly dark brown locks, tugging slightly at the nape.
And you can’t really help the intrusive thoughts that leap in your mind, the tidal wave of desire that keeps lapping at your core. He’s insatiable, and you feel gluttonous. “Do you wanna—” you start, but his teeth graze your pulse point and your brain turns to mush. “maybe—ahh—go to mine?”
He halts, pulls back enough to look at you. “Is that what you want?” His voice is strained, the thread of self-control growing weaker and weaker.
Your brain is fuzzy from alcohol and kissing and the feeling of his hands on your waist, but you know what you're saying. You know what you're offering. You’re done fighting whatever decade-old guilt lives inside you, because you deserve him. Maybe you’re finally ready to accept it. To trust that you’ve grown, that you’re growing, that you’re not done growing and thats okay. You deserve all the good that Jeon Jungkook has to offer. “Yes,” you breathe, “I want—I want you.”
His eyes search for hesitation. “You’ve been drinking, and I don't want you to feel like you need to—”
“I’m sure.” Cupping his face in your hands, you cut his sentence in half. Don’t even let it slip between you. “I know what I want.”
Somehow, his eyes have gone darker, fingers tightening for purchase. “Say it again,” he murmurs.
“I want you, Jungkook.” Your thumb brushes against his bottom lip, catching on his lip rings. “Take me home.”
“Fucking hell,” he practically moans, and then his lips are on you again with an urgency that wasn’t there before. “We should probably tell your friends we’re leaving.”
“Jimin’s busy.” If you had to guess, he’s on his knees at home, getting topped by Kim Taehyung. “And Yunjin will understand. Your friends?”
“They know who you are.”
A swarm of butterflies kick up in your stomach.
You tug on his shirt. “Now can we please go before I lose my mind?”
His answer to that is another quick kiss—but still thorough, because who is he if not a man starved—and he pulls you through the hallway, back into the club, into the thick of the chaos still lingering this late in the night. You hardly register any of it. The lights, the bass of the music, the bodies pressing against you as you squeeze by. None of it matters.
You feel like you’re floating, like your feet are moving but you can’t feel the ground, like you’re walking on clouds. His hand is wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, and you’d follow him anywhere right now. To the ends of the earth. Off a cliff.
Once the crisp night air hits your skin, Jungkook is already scanning the street, hand raised to hail a taxi. One pulls up within seconds—it’s got to be fate, or the universe supporting your agenda to get laid—and he opens the door, ushering you inside with a hand on the small of your back.
Jungkook shuts the door forcefully, immediately snuggling into your side, leaving little to no room for you to create space between you two. Not that you wanted to, but you want to giggle at how utterly fearful he seems of distance from you.
“Where to?” the driver asks, eyeing Jungkook in the rearview.
You rattle off your address, and the cab pulls off into traffic. Seoul at this hour is never quiet—in fact, it’s usually more lively, since clubs stay open until the wee hours of the morning. But all you can really focus on is Jungkook beside you, his thigh pressed against yours in the cramped backseat. His fingers lace through yours. An innocent, sweet gesture, a complete contrast from what was happening ten minutes ago against that hallway wall.
You look down at your intertwined hands—his so much larger than yours, rings cool against your skin. A smile bestows upon your lips. When you glance up at him, he’s staring at you with this fond expression that makes your heart stutter.
“What?” you ask, giddy.
“Nothing,” he replies, but the smile on his face doesn’t disappear. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me neither,” you admit sheepishly.
His hand reaches over, tugging the hem of your dress down where it’s ridden up your thigh. The action would be chivalrous, if not for the way his fingers linger, if not for the way his jaw clenches, if not for the way his fond expression darkens into something sinister.
“You need to stop moving,” he says, a deep exhale following his words.
You roll your eyes. “I’m not even moving.”
“Your… dress is moving.” His hand remains on your thigh, holding the fabric down. “I can’t hold it together if this dress rides up any more.”
“Oh.”
He shifts in his jeans, clearly uncomfortable. You have to fight not to avert your eyes to his crotch.
“Do you know how long it’ll take to get to her apartment?” Jungkook asks the driver. You snort loudly.
He shrugs. Clearly, the man has never shared Jungkook’s predicament, because he looks unbothered by the urgency in his voice. “About twenty minutes.”
Jungkook groans, leaning back into the seat, closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them again and catches your gaze, he has to close them to calm his friend down there. And it does make you giggle again, but what you want more than anything is to feel him. For him to give you a part of him that you didn’t know you needed until now.
You whisper in his ear. “I don’t want you to hold it together.”
His eyes fly open, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Don’t tempt me right now, [Y/N].”
“Why not?” And you pull out your tricks—you bat your eyelashes, tilt your head down, lick your lips to wet them. His face grows pale.
“Because we’re in a cab,” he murmurs, staring at your lips. “And I’m trying to be respectful.”
“Maybe I want you to disrespect me right now.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before he's kissing you again. His hand leaves your dress to cup your face, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper.
The cab driver clears his throat. You both ignore him, too hypnotized by the other to think about stopping. He pulls you as close as he can, and a frustrated noise escapes from your lips. There’s too many layers, too much distance, and he smiles knowingly against your lips.
He seems to know just what you need.
Jungkook’s large hand lands on your knee, caressing the supple skin.
“You know how to be quiet, baby?”
You nod meekly.
His voice brushes against the shell of your ear, hand traveling up your thigh to mask itself under the fabric of your dress. “Good girl. Spread your legs for me.”
Eyes widening, you stare up at him blankly. There is no way on this planet, Jeon Jungkook, the man who you were sure—up until now—never had his first kiss, is about to finger you in a taxi. But his hand moving near your lace panties says otherwise. You jolt forward at the feeling of his deft fingers swiping at the fabric as discreetly as possible. You gasp, and he tosses you a look before you slap your hand over your mouth. Luckily, the taxi driver seems more focused on the fastest route to your apartment than whatever debauchery is occurring in his backseat. It’s also dark in the car, impossible for the naked eye to see Jungkook’s movements.
He presses against the wet spot on your underwear, and heat creeps up your neck at the realization of just how turned on he’s had you since the hallway. Maybe even before then, if you’re being honest. He smiles at the revelation.
Your nails dig into the leather seat of the cab. Jungkook’s tattooed fingers push aside your underwear, his pointer finger collecting the arousal. A whimper escapes you, and when you look at him, the look on his face sends another round of wetness dripping down his finger. “God, baby, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers into your ear, letting two fingers ghost over your clit, gently pushing the bundle of nerves. “Didn’t know public sex turned you on so much.”
You bite back a moan. The teasing pace he’s set over your clit would be fun, if you had a constant stream of sexual endeavors, but unfortunately, you’re as desperate as a raccoon sifting through trash. Gripping onto his wrist, you push him onto you fiercely. “Needy, aren’t we?” he mutters.
All you can reply with is a quick nod. He chuckles softly, rubbing circles on your clit with the pad of his pointer and middle finger. Your head falls back on the headrest, eyes squeezed tight, tight, tight as you try to calculate how he found your clit so fast. It’s so wet, dripping onto the seat, his hands, that you could cum just from the stimulation of it all.
“What do you want, princess? Hm?” Somehow, it sounds like he’s far away from you, like you’re caught on your own cloud of bliss. You want to ask for more, need more like it’s oxygen. His rhythm slows just a tad, enough to have your eyes flying open. “I asked you a question.”
Oh. Oh. So he’s that kind of guy.
“I want—I want your fingers,” you whisper feebly.
“Yeah? Where, princess? I’ll give you whatever you want.” he kisses your shoulder, your jaw, and it makes your brain fuzzy around the edges.
The tantalizing pace he’s set on your clit makes it hard to speak. “W-want you to fuck me with them.”
His lips curl upwards, eyes blazing. “You like my fingers?” Another nod. He removes his fingers from your clit, slipping back out underneath your dress. You’re about to protest, maybe even kick him out of the car, until you watch him make direct eye contact with you, and place his fingers in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around the digits. You blink. What the actual fuck have you gotten yourself into?
“Please, Jungkook,” you beg, your nails scrambling to dig in his clothed thigh. He chastises you, laughs at you, before slithering under your dress again, plunging his fingers directly into your sopping entrance. You gasp, loud enough to make the driver look in the rearview, but you bite your bottom lip before any more can escape. “I know you can take it. If you can take that douchebag Kim Mingyu, you can handle me. Although, after I’m done with you, my name might be the only name you moan for the rest of your life.”
You should hate that. You really, really should. But clearly, your dignity has taken the night off, and in its place is a woman who is so endeared over being degraded by Jeon Jungkook.
His fingers pump in and out, achingly slow, making you feel every inch. You’re gripping his thigh so tightly you swear there’ll be claw marks. Your head rests on the back of your seat, chest heaving. If not for the sound of traffic outside, the driver might be able to hear the way your pussy squelches with each movement.
Jungkook’s lips press against your jaw, litter around your neck. “More,” you mumble, sounding drunker than you did in the club.
“God, you’re so fucking wet. I can’t wait to be inside you. Gonna fuck you all night.” Lewd words continue to spill from his lips. Sending waves of arousal onto his fingers, more for him to play with as he picks up his pace. He curls his fingers upwards, reaching that sensitive spot that far and few men have ever found. Your body trembles, thighs shaking, and Jungkook’s hand lands on them to try and steady you.
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing sloppy circles as he brings you to the brink of your orgasm. Your eyes fight to stay open, looking over at Jungkook—and holy hell. His arm veins are popping out, mostly from the amount of effort he’s putting into fucking into you to completion, his dark hair flopping over his face. His silver chain bounces off his chest, reflecting on the city lights outside.
And you don’t even realize how quickly you’re about to cum, tears brimming your eyes from the way his fingers pump in and out you wildly, thumb matching his pace over your clit. “So tight around my fingers, princess. You gonna cum?”
There’s no way you can be quiet about this. Not with how fucking good he looks, not with how easily his fingers slip in and out you, hitting your sweet spot. You bury your head in his neck, moaning into his warm skin, trying to muffle the sound as much as possible. “Fuck, Jungkook.”
“Want you to cum on my fingers, princess. Can you do that for me?” You nod into his neck.
Your walls clench around his fingers one last time, to the point where he can hardly move them, his thumb working you through the orgasm that ripples through your body. Your fingers claw at his arm, teeth biting at his neck. You can feel yourself lose control, heart beating erratically in your chest.
Jungkook’s fingers halt inside you, thumb coaxing you through the rest of your orgasm. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.”
Your body completely slumps into him, still feeling full with his two fingers inside you.
Finally, after he allows you a moment to catch your breath, he pulls them out of your pussy, soaked with your creamy arousal. “Open,” he says gently, but when you look up at him, his gaze is hardly sympathetic. Your lips part for him, and he places his fingers on your tongue. You swirl it around, tasting yourself, sweet and salty and warm, foreign to you. Jungkook’s eyes never leave yours.
“Good job, baby,” he says as he removes his fingers, pressing one, two chaste kisses on your lips.
All things considered, you’re in absolute shock. Somewhere between high school and now, Jeon Jungkook learned how to kiss like he’s trying to ruin you for all other men. Where did he learn all this? Who taught him to do that thing with his fingers? How does he know exactly where to put his hands, exactly how much pressure to use to make you lose your mind?
The thought of him practicing on other people—other girls—makes something ugly twist in your stomach.
You’re an evil, evil girl. “Where’d you learn all that?”
He raises an eyebrow, tucking a strand of your loose hair behind your ear. “Are you asking about my sexual history now?”
“No.”
“You are,” he teases. “You’re not jealous, right?”
If only he knew how ill you felt at the idea of another girl knowing how his fingers can easily find their g-spot.
“I am not jealous.” You feign indifference, but your voice comes out all defensive and petulant, which kind of ruins it all. “Just asking a question.”
“You want to know who I've been with?” he asks, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Never said that.”
He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “There’s been other people. I’m not going to lie about that. But that’s not a big deal.”
You furrow your brows. “Why?”
His thumb traces circles on your thigh. “Because I thought about you during all of it. I wondered what you’d feel like, wondered what sounds you would make. So, yeah,” he continues. “I learned some things. But I only ever wanted to use them on you.”
You kiss him again because you don’t know what else to do with the feeling expanding in your chest. Because he’s looking at you like that and saying things like that and your heart is fluttering out of your body. God, if that doesn’t make you want to drag him upstairs immediately.
The cab pulls up to your building and Jungkook is already pulling out his wallet, throwing bills at the driver without checking the amount. "Keep the change," he says, and then he's out of the cab, pulling you with him.
Your legs are unsteady when you stand—from the alcohol, from the kissing, from everything—and his arm wraps around your waist, steadying you. “I’m not done with you yet, princess.”
And, really, he’s not joking because he’s on you the second you step through the door to your apartment. Barely even crosses the threshold before his lips are colliding with yours passionately, slamming your spine into the wall by your entryway. His hands cup your cheeks entirely. He can’t get enough of you, like opposite poles of a magnet attracting. Shortly after his affair with the entryway, Jungkook moves a little more down your hallway, but you’re too focused on kissing him to direct him. Your shoes are discarded, purse on the floor, and then your back finds another cool wall to rest against.
Jungkook assaults your neck, leaving a trail of bruises that are going to take a hell of a lot of explaining tomorrow. Your apartment probably sounds like the set of some cheap porno, what with Jungkook’s whimpers and your moans, and neither of you are even naked yet. Your hands run over the front of his chest, feeling his sculpted body underneath his shirt.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into your collarbone, where he’s leaving hickeys in his wake. His hands wander over your chest, cupping them over your dress. Without another word or warning, he yanks down the top of your dress, your breasts spilling out. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you as he manhandles you, his lips coming to wrap around your hardened nipple. His tongue swipes over the sensitive nub, eyes peering up expectantly, watching every facial expression that contorts on your face.
Your eyes squeeze tightly, a kaleidoscope of color blooming behind your vision. “Jungkook,” you moan, carding your fingers through his unruly hair.
Without preamble, Jungkook kisses your nipples one last time before dropping to his knees on your hardwood floor with a resounding thump.
You open your eyes. The sight in front of you is fucking ungodly. If you look closely, you can see Jungkook from high school, expectantly looking up at you with puppy dog eyes, pushing your dress up to hang around your waist.
“W-what are you doing?’ you ask.
He looks drunk. “Need to eat you out. I want to taste you, princess.”
You don’t remember the last time a man has looked so needy to feel you, to taste you. Actually, you can’t remember a time this even occurred.
You exhale. “Yes. Yes, please.”
That’s all he really needs. Jungkook doesn’t waste a moment more in burying his face between your folds as though it’s his last meal on earth. His fingers come to spread your lips open for him as he flicks his tongue over your nub, sending you bent over as you scramble for purchase in his hair, his shoulders, anything. “Oh, fuck, Jungkook, right there.”
He notices your struggle to stand upright, and then he’s guiding your leg over his shoulder, toes dangling. He moans into your pussy, a breathy little exhale that sends fire shooting through your veins. Jungkook’s strong arm holds your leg in place over his shoulder. His tongue fucks inside of you shallowly, your eyes rolling backwards. “Tastes so sweet, so fucking heavenly, baby,” he mutters but it barely makes its way into your ears. You can feel his lip rings swiping over your arousal, the cool metal causing your thighs to quake uncontrollably.
And then you’re just babbling profanities, a mantra of his name, curse words. A litany of praise. Some other embarrassing things you hope he never remembers.
“I feel g-guilty. For the way I treated y-you in high school,” you stammer, quivering against his face as he licks another stripe up your slit.
You don’t know why it’s all coming out now, but it is. God, you were such a bitch in high school. Such an egotistical brat who was too caught in her own ways to ever see that there was more to life than social status and cheerleading.
His tongue encircles your clit, one of your hands flying to his hair to tug. “Don’t feel guilty,” he murmurs. “That’s not what I want you to feel right now. I want to make you feel good.”
His tongue travels from your hole to your clit, and normally the rhythm would throw you off, but he’s so skillful about the whole thing that you’re teetering on the brink of an orgasm. And he must know, must be able to read your body like it’s something he spent years studying, because he’s sucking on your clit, letting his tongue flick over it repeatedly, maintaining a rhythm that has you screaming, “Oh fuck, oh shit, I’m gonna—Jungkook, I’m gonna cum.”
That doesn’t deter him the slightest. Spurs him on like he’s entered in some kind of pussy-eating competition. You’ll spend years talking about this experience, you think.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, tangling, tugging, and your entire body vibrates as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. He fucks you through it, keeps going until you’re pushing him away with your toe forcefully. When he finally gives up, he says from between your legs, “Better than Kim Mingyu?”
Maybe you shouldn’t care about high school anymore, but you can’t help but laugh, smile at him. “He never even ate me out, Koo.”
His face softens— whether that’s because of the nickname you adorned him with or the fact that Mingyu was an asshole, you’ll never know—and he’s standing up, pressing a dirty kiss to your lips. It’s messy, sloppy, tongue over teeth, but so undeniably him that you cling to him like a koala. “He’s the biggest idiot of all time to miss out on that.”
“Hmm,” you hum against his lips. They taste just like you, and it sends another gush of arousal pouring out of you. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. You’re drowning in him—his taste, his smell, the way he’s kissing you like he’s been starving for it. You can feel his length poking against your thigh, and your heart skips at just how large it al;ready feels through his jeans.
Your hands roam down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt, tracing lower until your fingers find his belt. You fumble with the buckle, fingers clumsy with desire. Jungkook looks down at your manicured fingers, easily working, speaking to how much experience you have. His cock throbs at the thought.
You’re about to get on your knees, return the favor, but he stops you as soon as you lower an inch.
Jungkook simply says, “The next time I want you to cum, is going to be on my cock.”
Okay, yes sir. He’s all dominating and commanding and it makes your pussy clench around nothing.
His forehead drops against yours, breath punching out of him. “Fuck, I need to be inside you.”
The metal clinks as his pants drop to the floor, his Calvin Klein boxers doing little to hide how big he is. Jungkook kicks them off, eager to remove as many layers as possible. Your mouth salivates, and you’re positive a sliver of drool is slithering out of your mouth. His hands tighten on your hips, bruising the skin.
You kiss him again, but this time, it’s rougher, faster, hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he makes a sound between a groan and a whimper that makes you feel powerful. Your hands roam, searching, until—
Holy shit. You gasp into his mouth, feeling his length. He’s big, no doubt about that. But it’s the fucking girth of it that has your mouth watering. He’s thick, and you can feel the veins that decorate his cock.
Jesus Christ. This is what your Chemistry tutor was hiding under his pants. A fucking anaconda.
But you’re not about to admit that.
No shot in hell.
“Mhmm, I feel like you’re kinda small,” you tease, battling your eyelashes at him as you stroke his hardened length dangerously slow.
His nostrils flare. “Yeah? Think I’m small, baby?”
“Tiny.”
Your thumb drags over his tip, and then you feel it. A piece of metal. Jeon Jungkook has a fucking dick piercing.
His eyes set ablaze as he realizes that you know. “Fucking hell, you’re still the same brat you’ve always been.”
Jungkook’s lips collide with yours, and he kicks off his boxers urgently. “Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. Suddenly his hands are gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, legs wrapping around his waist as your back hits the wall harder. The new position puts you at eye level with him, head spinning. He reaches down between your bodies to let his cock sit in between your wet folds, ever so teasing.
Your fingernails dig into the nape of his neck, head lolling back against the wall. “Please fuck me, Koo. Wanna feel you inside me.”
“Oh, now you want to beg? After you called me tiny?” He hisses as he swirls the tip over your clit, the cool metal of his piercing sending shockwaves down your spine.
“Please,” you beg. “Pleasepleaseplease.” It’s slurred when it leaves your mouth, breath catching when you look down and see the way the metal reflects off his soaking tip, encased in your juices. “I need it.”
With that, he pushes into you, all inches of his length, squirming in his arms. You scramble to hold onto something, opting for his biceps that are straining with the weight of holding you up. A moan leaves both of your mouths. He waits until you’re fully adjusted, taking every inch of him. “Feels so good, princess. So tight and warm, holy shit.”
“Jungkook,” you pant. You’re so full of him, he’s everywhere. Stopping is the last thing on your mind. You’re a woman made of greed. “You’re so—fuck—big.”
He smiles triumphantly and takes that as his sign to move. He uses his arms to slide you up and down his cock, slamming you onto him, your clit meeting his pubic bone. The piercing drags against your walls with each thrust, hitting the sweet spot inside you that has you screaming a litany of crude words that’ll have your neighbors knocking your door down tomorrow morning. His head falls to the crook of your shoulder, burying himself in your scent.
It’s more than you’ve ever taken, beyond any sex you’ve ever had in your life. You’re going to be ruined for all other men and you haven’t even made it to the bedroom yet. Your past lovers are about to become a footnote. A distant memory. Ancient fucking history.
The sound of your pussy squelching with each rough thrust fills the room, Jungkook’s hairline beading with sweat as he furiously pounds into you, tits bouncing in his face. He begins to babble, “Used to cum so hard thinking about you, baby. You in that—fuck—cheer uniform, with your nipples hard. I wanted to push it to the side and fuck you.”
You moan at the thought. “Yeah, why didn’t you? I would’ve rode your face with your glasses on.”
He presses a sloppy kiss on the side of your mouth. “Bet you would’ve loved that, huh? Deflowering the nerd?”
The mental image flashes through your mind—seventeen-year-old Jungkook, all awkward limbs and nervous stammering, those thick-framed glasses sliding down his nose while you sat on his face in the library after hours. You would’ve been so mean about it too. Would’ve made him beg, would’ve had him so desperate and eager to please that he would’ve done anything you asked. Would’ve probably given him the best night of his teenage life and then ignored him in the hallway the next day because you were dating Mingyu and had a reputation to maintain.
“I would’ve made you cum—ahh, shit—so hard.” You try your hardest to maintain eye contact, but everytime you do, your walls flutter around his cock. “You would’ve been obsessed.”
“I was already obsessed,” he groans, nipping at your jaw. His balls slap against your ass, adding to the horrific amount of sounds eliciting from your apartment. “It couldn’t have gotten much worse.”
He has a very fair point.
You thread your fingers through his hair, already on the brink of another orgasm. Everything about him—his scent, the way his tattoos glisten with sweat, how his bottom lip is tugged underneath his front teeth—sends your mind into delirium. He’s fucking you with enough force to have your head bouncing off the wall every few thrusts, that you feel it resound along your bones.
“Fuck, I don’t wanna cum yet,” he whimpers into your skin. “But god, I don’t think I’ll be able to last.”
Neither will you, but an idea sparks in your pretty little head. You crook a finger under his jaw, making him look at you. His expression is completely fucked out, lips swollen, cheeks ruddy. His thrusts slow, enough so that he can pay attention to your words. “I want to get on top. Let me fuck you, Jungkook.”
He nods, and then he’s readjusting you in his arms, with you clinging to him like a newborn baby. You giggle as he frantically tries to find your bedroom, pausing every few moments to press a few kisses to your cheeks and lips.
Finally, he locates your room, plopping you down on the bed, and you moan at the sudden emptiness you feel with his cock gone. He tosses his t-shirt over his head.
Jungkook sits up against the headboard, gently stroking his length as he watches you move to bracket his thighs, settling over his tip. “Ready for me, princess?”
Eagerly, you shake your head in approval, and you sink down inch by inch onto his length. For some reason, in this position, it feels like he’s stretching you out more, your walls sucking him in greedily. Your hands come to rest on his beefy chest, nails digging into the skin.
There’s not many things you're good at, but one thing you are insanely talented at? Riding cock like it’s your god given right. Your hips undulate wildly, bouncing up and down to accommodate his full length. Jungkook watches in awe, in a trance, as you cream his cock. His hands come to sit at your hips, guiding you the best he can. His head rests against the headboard, lazily watching as you play with your tits. “Ride my cock,” he groans, “just like that, princess.”
“You stretch me out so good, Jungkook,” you moan, thighs trembling with each movement. He can feel you getting closer to the edge, already riled up from the previous position. Your walls clench around him, sucking him in. His thumb falls to your clit again, finding it so easily after so many rounds. “Right there, baby,” you chant, eyes closed. “Right fucking there.”
“Jesus, I'm so close,” he grunts, beginning to thrust upwards into you as your own pace slows. The sounds are beyond obscene—his cock plunging into your wetness, headboard slamming against the wall. You don’t care about any of it, not one bit, as long he keeps fucking into you.
It was always obvious from the moment he kissed you at the club that neither of you were going to last long, anyway.
“Fuck, I’m cumming,” you practically scream, which would have you embarrassed, but he seems just as ruined as you.
Your orgasm washes over you, legs shaking as your mouth tears open around a sound that might be his name, might be something else entirely. Your walls flutter around him, and Jungkook can’t help himself anymore. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum too. Can I—fuck—can I cum inside?”
You nod like a broken bobblehead. Thank god for modern medicine.
He empties into you, bruising your hips with his hold. He’s so attractive when he finishes that you almost orgasm again from the sight. His bare chest heaves, a slight sheen of sweat layered on the skin.
For a few moments, you two catch your breath, letting his cock soften entirely inside you. He looks worn, eyes drooping.
But after an eternity, you finally roll off him. You’re not sure what you were expecting in terms of aftercare, but your heart flutters when he lazily wraps his arms around you, tugging you into his side to rest your cheek on his chest. It’s comforting, with his hands playing with your hair, his own heart thumping along in his chest. Reminding you that you’re here with him, and this is real.
Silence has never been so peaceful.
You think you’ll fall asleep like this, but then he says, “I want to see you again.”
Your heart softens around the edges, at the notion that he believes you’ll never speak to him again after this. You can’t blame him for it. It’s exactly what high school you would’ve done.
But you’re not 17 anymore, and you deserve all the good he has to offer you. No more silly little games.
“I would really like that,” you whisper back.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Mind checking your calendar for me?”
You grin like a lovesick idiot. “Yup. Checking right now. And it looks like I’m free this whole week.”
“Thursday, then. Dinner at 7,” he confirms. “You’re not going to, like, make me beg for a real answer this time, are you?”
Giggling, you respond, “Maybe I should check that calendar again…”
He sits up, pouting. “Don’t. Don’t you dare,” he warns, and then his hands are moving to tickle your sides.
You squeal, squirming away, but he just pulls you back against him. The laughs that escape you are so full of sunshine that you hardly recognize them. You’ve been living under a fog for so long that when it lifted, you forgot how bright life could be.
“Okay, okay!” you gasp, and his fingers still. “Thursday. 7 o’clock.”
“There we go.” He kisses your forehead. “Was that so hard?”
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” you say dramatically, resuming your post, nestled into his side.
“Liar.” His fingers resume playing with your hair. “You like me.”
You feel like a kid in kindergarten, caught passing a note in class with “do you like me? check yes or no” scrawled in messy handwriting. Like you’re on the playground at recess, heart racing because your crush smiled at you across the monkey bars. But it’s got you just as giddy. “I guess I do.”
Jungkook reaches over to pull the blanket over you two. “So what happens now?” you wonder aloud. It’s an innocent question, but somehow loaded with more intent than you realize.
“Now?” he yawns. “Now you let me stay the night. Then tomorrow I’m gonna make you the most fire breakfast of all time. Then Thursday, I’ll take you to the best dinner of your life. And then—”
“There’s more?” Your eyes widen in sarcasm.
“And then I keep taking you out until you realize you’re in love with me too.”
Your heartbeat is quick but steady in your chest. “Pretty confident about that, hm?”
“Extremely so.” Jungkook yawns again, voice getting drowsy. “I’ve got years of romcom knowledge. I’ve read those Tumblr fanfics. You don’t stand a chance.”
He’s probably right. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you didn’t from the moment he stood in front of you at that cafe.
Before you close your eyes and float off into sleep, you mumble out, “God, when did you get so hot?”
╰ or... you're not the best at showing gratitude, especially to your boyfriend in front of people, so when you two are alone? you thank him in a very physical way!
WARNING: 18+ CONTENT, fem! mayfield! reader, gentle sex, ass slapping, belly bulge, praise kink, dirty talk, choking (steve! receiving), unprotected sex, woman on top sex, big dick! steve harrington, christmas sex!
let's get something clear; you weren't the best at showing your thanks to anyone.
it's been a problem your entire life, people not thinking you're appreciative of the things they do or give to you because you're frankly not good at showing your gratitude in your face. you were always like that, just not with gifts but with praise in general. you were like that with your parents (when you had them), you were like that with your friends, and you were like this with your little sister, max.
so when you met steve, or who you'd soon come to know as the most compliment-driven person ever, who constantly praises you for the tiniest of things, it was difficult to adjust to; but he understood you quite well, only after a week, he realized that you not showing gratitude, it wasn't ungratefulness, it's just your natural energy towards acts of service...
and how, for fucks sake, were you supposed to show gratitude for what steve just did?
see; you and max haven't had the best christmas— or any christmas at all for a long time, since billy died and neil kicked your entire family out the house, susan lost custody of max, and you haven't been able to juggle a 14 year old depressed kid with too many damn hospital bills to count, jobs, and your relationship with steve.
steve harrington being steve harrington, he did the only thing he could think of for his gorgeous girlfriend and the little shit that's slowly become a sister-like figure for him; buy too many damn presents for his own good, bring the party over after their own family christmas(es), and have the best combined christmas possible.
with a little gift exchange and a lot of food, it was the first christmas since vecna's defeat, and max waking up from her eighteen month coma... so you wanted to thank him someway shape or form.
your words were pitiful despite steve taking them with the brightest smile possible, kissing you by the fireplace and murmuring something about it being alright and he's glad you had a great christmas...
but you weren't satisfied. not even close.
so that's where your second best solution came into play.
the bed squeaked under you two; steve laying on his back, hair tussled in a mess on the pillow as both of his large hands bracketed on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs and you being perched up on his lap, dick sliding up and down your walls as you rode him slowly.
the air in the bedroom was thick; chocolate, perfume, cologne, and firewood scents all mixing in with the odor of the room as you rocked back and forth, small gasps leaving your mouth every time steve's thick tip kissed against your g-spot.
his eyes are half-lid, looking up at you as your boobs sway back and forth. "god, you're so gorgeous, hun..." he mutters, throwing his head back as your rocks begin to increase in speed. "always so god damn beautiful... fuck..."
you shudder as his hands squeeze at your body, feeling one of his hands move to your ass. "steve... fucking hell..."
"keep riding me just like that." steve encourages, furrowing his eyebrows and watching as the bulge in your abdomen slowly shift visibility as you bounced on him. "such a good girl f'me."
you huff in between breaths, each huff being broken by moans as he helps you, lifting his hips and thrusting upwards, matching your movements. the bed grows louder, his own groans becoming audible.
"steve! o-oh fuck..." you whimper, bringing your hands from his chest upwards, wrapping around steve's neck as one of his pulsing points is directly under your fingers. "s-so good for me for no reason... did all of this... f-f'me... and for max..."
steve's eyes roll back at your hands around your throat, nodding slightly, feeling his cock twitch at the feeling of your walls squeezing around his girth.
"fu-fuck yeah, baby. always going to do shit- shit like this for you and her... always going to make you two feel wanted." he confirms to you, squeezing your right ass cheek before lifting and bringing his hand down on it, hearing the smack sound through the room.
you jolt at the feeling, a good sensation shooting through your spine as you think about both his cock ruining you and the night that became of this, the smile on your face and the utter joy on his watching his two favorite girls have a peaceful night for once in their lives.
the pace that you have seemingly increase as you get a good position on him, bouncing harder and harder on his cock as he held onto you, your own mouth agape slightly as the only thing that you could respond with is moans and whimpers-- which to steve is enough.
"th-thank you, steve... thank you... for— ah! for everything." you whimper out, your pussy clenching around him his sign that you're getting close, and the feeling of your fingers tightening around his neck. "thank you for tonight... for your dick... for you."
steve's eyes water but he blinks before tears from both gratitude and pleasure can drop from his eyes, his hand smacking your ass again as his other hand lifts up and cups your cheek, looking right into your eyes as you grind against him, his own balls twitching.
"you're welcome, baby... you're so fucking welcome." he tells you, thrusting his hips upwards and thrusting for you. “have I told you how beautiful you are?”
“yeah, handsome… you’ve told me p-plenty of times— fuck!” you moan out, nodding your head at him but your mind is in a whole different state of euphoria as your bounces grow sloppier with your movements, bringing yourself closer and closer to your orgasm.
“well too bad.” he replied, thrusting upwards again and straight to your g-spot. “gonna keep on reminding your pretty mind the truth.”
and before you knew it, you were cumming all over his cock. your vision whitens, back arching hard as your fingers dig deep around his neck, grinding hard and fast against him as your pussy flutters. your orgasm racks through you so harshly but at the same time, steve’s warm touch keeps you steady.
and without warning (nor did you even try to stop him), steve hit his own orgasm, cumming directly into your sobbing folds and needy walls.
his hot cum spurts everywhere inside of you, pumping deep as your hips aren’t able to move due overstimulation filling your senses. your vision comes back to you right as your knuckles whiten, thighs trembling against him as he unloads in you.
“there you go… take it f’me baby.” he encourages, stroking his thumb on your cheek, grinning as he watches you helplessly. “this pussy was made for my dick… so needy for me, all the time…”
without warning, you slump against him, your chest laying directly over his as his arms come up to wrap around your neck, your fingers loosening and going to the pillow under him. he looks down at you, seeing you catch your breath, leaning down and pressing a kiss into your head.
“thank you…” you whisper, voice hoarse from moaning. “thank you for everything, steve… love you…” you say before feeling yourself succumb to the sleepiness tugging at your consciousness.
steve smiles warmly, at both your words and at the sight of you slowly falling asleep in his arms, again leaning down and kissing the top of your head. “you’re welcome honey…”
too bad the next thing you’d need were a new bed frame and bed sheets because they were properly ruined when you looked at them the next day…
but that’s a problem for a different day.
click here for main masterlist!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is apart of a tiny christmas series i have for today and tomorrow, mainly because christmas is my favorite holiday and i get very horny lmao. also, have a few frat! steve fics lined up (including some x male reader ones!) so I can't wait to finish those and pump them out— yes! i will write for steve even if he dies in volume 2 because idc what the duffers say!
thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!
In which! You and Robin are having a conversation where you confess your boyfriend’s… thing is too big
Warnings: There is discussion of sexual stuff, explicit innuendo, and over-the-top panic. Robin loses her mind. Contains strong language, mature themes, and chaotic comedic freakouts. Reader discretion advised
The blue light of the TV flickered across the living room as the credits rolled. You shifted on the sofa, glancing toward the stairs to make sure your parents were still safely out of earshot before leaning in toward Robin.
"Look, I know you don’t want to listen to this because, obviously, it’s Steve... he’s your best friend," you sighed, running a hand over your face in frustration. "But ugh, Robin, he’s just... he's too big."
Robin’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She choked on a handful of popcorn, coughing violently before staring at you in pure, unadulterated shock.
"Jesus! What?!" she hissed, her voice cracking as she looked frantically between you and the ceiling. "I—I don't need to know that! I really, really don't need the mental imagery of Harrington's... attributes. let me remind you me and him are platonic with a capital P, remember? My brain is currently trying to eject that information like a faulty VHS tape!"
You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, but you didn't back down. "I’m serious, Robin! I didn't think it was a thing people actually... dealt with. It’s a genuine problem."
"A problem? A problem!" Robin stage-whispered, her hands flying around in frantic patterns. "That is a 'you' problem! That is a 'Steve' problem! That is a 'please-God-let-vecna-take-me-now' problem! I am the keeper of his secrets, sure, but I drew the line at his chest hair grooming habits. This? This is miles past the line. The line is a tiny dot to us now!"
She grabbed a pillow and hugged it tightly to her chest, staring at the blank TV screen as if searching for an escape route. "Does he know? Does he know that you know that I now know? Wait..." She squinted at you, her brain working overtime. "On a scale of—actually, no. Stop. Don't answer that. I’m putting up a mental lead wall."
"I'm so, so sorry, Robin, but I can't talk about this with Nancy because... you know... that's weird. But ugh, you know how they always say it 'always fits'? Well, it does. And it feels so good from start to finish, but the next day... I can barely walk, Robin."
"Nancy? No! God, no! Don't bring the Wheeler into this!" Robin hissed, her voice reaching a frantic, vibrating whisper.
As you continued, describing the logistical aftermath, Robin let out a low, pained groan. She slowly slid down the cushions until her head was resting against the back of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling fan in a trance of despair.
"The next day? Barely walk?" she repeated, her voice sounding faint. "I’m losing it. I’ve officially lost it. I am currently listening to a detailed medical report on the structural damage caused by Steve 'The Hair' Harrington. My life is a tragedy. A tragedy."
She suddenly sat bolt upright, pointing a finger at you, her eyes wide and slightly crazed. "And the 'always fits' thing? That’s a lie! It’s a total lie propagated by... I don't know, Big Romance! Clearly, science has failed us. Physics has failed us! If you're walking like a newborn fawn for forty-eight hours after a date, that’s not 'fitting,' that’s—that’s an invasion!"
She grabbed the bowl of popcorn and held it like a shield. "And I did not need the 'feels good' part. That’s the part that’s going to be seared into my brain during our next shift at the radio station. He’s going to ask me how last night was, and I’m going to be thinking about your... your mobility issues."
Summary: Helping your old classmate with his damaged van gave you two rewards: a Bopper and a good fuck.
Word count: 6.4k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI. SMUT (m!receiving and f!receiving oral, fingering, unprotected p in v sex —use condoms, guys—, dick riding, big d steve, sex in a van —does that count as public sex?—, the reader is great at sex, kinda jealous Steve), fluff at the end.
Tolerating Jonathan Byers after the crawl went to hell was already stressful enough for Steve. And now, because the universe was never on his side, the WSQK radio van had stopped working in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was the brakes or the battery, but it just wouldn’t start.
“C’mon, piece of shit.” Steve opened the hood harshly.
“It’s the battery.” Jonathan confirmed and sighed. “We need another car to power us up.”
“Genius idea, Byers, and where in the hell are we—?”
“Look!” Jonathan cut him off and pointed at a pair of approaching headlights.
They awkwardly waved their arms in the hopes that the driver wasn’t a serial killer.
The red van began to slow down and came to a stop next to them. The window rolled down to reveal you.
You.
How come Steve had never seen you around Hawkins? He would definitely remember the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Y/L/N?” Jonathan’s question brought him back to the present.
You smiled. “Byers? Harrington? Why are you hanging out in the middle of nowhere?”
Steve quickly gathered his thoughts and answered before Jonathan could. “We think our van’s battery is dead. Do you think you could help us?” He placed an arm on your window to lean closer. He gave you his signature smirk. “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”
Jonathan gave him a weird look. But your smile grew wider as you nodded. “Sure! Let me park.”
The boys gave you space to place your van in front of theirs. Steve turned to Jonathan and muttered, “How do you know her?”
The Byers boy rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? Y/N Y/L/N doesn’t ring a bell in your empty head? She was in our class since kindergarten, idiot.”
Steve groaned as a memory came back to his mind. “Fuck. Nathan’s girl?”
He vaguely remembered you dating Nathan Smith, one of his basketball teammates, for almost the entirety of high school. Why were all of the pretty girls in town taken or uninterested in him?
You got out of your van, still smiling, and approached them with jumper cables. “Here you go.”
Steve discreetly pushed Jonathan aside to receive them. “Let me.” He opened your hood and started connecting everything.
“I thought you were in California,” you said to Jonathan.
“And I thought you were in New York,” he replied.
The two of you chuckled, making Steve glare at Jonathan. Couldn’t he be more annoying?
You cast nervous glances at both boys. Not that you disliked them, but you hadn't said much more than five words in high school.
“I was at New York, but I came back to see my family just before the quarantine started and…” You shrugged. “Now I’m trapped.”
Steve gave you a pitiful look as he rushed into the conversation. “That must suck. I’ve always wanted to study in New York.”
He received another confused stare from Jonathan, which you didn’t seem to notice as you replied, “Oh, it’s great! I never wanted to leave. And I hate Hawkins. It’s so boring.”
Steve snorted. Oh, if she knew… “So true.”
“How’s Nathan?” Jonathan asked, and Steve wanted to throw a car cable at him.
Your smile faltered, though. You placed your hands on your pockets. “I don’t know. We broke up right after graduation.”
Steve gasped but quickly covered it up with a cough. He had just finished connecting the jumper cables to both cars’ batteries.
“Alright, we have to wait some minutes and… yeah. Umm, Byers, you should stay inside the van in case someone tries to contact us.”
Jonathan appeared to have connected the dots, and he was eager to comply. A new girl in Steve’s life would mean he would leave Nancy alone…
He forced a smile. “You’re right. Thanks, Y/N.”
You frowned as Jonathan practically ran to the van. “No problem?” You glanced back at Steve, who was leaning against the open hood with a smirk. “Uhm… I didn’t know you two were friends.”
Steve scoffed. The simple idea of it was repulsive. “We aren’t.”
You crossed his arms. “Right… Because you only hang out with Tommy and those assholes.”
Oh, Steve needed to save his case quickly.
He grimaced. “Ew, no. Not anymore. They were horrible. Don’t know what’s of them. Stopped talking, like, years ago. Before graduating and all. Don’t even remember their last names.”
You fought back a smile at his rambling. “Oh, right. Because you are dating Nancy Wheeler.”
Steve’s eyes went wide. “What? No! I mean, we did. We dated a long time ago, but now she’s with Jonathan.”
Your jaw dropped. “With Jona—?!” You closed your mouth, remembering that the boy could see you from his spot in the passenger seat. What if he could read lips? “Wow. Good for them, I guess.”
Steve bit back a snarky comment about how that relationship was steadily destroying itself, but he just pulled out a dessert from his pocket. “Bopper, while we wait?”
Gasping, you grabbed it out of his hands. “Oh my God, I love this! Where did you get it? They haven’t sold this here since quarantine began.”
Steve was pleased with all of his choices that had resulted in the discovery of a fellow Bopper lover. He leaned close to you and whispered, “It’s a secret. But I’ll give you a call every time I get them.”
Your cheeks turned pink at the sudden nearness. But you smiled and stared at the Bopper in your hand as if it was gold. “And it’s peanut butter, my favorite.”
“Mine too!” Steve said excitedly.
You wanted to say more, but Jonathan’s quiet stare was making you uncomfortable. “You wanna sit in the back of my van while we wait and eat?”
Steve almost fainted. Had Robin’s, Dustin’s, and basically everyone’s prayers for him to find a girl been answered?
“S-sure, yeah. Yes1 Umm. Sure,” he stammered nervously.
You fidgeted with the Bopper excitedly as you guided him to the back of your van. Steve dashed to your side and opened the doors for you.
It seemed pretty cozy with its floor carpeted, the walls decorated with various posters and stickers, a mini fridge at the side, plushies and pillows scattered around, and a drum set right before the seats.
“Wow, do you play it?” he asked with genuine interest.
You jumped into the van, prompting him to do the same. “Used to. It’s my sister’s now. She called me an hour ago, begging me to take the drums to her friend’s house because she wanted to show them how good she is.”
You crawled to the mini fridge, and Steve had to use all of his willpower to look at the ceiling instead of your ass. “And when I arrived there, she told me to go back home ‘cause they were ‘watching a movie now and it would be rude to stop it.’” You pulled out two Coke cans and passed one to him. “So this whole ride was for nothing.”
Steve snorted. “How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
He tilted his head. “They’re pretty annoying at that age.”
“Absolutely,” you groaned and opened your drink. “Do you have siblings?”
“Not exactly, but…” Henderson’s face appeared in his mind, along with all his friends and the adventures they had dragged Steve into. “I’ve babysat a lot.” He grimaced playfully, making you laugh.
“Yeah, kids are crazy. But I love my sister. Though, I sometimes feel like her—”
“Mother?” Steve completed it. “Yeah, been there.” He raised his can. “A toast to raising kids who aren’t ours.”
You chuckled, clinking the cans together. As he took a long sip, your eyes dropped to his Adam’s apple. His neck… He had such a pretty neck. You wanted to—
“So… What are you doing now that you can’t go back to college?” he asked.
Your randomly dirty thoughts vanished as you came back to reality. “Uhm…” What had he asked? “Oh, I’m a substitute teacher at Hawkings Primary School. The actual teacher went on vacation right before the quarantine started, so I’ve been replacing her all these months.”
He raised his eyebrows and leaned back to rest on his elbows. “That sounds cool. Which class?”
“Math.”
Steve smirked. Now he was remembering more of you. “You went to the Math Olympics every year, right?”
You rolled your eyes, a bit embarrassed. “Yeah… the teachers hadn’t forgotten that so they hired me instantly.”
He leaned closer to you and teased, “You denied my application. I remember now.”
Steve had applied to the Olympics once, during his freshman year. He’d gotten an A on a math test he’d cheated on, so he figured he could do it again over there and win an award.
Your cheeks turned pink. “I’m— Yeah, that’s possible. Lots of people wanted to join the team, but most weren’t the smartest.” The pink morphed to red when you realized what you had said. “N-No offense!”
Steve was finding your nervousness endearing. “None taken. I wasn’t smart. I’m not. But I was part of the student council for some months during sophomore year.”
You quickly averted your gaze and focused on opening the Bopper. “Actually…” You hesitated, looking from the dessert to him. “I have to confess something.”
He sat up and frowned, waiting as you took a big bite of the Bopper. You moaned, delighted with the flavor, and it was now his turn to look away. He discreetly grabbed a pillow and placed it over his slightly hard crotch.
You passed him the bitten Bopper. “Okay, confession time… I snitched to Miss Larson that you weren’t going to the council’s meetings.”
Steve almost dropped the Bopper as he looked at you in shock. “What—? You got me kicked out?”
You covered your face, feeling like you didn’t deserve the dessert he had given you. “I’m sorry! I was pretty nerdy and annoying back then. It pissed me off that you only went to the parties.”
He couldn’t help but snort. “Well, that’s true. The meetings were boring as hell, while the parties had booze and music.”
You stared at him quietly, your mind reeling with memories.
Confused by the sudden silence, he gave you the Bopper back. “I forgive you. Have the last bite.”
It was an offer you couldn’t deny. You grabbed it and whispered, “You don’t remember me very well, right?”
Steve hesitated. An hour ago, he wouldn’t have reacted at the sound of your name. But after some small talk, he had a vague memory of young you. “Umm, sort of.”
You finished the Bopper and fidgeted with the empty package. “You don’t remember Spin The Bottle at one of the council’s parties?”
Steve had never sat up quicker in his life. His jaw could’ve hit the floor from the surprise as he understood what you meant. He covered his mouth when the memory came back.
He had kissed you before.
“Oh my— It was you. Of course I remember! You were super nervous.”
You scoffed and blushed again. It felt as if your face had been red for the past fifteen minutes. “Okay, I wasn’t that nervous… but it was my first kiss.”
He gasped. “No way!” And during sophomore year he had already kissed half of the sporty girls, the goth girls, the church girls, and even some of the drama club girls…
Steve hadn’t even recognized you when you stopped to help them, but you’d probably always remember him as the first boy to kiss you. Oh, he wanted to punch himself.
“And you know what?” You smirked as you poked his shoulder. “Because of that kiss, Nathan got jealous and asked me to be his girlfriend two days later.”
Great. He wanted to punch himself more.
“And I said no.”
Oh?
“Because I was hoping you would ask me out.”
Oh!
Steve grunted and lay down on the carpeted van floor. He covered his face. “And I didn’t because I was young and stupid.”
“Exactly,” you chuckled. “So I eventually accepted Nathan’s advances and we dated for three years.”
“You could’ve asked me out,” he joked.
“Yeah, why didn’t that cross my mind?” you joked back.
Even though he was searching through all of his memories, Steve couldn’t remember more of you after that party. He had been kicked out of the council a month later, so he wasn’t invited anymore.
As if reading his mind, you said, “I never went to any school party again. I wasn’t a fan of them, and Nathan didn’t let me.” You rolled your eyes, your fists clenching slightly. “He was the worst. Forbade me from having my hair down, forced me to wear my big glasses all the time, and hated when I spoke to any men. Even professors!”
Steve had never been close to Nathan, but even from afar he had seemed like an asshole. “Is that why you broke up?”
You were looking past the opened doors, at the vast set of woods, as you explained. “Not really. He got into a college in Florida. We were gonna try long distance, but he cheated on me three days after he arrived.”
Steve sat up again. “What?!”
‘God gives bread to those who have no teeth,’ or whatever the saying Robin had been obsessed with for two weeks was. He hadn’t let her watch any more Spanish movies after that, not even as a joke.
You shrugged. “I wasn’t that bummed. We were already falling apart.”
Steve shook his head, angry at your stupid ex. “Still. How could anyone cheat on you?”
You sighed and shrugged. “When you realize that cheating has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the other person, you don’t care as much.”
He wished he had heard that phrase a couple of years ago. Maybe Nancy hadn’t done so physically, but she had definitely cheated on him emotionally.
It didn’t matter anymore, though. Not now.
“So I technically ruined your life with that kiss?” he teased you, glad you were smiling. “And that’s why you ruined mine by kicking me out of the club and making it impossible for me to get into college?”
Your smile vanished and your eyes went wide. “Wait, really?”
He chuckled loudly. “I’m messing with you. My bad grades were enough to be rejected everywhere.”
You rested on your elbow, looking at him with pity. “Grades aren’t everything. Maybe you’re good at other stuff.”
Steve snorted, his smile wavering as he recalled his father's disappointment at him not being accepted to college. “Not really.”
“You still have time to figure that out. We’re just twenty,” you tried to comfort him.
Steve looked at you, sitting right beneath the faint van’s light. The yellow streaks were shining on you like a halo, as if you were an angel coming down to take him. His eyes fell to your lips.
“You tasted like strawberries,” Steve blurted out. He wasn’t sure how he had suddenly remembered that.
You smiled excitedly and crawled to your bag. “My strawberry chapstick. I still buy it.”
This time, Steve shamelessly stared at your ass. Those jeans were hugging your legs and bottom in all the perfect ways. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine things that would calm his cock.
Today’s crawl. Grannies. Hopper. The president. Jonathan. Ugh, how he hated him.
It was working. His cock was softening until you whispered, “You want another taste?”
Steve opened his eyes widely. You were kneeling next to him, smirking down at him with a hand on his chest. After tonight, he would kiss his van’s battery, thankful it had died and led him to this blessing.
He nodded eagerly, not trusting his voice to say anything coherent. He closed his eyes, braced himself, and…
You uncapped the chapstick and applied it across his lips. “There you go! The same strawberry taste.”
Steve blinked, confused and gutted. A bucket full of ice dripping down his neck would’ve been less depressing. “Umm… T-thanks.”
You laughed out loud and, with a sudden move, straddled his lap. “I’m messing with you.” And you leaned down to kiss him.
He sat up to meet you halfway, crashing desperately into your lips. God, you tasted so good. He wrapped his arms around you and tried to match your rhythm. It had been a long time since he had made out with anyone. Probably two years by now. He was hoping you wouldn’t notice.
On the other hand, you were also hoping it wasn’t obvious that you hadn’t kissed anyone since you left New York. Hawkins was small, and you hadn’t found anyone attractive enough to risk rumors flying around town.
Until tonight.
You had always found Steve handsome—who couldn’t?—but your loyalty to your shitty ex had made you forget exactly how hot the boy was. Your hands grasped his biceps eagerly, lowered to his abdomen, and scratched him over his shirt.
Steve accidentally moaned against your lips. He pulled away and looked nervously around the van. “We should probably, uhm, close the doors.”
Deep in a haze, you were momentarily confused by his words. You just wanted to kiss him until you passed out. But then you became aware that you were in the middle of the road, where anyone could pass and catch the scandalous acts.
“Shit, yeah,” you mumbled before crawling across the carpet to close the doors.
Steve’s cock hardened upon seeing you on your hands and knees again. He had to control his thoughts, or he would cream his pants.
“Alright,” you sighed and went back to straddling him. “Where were we?”
But instead of devouring your lips, Steve stroked your cheeks and marveled at your face. He whispered, “You’re beautiful. Prettiest girl I’ve seen.”
You blushed and covered your nerves with a light chuckle. “T-thanks.” And before you could say something stupid like, ‘I’ve dreamed of this since we were fifteen,’ you held onto his shoulders and started grinding your hips against his.
“Fuck,” Steve moaned and threw his head back, giving you the perfect access to attack his neck with kisses.
You were making the perfect friction on his hard-on as you sucked his sensitive spot, right below his ear. Steve could swear he was levitating. He placed his hands over your ass and squeezed it nervously. What had he done to deserve all that?
He couldn’t care less if you were leaving a hickey; he’d love to watch it later in the mirror and remember the shape of your body on top of him. Your hands traveled down his body until they reached his belt.
Oh, this was actually happening.
Steve pulled away reluctantly and gulped. “Are you s-sure?” He looked back to the van’s windshield, specifically at the radio van right in front.
You shrugged. “It’s tinted, don’t worry.” But you stopped working on his belt when an insecure thought attacked your mind.
Were you being too desperate? Was this too quick?
Reading your mind, Steve held the back of your neck to draw you into a deep kiss. His other hand went to your hip and moved you back and forth, encouraging you to keep going.
Okay, he desired you just as much. There was no need to hold back.
You unbuckled his belt hurriedly and tried to shove down his jeans. He raised his hips to help you.
“Oh!” you gasped at the sight of his huge, hard cock beneath his briefs. The tip was poking out of the waistband, already leaking. You smirked and admitted, “Biggest I’ve seen.”
Steve’s cheeks turned red, but he had no time to crack a joke as you rose from his lap, knelt between his sprawled legs, and licked his tip’s slit.
“Oh, fuck!” he groaned.
You smiled and pulled down his briefs, freeing him completely. His eyes were on yours as you spit on the tip, using your hand to spread the wetness around his cock. Steve bit his lip, watching with uncontrollable desire as you stroked him slowly.
“You’re beautiful too, Harrington,” you whispered before taking him in your mouth, as deep as you could and no longer wasting time on teasing.
“Holy shit!” Steve grunted.
He gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail to keep it from getting messy, but made sure not to push your head down. Your jaw ached from not being used to such a size, but you kept your mouth wide open and bobbed your head up and down. Steve's trembling legs gave you the impression that you were performing flawlessly.
Steve had stopped biting his lips and was now openly whimpering. “Just like that. Feels great.”
Encouraged, you concentrated on not choking as you tried to take him completely. Steve’s eyes went wide at the feeling. No girl had ever gone that far, yet you didn’t stop until your nose brushed against his base. And now that you knew you could reach it without dying, you drew back to the tip before sinking down again.
“Fucking hell!” Steve whimpered as you started giving him the best blowjob of his life.
The messy, wet sight of you would soon be too much to handle, but he was making a great effort to not fuck your mouth and accidentally hurt you.
When your hand grazed his balls, he knew he had to stop. “W-wait, wait.” Steve used his hold on your hair to haul you up.
You looked up at him with a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his tip. “Everything okay?”
He snorted breathlessly. “More than okay. Perfect. Amazing. Too amazing. I didn’t want to come yet,” he admitted.
Your relieved sigh got through to him, and he realized he could no longer be gentle. Steve pulled you up to a sloppy open-mouth kiss. It turned you on knowing he could taste himself on your tongue. You unbuttoned your jeans, the heat between your legs becoming unbearable.
Steve noticed and quickly replaced your hands. He shoved the jeans down and grasped your ass hard. “Fuck,” he groaned and turned both of you around, caging you down. He took your shoes and jeans completely off, throwing them away carelessly.
“Gorgeous, so beautiful,” he mumbled as he kissed around your face and down your neck. “Can I taste you?”
You grabbed his face, squishing his cheeks, and whispered, “Steve, I’m so fucking horny that I’d let you do anything to me right now.”
He smirked and pecked your lips. “Anything?”
After a brief nod, Steve spun you around and raised your hips with a hand between your shoulder blades, pressing you down. You arched your back desperately. The amount of need within you was indescribable. You were certain you had never been so wet in your entire life.
Steve gave you a soft spank before kissing and biting your ass cheeks. His fingers hooked around your waistband to pull your underwear off, too fucking slowly.
“Steve, please,” you whined, trying to look back at him.
He caressed your back before pushing you down again. “Shh, baby, just enjoy.”
But your mind was impatient, and it was already imagining his cock buried deep inside you. You moaned and wiggled your ass involuntarily. “Please.”
Steve chuckled and kissed your clit, making you squirm. “Such a pretty cunt,” he murmured against it. It looked so inviting and wet for him. Just him. And he would take his time to show you how grateful he was for that.
He licked a stripe up your pussy, provoking a shudder across your entire body, before his tongue went down to press and trace patterns on your clit.
You clutched a nearby pillow, trying not to press against his face as his tongue devoured you. The quiet van was filled with the wet, filthy sounds of Steve eating you out. Never before had someone done it with such commitment and close attention to your reactions.
Steve was eager to please you and make you finish on his mouth. He hadn’t eaten anyone out in a long time, but he could still tell when a woman was enjoying it.
“Oh god, Steve!” You moaned shamelessly loud when he rubbed your clit with his thumb. “F-fuck. Yes, like that, please!”
He doubled his efforts and teased in a murmur, “You taste even sweeter than strawberries.”
You snorted, surprised he could make a joke in the middle of this, but you lost your words as two fingers stroked your folds before penetrating you with ease. “Ah, fuck!”
Steve almost died at the clenching feeling around his middle and index fingers. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
He curled them inside you, and your legs almost gave out from the pleasure. He quickly held you in place and smirked. “Close, baby?”
The nickname made you arch your back eagerly—too needy to be embarrassed. “Y-yes! Stop!”
Steve slowed down his movements, unsure if he had heard you correctly. “What—?”
“I need y-you inside me now!” you whimpered as you weakly pushed his hand off. Turning around, you grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for a kiss.
Steve couldn’t agree more with you. He had never wished to fuck anyone as much as he needed you now. Was this the desire that people described in a million songs and books? He wouldn’t care if a million people walked around the van and heard you; he wouldn’t even react if there was an alien invasion starting outside.
Right now, all Steve could think about was the tightness of your pussy around his fingers and how good it would feel to replace them with his cock.
He got hold of the hem of your shirt and removed it swiftly, along with your bra. Fuck. He couldn’t resist and eagerly cupped your breasts, squeezing them gently before leaning down to explore them with his mouth.
You whined and tugged on his jacket, still too weak to speak clearly. He understood and quickly removed all his remaining clothes and shoes. If someone had told him an hour ago that he would be completely naked on top of you, ready for him to fuck you, Steve wouldn’t have believed it.
He spread your legs to place himself between them, but you whined again, “I wanna ride you, Steve.”
That was a sentence Steve was certain he would think about the next time he touched himself.
He nodded excitedly and shifted the two of you so that his back was against the side of the van and you were straddling him. Your wet core grazed his hard-on, making you moan.
You pushed your hair back as you looked down at his cock, stroking it as you aligned it against your cunt.
Steve’s eyes were glued on your face, though. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times tonight, but, fuck, you really are so beautiful.”
You looked back to his bright, adoring eyes and chuckled. Who knew that ‘King’ Steve could be the sweetest man alive? You took your time kissing him as you sank into his cock.
He gripped a pillow next to him, afraid of hurting you, when his tip entered. You noticed his hesitation and searched for his hands, redirecting them back to your body. Steve placed an arm around you, holding you in place, while his free hand caressed your cheek.
You were holding onto his shoulders as you kept sliding down into him. It was obviously a better feeling than his fingers, with only half of his cock already making you see stars. But you were determined to fit it in.
Steve was still admiring your face as his fingers stroked your cheek gently. He caught your frown and soft hiss. “Hey, we can go slow if it’s hurting you.”
You shook your head and smiled weakly. “It feels too good.”
And it did indeed. Steve was using all of his energy and mind to not come just from the tightness of your cunt.
He had died and was now in heaven.
Once you bottomed out, you released a shaky moan. “Holy fuck…”
Steve’s hands lowered to grasp your ass. He pulled you closer to kiss your neck intimately, getting you crazier to ride him. You gripped his shoulders and started moving. Steve expected a slow starting pace, but you were lifting your hips until only the tip was in before sinking down again. And again, and again, and again.
He wouldn’t last long. God, he wanted to, he needed to.
Steve’s hands remained firmly on your ass while you stretched your pussy with his cock in a merciless rhythm. His eyes flickered from your parted lips to your bouncing breasts.
“Steve, fuck. Feels so good. So full,” you kept moaning.
When you threw your head back in pleasure, he devoured your neck to desperately distract himself from coming too soon.
His hands traveled across your body, worshipping your back, your hips, your thighs… You were becoming his new drug and he wasn’t planning on letting you go.
In a couple of minutes you had gotten used to his size and were riding him like a champ. Your movements were causing the van to tremble, but neither of you cared enough to slow down.
You leaned back, held onto his thighs and rode him faster. The angle was hitting perfectly on your g-spot.
Steve pulled away from your neck to stare at you with complete and utter lust. As your face scrunched in pleasure, his mind wandered… You were undeniably amazing at this. He doubted any other girl could beat you. Fuck, he was probably ruined for life.
But… perfection came with experience. The thought of you doing all that with other men, your ex, a guy friend, or even a random dude at a party darkened his mind.
He knew he had no right to feel like this; he hadn’t even remembered you two hours ago. But having you on top of him, his arms around you, his cock buried inside you… Steve wanted you to be his.
His touch became possessive as he wrapped a hand around your neck. It was a risky move; maybe you weren’t into that type of stuff, but he placed all his cards on the table.
Steve leaned close to your face, his grip on your neck not wavering, and whispered, “You’re mine now.”
Your cunt clenching around him showed Steve that you had enjoyed his words. You gave a nod and whimpered.
His hand tightened. “Not enough. Say it, baby. Say you’re mine.”
You returned your hands to his shoulders and kissed him deeply, your hips slowing for a moment. In a soft whisper, you confessed, “I’m yours, Steve.”
His hand rounded to grab the nape of your neck, bringing you in for another kiss. Steve planted his feet firmly on the floor and wrapped his arms around you before thrusting up into you.
“Fuck!” you screamed.
Steve held you close as he fucked you roughly. His cock was hitting a place you were sure not even your sex toys had reached.
Grasping his hair, you pushed his face to your breasts, begging him for attention. His lips took turns sucking your nipples. He bit one slightly, making you whine, then hungrily kissed around and between your breasts.
“Mine. Only mine,” Steve grunted.
He spanked your ass before gripping it and thrusting harder into you. You were a goner as the slap of his hips against your clit was bringing you close to the edge.
A quick rub was enough. “Steve, I’m coming!”
He bit his lip and concentrated on going deeper, wanting you to enjoy your orgasm as long as possible. You weren’t sure what nonsense you were whimpering, but your throat was getting sore.
Your nails pressed sharply on his shoulders. “Ah, Steve!”
“That’s it, baby,” he whimpered and kissed your cheek. “So tight around me. I’m close too.”
“Come inside me,” you moaned without hesitation. “I’m on the pill.”
An almost-animalistic side awoke inside Steve. Could you be more perfect?
Once he made sure your orgasm was reaching its end, he maneuvered you around, laying you on the carpeted floor. He positioned your legs with your feet resting right over his shoulders, then grabbed a pillow and placed it under your hips—even in his sex haze, he prioritized your comfort.
Steve dropped a quick kiss to your ankle, grabbed your thighs for support and pounded unrelentingly into you. His deep grunts were the sexiest sounds you had heard, and you craved to see him come undone.
“I’m yours,” you repeated as you touched your nipples.
Those words, combined with the sight of you pleasuring yourself, made his cock twitch inside you.
Feeling his response, you kept going. “Fill me with your cum, Steve. Make me yours!”
And your begging words broke the last string of his self-control. Steve let out a wild whimper as he stilled and painted your insides with his cum. You kept grinding your hips to milk his entire orgasm.
Once it was over, Steve lay down at your side while both of you tried to recover your breaths. His hands remained on your legs, caressing them. “Are you alright?”
You turned your head in his direction and nodded, too weak to speak. The cold air against your bareness made you hiss when he pulled out. Steve sat up and licked his lips at the sight of his cum dripping from your pussy to the carpet.
“Shit, I’ll have to clean that,” you complained, looking at the mess with less lust and more concern. “I have to drive my sister to school tomorrw.”o
Steve chuckled lightly and looked around for napkins. He found some crumpled ones in his jean pockets, and after making sure they were unused, he cleaned you delicately.
You stroked his shoulder and observed him tenderly. “I can do that.”
“No, no. I got it,” he assured you.
It was an odd sight: a guy you barely knew from high school, naked in your van, wiping the cum off your pussy. Except he wasn’t just some guy anymore.
You sat up and kissed his cheek without thinking twice. “I really enjoyed that,” you mumbled nervously.
But he made all the anxiety fly away with his delighted grin. “Me too.” Steve grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles. “But I hope I can take you out before repeating it.”
Oh, God. If you had told your fifteen-year-old self about this, she wouldn’t believe you. Sex was one thing, but a date? With Steve Harrington? A one-in-a-million opportunity.
You patted around the carpet until you found an old notebook beneath your pillows. You wrote down your house phone number and address, tore the page out and folded it. “There you go.”
He accepted it with a barely suppressed joyful smile. Your house wasn’t that far from his, so maybe he could pick you up one day and take you to the movies, or—
HONK HONK
Both of you gasped, startled by the loud car horn. Since he used it several times a day against annoyingly slow cars, Steve recognized it came from the van.
“It’s Byers,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.
HONK HONK
Jonathan was probably bored of waiting almost an hour in the quiet van. Steve could’ve told him there was a Walkman with some tapes at the glove compartment… but he hated being kind to the guy.
You blushed, having long forgotten Jonathan's presence, and began to dress. “Umm, the battery should be ready anyway.”
Steve would’ve paused the world to stay right there with you, but you were right. He couldn’t ignore his crawl’s responsibilities anymore.
Once both were looking as presentable as possible, you jumped out of the van and made your way to the damaged one. Jonathan was standing next to it, his eyes glued to the floor.
“Alright, let’s hope it worked,” Steve said.
Jonathan looked at him awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “We have, umm, another issue.”
On the opposite side of the van, a battered Dustin Henderson was standing beside his bike. He forced a smile to Steve and you. “Had fun?”
Your jaw dropped at the state of the teen. It seemed as if a truck had driven over his face, tearing his shirt in the way. Beside you, Steve was pale as he stared at the boy in disbelief.
And even though you had no idea who the kid was, you rushed to him to inspect him. “Are you okay? Well, of course not.” You raised his chin delicately and cursed. “Your nose is broken. Let me get my first-aid kit.”
“I’m fine. Just… fell from my bike,” he mumbled.
The moment you were out of sight, Steve started to reprimand Dustin. Maybe they were cousins, you wondered. The teen was yelling back at him, and soon they were arguing.
You came back with your kit, uncomfortable and feeling like you weren’t supposed to be there. Jonathan had taken off the cables, closed the hoods, and turned the van back to life. He was the first to notice you, standing hesitantly behind Steve.
“Thanks for everything, Y/N,” he muttered loudly so the boys could hear.
Steve ceased his yelling and looked back at you, embarrassed. His eyes softened when he noticed the first-aid kit. Your concern for Dustin made his heart jump.
“Thanks, but it’s alright. We’ll handle this.” He assured you.
You fidgeted with the kit. “B-but he needs help,” you whispered.
He glared at Dustin, who rolled his eyes and followed Jonathan into the van. When he turned to face you, his eyes softened once more. “Don’t worry. We got it.”
You hated being left out… even if it definitely wasn’t your business and it’d be inappropriate to force yourself into their issues. “Well… I guess I’ll go home.”
Steve felt a hollow feeling in his chest at the idea of letting you go, but he nodded. “Drive safely, please.”
“You too.” And after a forced smile, you turned back to your van.
However, before you had even taken two steps, a hand suddenly grabbed your wrist and spun you around. Steve gave you a passionate kiss against your van before you even realized what was happening.
He smirked and whispered against your lips, “Mhm, still tastes like strawberry.”
Once he made sure you were safely in your vehicle, and after another short kiss, Steve watched you drive away… far away from the reality he had to face soon.
He entered the driver’s seat and ignored the two pairs of eyes glued on him. He cleared his throat. “Okay, so… what’s next?”
At the passenger seat, Dustin chuckled and shook his head. “Damn… Isn’t it insane that the crawl’s problems are less surprising than you getting laid?”
✿. cw : 0.5k words, boyfriend!steve x sinclair!fem!reader, black!reader, bigdick!steve, robins big dick joke, r and robin are friends, suggestive (ofc. it’s about dicks) crack!fic (?) lucas and erica being disgusted, semi-secret relationship PROOFREAD-ISH
✿. request : “OK SO I HAVE THIS IDEa right when robin was like Steve hears that all the time and he still goes in ?when Steve was like what is wrong with you so when robin says that y/n would probably say something like right or exactly” - ⚡️
✿. a/n : y’all about be tired of me and big dick!steve omg. also anon, i changed it up a little but it’s the premisesss - gif cred - @snugbug27
𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐒. Skin pinching after the slight touch of anything thanks to these very long 3 days. You don’t know how much more you can take when it comes to this interdimensional bullshit. It’s sad, but you could probably count the times you’ve genuinely smiled on one hand. It’s five. You’ve smiled five times since the resurgence of underground action in Hawkins, Indiana that the whole town was pretty much oblivious to expect for your growing group of people. It’s only been a year since you were dragged into the situation by your younger brother and sister, but at least it was a bonding experience.
You sat on a blue chair that was sticking to your thighs and made a peeling sound every time you lifted it up in anxiety or restlessness while watching Hopper use a dry-easer marker to draw on a window that faced your equally exhausted group. You were squished between Erica and your middle-school science teacher, and honestly, not paying to a single thing that Hop was talking about. Drones, something, something, flying, wormholes, something, something.
You crank your neck to look at Dustin when you sense he’s going to call out a problem in the plan that’s being drawn out on glass, and turning your head was even painful. “These rotors are like 40 feet wide. It's too big. It's not gonna fit.” he said, with furrowed brow, signaling his hand towards the flawed plan. And how he worded didn’t make you laugh. You’re too sore to be childish. It makes you think about your boyfriend, Steve. But most “sexual innuendos” did. However, what you hear from behind you makes your crack.
“Steve hears that all the time but goes in anyway. Am I right?“ Robin jokes, but what she says is 100% true, and she knows it and she’s one of the only people who knows about you and Steve's relationship besides Erica. That’s why she peered over your head to look you directly in the eyes. And you shouldn’t have laughed, but you couldn’t help it. Especially when it was your fault that she knew that information anyway. Then you shrug while letting out a hearty chuckle before reaching back to land a playful slap on her arm. Everyone else in the room frowned—except for Murray. And the displeased of them all was your very own Steve Harrington. Hand going up in disbelief, and brows furrowed in embarrassment.
“What the hell is wrong with the both of you? Christ.” Steve groused, eyes darting back and forth at the two women that made an uncalled for mockery out of him in front of everyone. But you still laugh. You don’t remember the last time you had to laugh like that.
“God—That is disgusting.” Erica murmured, and you looked over to see her with a look of nauseation upon her face. And an evenly disgusted but also confused Lucas mumbled out a very troubled, “What?”
“Can we talk about Harrington's “problem” later and focus on the task at hand, please?” Hopper cuts in, before going back to what you were unintentionally tuning out. Let’s just say you had to make it up to him and his “problem” once you had the time.
steve harrington taglist . ✿: @pumpk1n34v35 @10iceicebaby @cloudniteee @teenwolfbitches28 @noonenuts @pinkposies @filmwh0re @crooked-haven @kelbrave @divinesturn @holy-minseok @claimentineee @peterpark3rsgf @niiiaaa + comment on this -> post if you want be added !
this blog is 18+, do not copy my work for anything without my permission ꔫ / dividers by @chrisssiren & @cursed-carmine
warnings - s5 steve, just him in general and inspired by that one comment robin made i’m projecting i jus wanna write about big!dick harrington, pwp, making out, handjobs, oral m! rec, stevie whines a lot, unprotected sex, praise kink yay, lowkey yall are fucking in the wsqk van i’m sorry (i’m not!), the pull out method sigh.
authors note - i’m sorry i’ve been gone for like 3 weeks i actually couldn’t write bc my brain wasn’t liking anything i wrote. i’ll get around to the fic i was actually writing but for now please enjoy this nasty ass shit.
my masterlist can be found here
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summary - steve harrington is a great friend, he’s always there for you when you need him, he just wasn’t expecting you to need him like this.
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“stevie, so big..” you whisper in his ear, and he gulps, trying his best to swallow back a moan, his eyes locked on the movement of your hand and the way you stroke him oh-so-nicely. he can’t help but tip his head back against the back door of the wsqk van, and he sighs as you glide along his cock, his cheeks flushed when you coo at his size again.
you two were supposed to be working, supposed to be fiddling with the telemetry tracker for your next crawl, at least that was until the topic of your personal ordeals came into conversation. you two had agreed it was hard to relieve stress during quarantine, both of you had seemingly been forced to put your sex lives on pause since hawkins split in four, well, you can’t really jump anyone’s bones when the world is ending right?
steve wishes he could laugh at the face of his past self, because now; now he’s got his jeans and briefs down to his ankles and you’re squeezing him just right, pampering kisses down his throat and he think he might just cum right there. you grin against his skin, he can feel it and questions if you can read his mind, and it just clouds his thoughts even more. every praise goes straight to his cock, and all you can do is hum as you thumb your finger across his slit and smear his pre-cum along him, making the glide easier. “so, so big, can’t even fully wrap my hand around it..” and he can’t bite back his moan this time, you just giggle and pick up the pace ever so slightly, driving him insane.
“shit, right there.. fuck.” he bucks his hips slightly and steve groans a little louder this time. you giggle, staring up at him with your big eyes and he can feel the haze sweep his mind, all he can think about is you, you, you. you might genuinely be the death of him. “yeah?” you tease, and he just nods when you repeat the twist of your wrist, a moan getting caught in his throat and he murmurs another curse, eyes shining with raw need.
he feels hot, there’s not a lot of air circulation in this van, he wasn’t really expecting to fuck anyone in the back of it, but god he really wishes he had something installed so he wouldn’t feel so sticky with sweat, a bead rolling down the side of his face and there’s a twinkle in your eye when you notice. “what’s got you so hot and bothered stevie?” he really wishes he could glare at you, he can feel his rebuttal die on his tongue and it’s replaced with another whine when he feels the pressure in his stomach form, he’s so, so close he can practically taste it. “don’t stop, i swear to god.” he’s on cloud nine, your touch sending goosebumps along his body and he closes his eyes to relish in the moment. god he can’t believe he’s here with you, a part of his brain chimes in disbelief that he finally has you like this, hand wrapped around his dick like a vice and speaking to him so sweetly.
he’s so fucked out he can barely register your change of position, face closer to where he needs you most, and he whines when he can feel your hot breath on his tip, waiting for god knows what. “please..” he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, but it seems to be enough for you to kiss his leaking cock, and one of his hands grips the carpet underneath him, the other winding in your hair, tugging lightly at the strands, and he finally gets a broken moan out of you. the sound is music to his ears, and he can’t help but smile down at you. you return it just as easy, pupils blown wide and core aching so much you think you may come untouched.
a few kitten licks is enough to get him to shift your face to where he needed you most, to be honest you didn’t need much convincing, you just wanted to tease him a little. pitying him, you smile before finally giving in, swirling your tongue around him and sinking down ever so slowly, humming in satisfaction when his breath stutters and his fingers go lax in your hair, eyes closing momentarily as he wills himself to hold on a little longer.
“oh, my god.” he bucks into your mouth, you take it greedily and sink down lower, he groans and he thinks he might’ve just seen stars. his vision is clouded, only the feeling of lust is enough to tell him he hasn’t died, because fuck, your mouth might just be the closest he’s gotten to heaven. your little hums and moans vibrate against him and he has to clench his fist a little tighter at the carpet, willing himself to hold on just a bit longer. god he would actually die if he came down your throat right now, not when he finally had you between his legs like this.
“baby, you feel so good.” he’s guiding you along him with a slight tug on your hair, your eyes staring up at him as you allow him to do as he pleases. you hum in response to his praise, and he sucks in a breath and you can see the way he clenches, like he’s trying to savour every second and it has your panties wet. god, the way he looks right now; so fucked out and desperate, it’s got you pushing your thighs together just to get a fraction of relief. he notices, ever so attentive to details, and pulls you off him gently. you’re sucking in air, all while he’s pulling you onto him, you’re resting on his thighs like you’ve always belonged there; a part of you revelling at the thought. you really don’t know how you ended up here, your story of events is clouded with the ever-apparent need for him inside you. shit, you’re not even sure if he’ll fit.
eyes wide in newfound clarity, you stutter out a breath, all while steve’s got you flush against him, hands wandering along your waist, itching to touch every part of your skin under your shirt, and you begin to understand why the heat was getting to him. steve’s tracing random shapes along your bare skin, he feels hot to the touch and you claw at the hem of your shirt desperately, tugging it in a silent plea for him to help you take it off. steve’s a smart guy, and he helps you until you’re clad in only a bra and a pair of denim shorts. he comments “cute.” and his eyes gesture towards your choice of garments, your face burns and you jokingly push him away, but he’s quick to grab a hold of your wrists, placing them on his shoulders and lean forward, your faces closer than ever before, breath hot against yours.
you can’t recall who leans in first, maybe it was both of you, but as he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth and you huff in relief, you realise how natural this feels. your stomach twists because although thinking about steve in this way isn’t new, straddling his waist whilst you’re both half naked definitely is. you make a mental note to tuck this moment away for the next time you need to blow off some steam, you’re not quite sure how you’d even proposition steve into dicking you down again, assuming he’ll do so today. god, you’re getting ahead of yourself, you haven’t even taken your shorts off and you’re already envisioning him fucking into you.
steve must be a mind reader because he’s dragging a hand up your thigh, a shiver running up your spine from his touch and you can’t help but gasp into his mouth when he cups you from your shorts. shit, you can feel it despite the layers, and your toes curl in anticipation for the real thing. he’s smiling as he licks into your mouth again, fingers dancing along the denim, trailing towards the button holding all your sanity together. you’re whining, silently begging and hoping he plays nice, you pray he’s not too cruel, you might just die here if he decides to tease you.
you breathe a sigh of relief when it seems like he’s chosen to be kind, and you can feel him smile against you, and you whisper a thank you, eyes closing at the feeling of his fingers twitching to touch you through the thin layer of you underwear, your shorts somewhere discarded on the carpet nearby, and you fully register your surroundings. god, you’re actually picturing the many ways you’ll apologise to robin later, and the christening she’ll conduct on this van if she were to find out you two were fucking in here like two horny teenagers. you’re momentarily distracted by the possible horrified look on your friend’s face, and steve tuts lightly, pressing into your clit from the other side of the fabric and you suck in a breath, squirming in his hold and snapping back to reality.
“uh uh, eyes on me baby.” he’s got you wrapped around his finger, you nod wordlessly, except you can’t help but moan at the way he commands you, shifting your hips to take full take advantage of his touch. he smiles at your obvious neediness, and rewards you by slipping a hand past the waistband of your panties to touch you with nothing to seperate the two of you. you hum at the feeling, eyes rolling up to the back of your head when his finger catches on to your clit, rubbing lightly, the glide aided with some of the wetness he collected when he ran his index finger along your folds. you flush at the realisation, tucking your face into his shoulder, a bit embarrassed by how needy you were already. he had barely touched you, you were already dripping when you were sliding a hand along his cock, whispering in his ear.
you finally realise the turn of events, and find yourself in his shoes, whining softly whilst he murmurs about how good you feel, one of his fingers nestled inside you, pumping in and out at a lazy pace, like he had all the time in the world. the truth is you don’t, you don’t even know where robin is, don’t know if she’s looking for you two, seeing as it’s been way too long that the pair of you have been in this van. you also realise, you don’t care all that much, not when steve’s looking at you like that, not when he’s got his hands on you and telling you how much he needs you. “gonna make it fit, okay?” you’re nodding, blabbering about how you need his cock or else you would go insane, and you can feel him shake as he laughs lightly, soothing you by saying he’ll give you what you need, so long as “you let me get you all ready f’me, pretty girl.”
you keen at the nickname, whimpering at the feeling of him adding another finger, stretching you out, knowing damn well all this prep probably still wouldn’t be enough for him to fit comfortably. you had laughed when he told you of his previous escapades, how they’d look up him in shock, questioning if he’d even fit inside. it’s basically what led you to getting on your knees for him, seemingly trying to prove each other wrong, but now you’re starting to understand their worries. one glance at his cock has you clenching and he cursed at how tight you are, mumbling about how he can’t wait be inside you, can’t wait to stretch you out.
steve’s good with his fingers, you figure it’s helps that he likes to keep his hands busy, and you thank your lucky stars when he hits that one spot inside your walls, sighing when you finally reach the point of ecstasy, vision white when the coil inside you snaps, cumming like it’s your first time all over again. your thighs shake and you’re repeating his name and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. steve’s moving the hair from your face, smiling at you gently as you come down from your high, and you realise just how starved you are.
“you want to keep going?” bless his heart, steve is such a gentleman, and it makes you want him even more. you’re nodding, can’t even form the words and he’s raising a brow at you, encouraging a verbal response. “cmon, use your words baby.” and you close your eyes, your cunt aching once more at just how fucking hot he sounds right now. you can already imagine how broken your voice sounds, all the cracked moans and whimpers whilst he fingered you the best you’ve ever experienced. “please, stevie.. need you so bad.” and he hums, leaning down to leave a quick kiss against your lips, your stomach flips with the ever growing attraction you have for this man, and your eyes are shining from just how much you need him, not just physically, but him in general.
“gonna make you feel so good, promise.” he murmurs against your skin, hovering above you as he adjusts, you can feel his cock along your inner thigh, and you gulp in anticipation, already feeling yourself drip with need. “just let me know if you need me to stop okay?” and you’re whispering a “yes.” along the skin of his wrist when you turn your face to give it a quick kiss. he shudders at the feeling, reeling in at just how into the moment you are as he is; before he lines himself up with your entrance, pausing and giving you one last look, you’re nodding, and he sighs when the head of his cock nudges along your slit.
“deep breaths, okay love?” you’re nodding, the feeling of him stretching you out is accompanied by a delicious burn that has you gasping, eyes closed as you feel like press into you in a way no one else has. he hasn’t even fully slipped into you and you’re mewling at how good it feels. “fuck, you’re so big. are you sure it’ll fit..” you’re whimpering when he leans in and kisses the side of your lips, eyes shining as he looks straight at you, an unsaid emotion swirling in his blown out pupils and he’s nodding, praising you for taking him so well. “do you trust me?” and you’re breathing out a yes, to which he pushes in a little further, and holy fuck you don’t think you’ll ever feel satisfied by someone else ever again.
when he’s finally fully pushed into you, he gives you a moment to catch your breath and adjust to his size, you’re confident you’ll never be used to it, there’s a tension in your stomach and you’re pretty sure it’s because you can feel him brushing against your g-spot with every twitch of his hips. you finally give him the green light to move, and you both moan at the feeling when he finally snaps his hips against yours, a slow pace as he drags against every part of you, and you’re clawing at his back, eyes fucked out and you couldnt even hold in your whines even if you tried. steve is no better, murmuring about how good you feel every few seconds, forehead pressed against yours as he groans at just how tight you are.
“can you feel me, right here?.” he’s pressing a hand on your lower abdomen, and you’re nodding, hips latched to his sides, and he’s taking in the sight of your teary eyes and fucked out expression. “so… so deep.” you’re hoping you actually said the words, and judging from the way he grins at you and comments on how well you’re taking him tells you he did.
steve’s set a comfortable rhythm, and you’re not sure if you’re even capable of forming words right now, sighs of pleasure being the only sounds coming out of your mouth, and it’s enough to encourage him to keep going. that familiar drop in your stomach creeps onto you quickly, and you can tell steve isn’t far off himself, he’s been on edge ever since your mouth was on him. nails are dragging down his back, leaving obvious marks that he’ll be sure to comment on later, after you curse him out for all the bites he’s littering along your throat and collarbones, needing to ground himself so he doesn’t blow his load right then and there. the way you’re taking him and murmuring about how good he feels only encourages him to press into you deeper, and he’s rewarded with your broken moans, instinctively wrapping an arm around his neck and bringing him back to your mouth, swallowing both your needy sounds.
you barely register you’re about to come before your vision goes white, for a second you think you’ve passed out until steve’s cradling your face, fingers tracing your cheeks until you’ve come down from your orgasm. he fucks you through it, and his moans pitch higher until he’s abruptly pulling out and releasing on your stomach, a drop falling onto your chin and you’re quick to wipe it and stick your finger in your mouth. you see steve’s eyes close and he curses. “holy shit.” and he takes your hands into his, lacing your fingers as you both catch your breath, chests raising in quick succession and you can already feel a growing ache between your legs, wincing at how you’re going to have to hide it from robin later.
you really think you and steve might just share a brain cell, because his eyes widen like he just remembered where he is, and he mutters a silent apology to his friend for not only fucking during work hours, but fraternising with his coworker of all people. “let’s get you cleaned up yeah?” his voice is a bit strained and you feel yourself clench around nothing, and you internally curse yourself for finding him so unbelievably attractive even when he’s frantically searching for tissues in the back of the work van to clean his release off your chest.
you both share a look, and you can’t help but grin at him, to which he smiles sheepishly, and you both silently wonder if this’ll happen again.
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yall.. this wasn’t supposed to go for this long i swear it was supposed to be a drabble. but please do lmk if you enjoyed it.
not proofread yet, will update in the morning since it’s 1am rn and i locked in for 2 hours straight to finally give you guys something to read!!
once again thank u backwards cap steve for being so fucking hot that i literally came out of hiding & thank you robin for confirming that loverboy harrington is INDEED well endowed 😩
warnings. big dick!steve harrington, descriptions of male genitalia, mating press, doggy style, oral sex. this is more a blurb than a real fic (despite being 1.6k words)
hyde's input. did you sneak into the recordings of season 5 vol. 2 and somehow find out big dick steve was about to become canon?
Steve’s dick is big. Like, big big.
Eye-bulging, jaw-dropping, panty-soaking big. The kind you see for the first time and have to physically hold yourself back from flinching, from panicking, because how the hell is all of that, all of him supposed to fit inside of you?
Of course, the panic is a little presumptuous of you — it’s not like Steve has even so much as expressed any interest in you, much less implied he would ever want to try fit his gargantuan cock inside of you. In fact, the only reason you even see it is by accident.
A day at the pool, something organised in a last ditched effort to not have the summer of eighty-five end on the depressing note of losing a father and a friend. Things aren’t normal, but they’re getting there, one Harrington hang-out at a time.
Dustin is the criminal, the one charged with ruining your life, for it’s he who has the bright idea to stroll up behind Steve — who is in the middle of passionately ranting to you about how awful he and Robin’s new boss is — and pants him.
The plan goes a little too according to plan, leaving Steve naked from the waist down, too startled by what just happened to collect himself fast enough for you to not notice. The inviting trail of coarse hair, guiding your eyes from navel to pubic bone. The wider-than-a-handful thickness, so much weigh to him you figure that surely it must hurt to walk with that thing constantly in the way. The absurd length, not even hard yet hanging over halfway down his thigh. The veins, decorating the pale of his skin with a blue hue. The mushroomed tip, a bulbous blush of pink that practically begs for a little loving to be given to it. The matching set of balls, heavy with the cum of a man’s whose libido is through the roof yet his sex life is as dry as wheat.
When Steve finally reacts, a slurry of curses aimed directly at the Henderson boy, you know it’s too late. You fucked up, stared too long, and now he’s caught you, wide-eyed and no doubt drooling over the sight of his flaccid dick.
Where you expect him to tease you, or even acknowledge your wandering eye with a wink, the fucker decides to simply stare you down as he tugs his swim shorts back up and tucks himself back into place.
From that day onward, you’re cursed with knowing what he’s packing beneath those too-tight jeans.
You try your best to forget about it, to not notice how much the crotch of his pants always seem to bulge; to not stare when he sits down and has to physically spread his legs apart, just to get comfortable. Try not to think about it that one time you’re all scrambling into the back of a van, running from the law, and a crowding problem forces you to crawl onto Steve’s lap, leaving you with the burden of feeling him the rest of the bumpy drive, poking at your back with every speed-bump Nancy hastily speeds over.
Eventually, time grants you freedom: you forget all about Steve and his massive dick.
Which would be great, if it didn’t come back to bite you — and someday fuck you — in the ass. Because Steve ; sweet, lovesick, cotton-candy hearted Steve finally lets desperate times call for desperate measures when, after nearly watching you twist and snap in every direction, eyes rolled back and mind caught in Vecna’s dimension, he finally fesses up.
Tells you all about his feelings, long realised and even longer hidden. All about how he used to switch his shifts around at the scoops, just to see your face a little longer. About how he used to take the bus to school, despite having a perfectly drivable car, just to sit next to you. About how Dustin is forever teasing him, in moments when you turn your back, mocking his love-struck features every time he so much as looks at you.
Safe to say, Steve Harrington finally gets himself a date.
One date leads to another, leads to a month, leads to — Oh no.
Because, while taking things slow had been more forced on you by life and all its extenuating circumstances, it had certainly not helped you remember one crucial detail about your precious, hair-obsessed, charmingly confident boyfriend…
Until the problem is glaring you in the face.
Splayed atop his bedsheets, already four — or is it five? — orgasms deep, remnants of your own ecstasy staining his chin and his fingers in a sheen of wetness, you go from love-drunk to stone-cold sober in a matter of seconds, as soon as Steve conquers the clasp if his belt and shucks off his jeans, only to reveal a site you had worked a little too hard to forget.
His cock, massive and slapping up against his stomach, smudging his porcelain smooth skin with a bud of precum.
“Steve, that’s- Wow- It’s too big,” god, don’t you just feel so silly in that moment, blood battling to rush to your cheeks and your clit all at once. As much as the sight is fear inducing, you can’t ignore the fact a part of you wants him, cunt already clenching around nothing at the mere thought of having him stretch it nice and wide. “It won’t fit!”
“Oh, I-” Pretty as ever, Steve has the modesty to chuckle, hand taking a hold of his dick and giving himself a slow, purposeful pump, like he is trying to tease himself. Clearly it works, for a shiver ripples through him and the tiniest, choked out groan escapes him. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re gonna make it fit, okay? You and me, gonna train her to take me, all of me. Can take it as slow as you need, feed it to you little by little. Just- I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”
You both make an admirable attempt, truly, yet you wind up tapping out, gushing around him for the sixth time that evening, when he’s barely breached halfway in — and still you feel like he is in your guts, reorganising your organs to make way for his cock.
One would assume you would get used to his impressive length, the longer the you not just see it but feel it, taste it, milk him for all he’s worth… One would be wrong.
Because there is no getting used to this.
To how he consumes you from the inside out, pinning your knees to your chest, your ankles locked behind his head, while he continues to grind down into you in sloppy, barely-there rolls of his hips, too many inches of him burrowed deep within your cunt for either of you to do anything other than gasp into one another’s mouths, letting the world roll by while you lose yourself in one another atop the mattress, grasping at flesh and babbling out songs of praise.
To how deep he reaches in your throat, forcing your eyes to a water while your throat muslces seize around the head of his dick, fighting to extract him yet welcoming him deeper the further down you sink your mouth on him. It’s a bathroom break, a tiny window in which Robin has ran out of the radio booth to relieve herself, leaving you and Steve the perfect chance to, well, relieve yourselves. Head back, pupils blown out, hand tangling in your hair, Steve loses himself in the feeling and fucks into your throat, groaning louder with every victorious gag he feels and hears, followed swiftly by pathetic whines for more of him, evidence of just how good it makes you feel to make him feel this way.
To how, when things go wrong and tensions run high, you are the one he reaches for at the first sign of reprieve. Bent over the nearest surface, relieved of any clothing denying him of access to your cunt, it’s only a matter of time before you find yourself drooling, with your eyes rolling into the back of your skull while Steve takes all that frustration out on you, fucking you from behind and showing you just how deep he can reach, he can fuck you, especially when he’s too far gone to care for decency, to worry about going too hard or too deep. Unrestricted, unabashed, these are the times where Steve Harrington gives you the best and most of him, sinking right down to the hilt and watching you choke on your own breath, no doubt feeling him somewhere in your lungs.
The absolute worst part of Steve’s well-endowment isn’t that he practically has you dickmatised. No, the worst part is that he has no clue. Truly, he is humble and in denial about his size to the point where, at first, you had mistaken it for a feigned politeness, the kind of thing one must do because it is the societal norm.
But then you began to notice it. The shy glances, the hesitant smiles, the shakes of his head when you’re lost in the sauce, babbling in his ear about how he must own the greatest cock mother nature ever made, something only the most erotic and bodice-ripper novellas could come up with — yet here it is on a simple Sunday morning, plugging you full of his cum in the afterglow of lazy lovemaking, the perfect way to start a perfect day.
So, in conclusion, Steve’s dick is big. So big. Please make sure you tell him this as much as possible, preferably while it’s several inches inside of you, because despite that charming smile and easy-breezy attitude, he’s just a man looking to be told how good he is — even in the most superficial, debaucherous, primal ways.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it. steve harrington is affection-starved. love-starved. he’s been handing out pieces of his heart for years, getting nothing but scraps back. now, he clings like glue—always leaning, always touching, like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to pull back. and it would’ve all been fine… if this wasn't supposed to be just a casual thing. if he hadn’t said I love you, with his whole heart, mid-fuck.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fwb to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), touchstarved!steve, i'd call him subby in this but he's rlly just pathetically in love, unexpected L-bomb, domestic fluff, light angst, happy ending
a/n: everyone’s moved on from that s1 scene where steve asks nancy ‘you don’t love me?’ but I’m still there. anyway. here’s 5k words of painfully touch-starved steve.
So, like.
This isn’t a real thing.
That’s the important part. The crux. The root of it all.
The problem.
It’s the reason you haven’t slept in your own bed in over a week. The reason there’s a stupid little bruise on your neck (seriously, who even gives hickeys anymore?) and the reason you know exactly how Steve Harrington takes his coffee (three sugars, no cream, no shame).
It’s not real.
Because if it were real, then… that would be something.
And you don’t do “something.” You don’t like “something.”
Because “something” has weight. Teeth. Expectations.
And Steve? Well.
Steve is—
He’s lonely.
That’s what this is.
No, seriously. That’s the whole thing.
You didn’t clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like he’s handing out candy. Smiles like it’s a reflex.
But it’s not boredom.
Steve Harrington is lonely.
The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.
The kind that seeps in slow—after years of being everybody’s something and then, suddenly, nobody’s anything.
The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.
He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echo—hollow, if you know what to listen for.
But when he touches you—god, when he touches you—
It’s like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s scared he won’t get another chance.
And somehow, that’s what keeps bringing you back.
Not the sex. Though—yeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.
The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet… you do.
But that’s not why you stay.
It’s not the sex.
It’s what happens after.
It’s the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like he’s making sure you’re still there. It’s the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs.
Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.
You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM.
He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, “You’ll eat what I give you and you'll like it.”
You always grin.
“You’re lucky I’m easy,” you tell him, mouth full.
He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, “Yeah. I am.”
You think that’s a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.
You don’t ask.
You don’t ask a lot of things.
Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks you’re not looking.
You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That you’re just a body. A placeholder. A habit.
But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.
That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweat’s dried and the room’s gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesn’t.
Not asleep. Never asleep.
Just still.
Like he’s bracing for impact.
Once—just once—you asked, “You good?”
And he said, “Yeah.”
But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when he’s lying.
You could’ve pressed. But you didn’t.
Because this isn’t a real thing.
It’s just comfort.
Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.
That’s it.
Until one night, he says something.
And it changes everything.
…
Steve Harrington is a leaner.
You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.
Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that weren’t yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.
One night, you ended up on the same couch.
By accident. Well, mostly.
You’d had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, “You okay?”
That someone was Steve.
He didn’t say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.
You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.
And that’s when you noticed it.
The lean.
Steve Harrington leans like it’s instinct. Like gravity doesn’t pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it.
But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chips—
He froze.
Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.
But you didn’t miss it.
You noticed.
…
It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.
Especially when you’re staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing.
It was stupid. An accident, really.
He called one night. Said, "I can’t sleep."
You said, "That sucks."
Then: "Can I come over?"
And: "Sure."
Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.
There were rules, in the beginning.
No cuddling. No staying over.
No kissing unless clothes were already off.
That one lasted exactly one round.
Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.
And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.
And he didn’t ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.
Like he hadn’t slept at all.
It was fine. Totally fine.
“Just friends,” you’d said.
And he nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”
But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it.
…
Sometimes he says things you don’t know how to hear.
Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.
You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currency—a last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.
Then, soft and slurred:
“Missed you this week.”
You smiled. Didn’t answer.
He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.
You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.
You just climbed into his lap.
Straddled him.
Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft he’d sounded. How scared.
And he let you.
Because Steve Harrington always lets you.
…
Tonight, it’s raining.
You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. There’s water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.
Steve opens the door like he’s been waiting. Like he knew.
“Jesus, get in here,” he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. “You’re soaked.”
He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek.
His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You can’t tell anymore with him.
…
He makes soup.
Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.
You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar.
He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.
Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.
He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.
It’s nothing.
Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.
Because he doesn’t move away.
He leans.
…
Touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. He’s been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.
He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.
Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they won’t leave.
You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly he’s cradling your head, smoothing your hair like you’re going through something traumatic.
You’re not.
You’re yawning.
And it would be funny, if it wasn’t all so completely, irreparably fucked.
…
The rain's louder now.
Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.
Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.
You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:
“You don’t let people touch you much.”
He blinks. “What?”
“I mean, you do,” you say, glancing at his hands. “But not really.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Okay, detective. What’s that mean?”
You shift, pulling your knees up.
“It means…” you pause. “That you act like it’s natural. Like touching’s easy for you. But it’s not.”
His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.
Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. “Jesus. You should be a therapist or something.”
“So I’m right?”
He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.
“People think I’m good at it,” he says eventually. “Being… I don’t know, flirty.”
“You are,” you say, like it's a fact. And it is.
He laughs, soft and empty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesn’t look at you.
“But that’s all it is. Practice. I think… I think I just got good at pretending.”
A pause.
“My parents weren’t really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Don’t embarrass the family.”
You stare at your lap. “That sucks.”
He stiffens a little. “I’m not saying it for pity.”
“I know,” you bump your knee against his. “And don’t worry, you’re not getting any.”
He snorts, soft and real.
But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. It’s subtle. A detail most people wouldn’t notice.
But you do.
You always notice.
So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.
He freezes. Just for a second.
Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.
He holds on.
…
Steve Harrington has always been golden.
Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.
They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closer—and most don’t—they might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.
You notice.
You always notice.
You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after it’s said. Like he doesn’t believe a word of it, even when it’s true.
He’s used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.
Never seen for what’s underneath.
But that’s not the Steve you want.
You want this Steve—sleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.
The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isn’t the most intimate thing that’s happened to him all week.
The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for love—only how to give too much of it away.
You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.
You want to know what song he hums when he’s doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no one’s watching.
The parts of him that aren’t polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.
You want the parts he hides.
…
You don’t remember how your shirt came off.
One minute you were doubled over laughing—some dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steve—and then he’s just there.
Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.
He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, “You’re so beautiful,” voice so full it cracks a little.
Your fingers sink into his hair.
“Steve,” you breathe. “You’re shaking.”
He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.
“I just…” He swallows. “Wanna make you feel good. Let me?”
You nod, throat tight.
You’d let him do anything.
…
He eats you out like he missed you.
Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.
You’re sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.
“Fuck,” he moans, voice wrecked. “You taste so good. So wet for me.”
Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.
"Steve—"
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, mouth full. “I got you.”
You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.
“I—fuck, I’m gonna—"
He groans like he’s the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he can’t bear to stop, can’t bear to let you go.
And even when you’re spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesn’t move away.
Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.
Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.
You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.
“You wanna fuck me now?”
…
He fucks you like a confession.
Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.
Like he’s making love, even though that’s not what this is.
The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.
“So good,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”
You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.
“I think about you all the time,” he whispers, hips rolling into you. “All the time. Can't—can’t stop.”
You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.
He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. He’s shaking again.
“Can’t get you out of my head. Fuck, you’re all I think about, I—”
And then—
He says it.
The thing.
The one thing you can’t undo.
“I love you.”
…
Everything stills.
Steve stills. You still.
He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.
You can’t breathe.
“Steve…”
You say it like it hurts. Like it’s an apology. Like you didn’t mean to hear it, and he didn’t mean to say it.
He sees it, whatever’s written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.
His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”
You kiss him before he can finish.
Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like you’re trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, they’ll sink back into him and never make it out.
He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like that—hands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like he’s drowning.
He doesn’t say it again.
Not out loud.
…
You told him once, weeks ago—maybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.
“I’ve never said it,” you murmured.
He turned, frowning. “What do you mean, never?”
“Like… out loud. To anyone.”
“Not even to, like, a boyfriend?”
You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.
“I mean, it’s just words, right?” you shrugged. “Doesn’t really mean shit. Not unless you show it.”
He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess.”
…
The scariest part isn’t that he said it.
It’s how little changes after.
He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.
He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.
But he won’t look at you.
You’re staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like you’ve swallowed glass and it’s still cutting on the way down.
Finally, you speak.
“You’re an idiot.”
His head turns, brows knit. “What?”
You sit up a little. “You’re an idiot. You can’t just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.”
He laughs, caught off guard. It’s soft. A little broken.
“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… came out.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.
“I can take it back, if you want.”
You pause.
A long, slow beat.
Then you shake your head.
“No. Don’t.”
…
He’s sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.
Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. You’re toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. He’s quiet—bent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards.
Then, without looking up, he says:
“Do you want to stay over?”
You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.
It’s not the first time he’s asked that. Not really.
There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. He’d made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:
“You could, uh… stay. If you want. It’s late. I don’t—sleep great. And I just…” He’d swallowed it. “Forget it. Never mind.”
You’d made it exactly two steps before turning around.
But that was then.
Now, five months in, you’ve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anyway—falling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.
So the fact that he asks—now, of all nights—makes you pause.
“Sure,” You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing.
He doesn’t smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.
He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.
You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.
He’s warm. He always is.
Your body knows the choreography—roll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until he’s all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you can’t name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.
Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.
Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.
“Can I—?” he stops.
You wait.
He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.
“Can I hold your hand?”
Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.
Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after they’ve had their hands everywhere else?
And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything he’s ever done?
You say, “Sure,” because you don’t know what else to say.
And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfway—fingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.
His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you he’s probably fought for things—for people—before. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.
Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just… aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.
He’s so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes.
Then, quietly:
“I meant it. What I said.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like it’s never been moved before. Like it’s being made into something new.
“I know,” you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.
He swallows. Starts again, then stops. There’s a crack in his voice when he says:
“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s not fair. That I said it like that. I just—” He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. “I couldn’t not.”
You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.
He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.
And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.
“Steve,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad.”
He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.
“I just… I need time. That’s all.”
He nods. Once. Then again.
“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. “Okay.”
He squeezes your hand, like a question.
You squeeze back, like an answer.
…
You don’t plan it.
There’s no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.
There’s just a Tuesday.
Or maybe a Wednesday.
One of those in-between days that doesn’t really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.
When you open your door, Steve’s already there.
Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something he’s already seen three times. His hair’s damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.
You don’t even ask anymore.
He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, “How was hell?”
You toe off your shoes and shrug. “Corporate’s an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.”
He opens his arms without a word. “C’mere.”
You go.
He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.
You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.
Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.
“I’m making tea,” he says. “Don’t move.”
You do, of course. You follow him.
He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists it’s “just a mug” even though he always reaches for it first.
He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.
He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.
And for some reason, that’s what does it.
Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking
Just—this.
This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.
It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.
You’re still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like it’s the most serious task in the universe.
Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.
“I love you.”
His spoon stops mid-stir.
He doesn’t move for a second. Doesn’t look up.
You think maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.
But then—he smiles.
Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who don’t know any better.
This one’s smaller. Like it snuck up on him.
He sets the spoon down carefully.
“Yeah?” he asks, still not turning around.
You nod.
Then, braver: “Yeah.”
He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in his lungs since February.
And without looking at you—like looking might make it collapse—he just says:
“Okay.”
Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:
“I love you too.”
You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.
Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.
And the thing is, nothing else changes.
You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.
But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.
Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:
“I love you.”
You don’t panic.
You don’t question it.
You just say it back. Steadier, this time.
“I love you.”
He grins against your mouth. “About time.”
You roll your eyes.
He kisses your nose.
…
“I just—I’m sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.”
Steve’s in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmer’s market. About honey.
She gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honey—something about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.
You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, don’t even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold.
This is your Saturday now.
Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because he’s there.
He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.
He's grinning like an idiot. “She loved me.”
“She called you ‘boy.’”
“Exactly. Affectionate.”
You bump his hip. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love that about me.”
You glance at him, lips twitching.
You do.
You really do.
…
It’s been eight months.
Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.
Of grocery lists that say things like “Steve’s weird granola” and “that cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.
Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying “morning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.
Of fights that don’t break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.
Of knowing it’s safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.
…
One night, he’s reading beside you in bed.
Trying to, at least.
The book’s open in his lap, but he’s clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.
You’re on your side, just watching him.
You don’t let yourself stare too often, but he’s so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.
There’s a scar on his collarbone you’ve never asked about.
You probably could. He’d tell you.
You think you will, someday.
But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep.
And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:
“You’re it for me.”
You go still. Heart in your throat.
And then—just as simply, just as truthfully—you say:
“You are too.”
He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.
Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.
…
In the morning, you’ll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.
He’ll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.
You’ll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.
He’ll offer to fix your car. Again.
You’ll roll your eyes and say no. Again.
He’ll grin.
He'll drive you to work.
And just like that, the day will begin.
Like it did today.
Like it will tomorrow.
Like it will every day after.
a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place 🥲
i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)
update: this fic sort of has a sequel now! from steve's pov this time :)))
summary: steve has been in love with his best friend ever since they met at tina’s halloween party. from that night on, she became the one constant he could hold onto, the bright spot in the middle of hawkins’ endless chaos. every sweet laugh, every word, every small gesture from her felt like a lifeline, something he had quietly cherished for years. he longed for her in ways he couldn’t admit, craving more than just her friendship… unfortunately she’s oblivious as hell.
warnings: steve being a blubbering lovesick fool to the reader & making out (we love you yearning harrington).
author’s notes: i had to.
STEVE HARRINGTON IS ANNOYINGLY IN LOVE WITH YOU. Everyone with working eyes—hell even a person with one blind eye can tell that he was head over heels for you. From the moment he saw discomfort gracing your pretty face when a guy was touching you like he had the privilege to do so at Tina’s Halloween party and punched him, you with your soft eyes and sweet smile thanking him, Steve knew he was gone for.
Ever since that moment, you and Steve became inseparable. You were there when he got roped into Dustin and his band of nerds’ chaos, watching in barely concealed amusement as Steve Harrington, former King of Hawkins High, was gradually, inevitably, reduced to a glorified babysitter.
And a pathetic yearner.
“Earth to Steve Harrington,” Robin waved a hand in front of his face, bringing him out of his daze. “You’ve probably been in Heaven for a while now, buddy.”
Steve gave Robin a confused, annoyed look, one brow lifting. Robin said nothing, only turning her attention to you. You were perched on the couch with a magazine in hand, brows adorably scrunched in deep focus, a detail Steve always noticed no matter how hard he tried not to.
You bit your bottom lip between your teeth, a quiet, unconscious habit that made his thoughts stumble. He hadn’t kissed you, not yet, but he imagined it anyway; imagined how sweet your lips would taste if he ever got the chance. The thought lingered, soft and maddening. Even with everything falling apart around you, you looked calm, serene, painfully pretty. It was unfair. You drove him absolutely insane.
Ah. This was the “Heaven” Robin was talking about.
He peeled his eyes away from you, although albeit reluctantly and turned instead to a far less pleasant sight: Robin grinning at him, eyes bright with unmistakable mischief.
So this is probably the Hell side now.
“You really can’t go a minute—scratch that, a second—without getting all gooey-eyed over her. It’s pathetic,” Robin said with a dramatic sigh, before her mouth curved into a smirk. “And kinda cute.”
Steve gave her a deadpan look. “I don’t go all gooey-eyed.”
He was, of course, lying. Ever since he’d picked you up earlier and you’d stepped out of your house in that goddamn white skirt he loves, Steve had been fighting for his life the entire day. The sight of you had nearly short-circuited his brain, heat rushing straight to his face, his thoughts scattering in every direction at once.
God, you were so so beautiful.
The only thing that kept him from completely losing it was your bright, sweet smile and the way you’d greeted him with that soft, “Hey, Stevie,” like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just undone him with a single look. The moment had lodged itself deep in his mind, replaying over and over, refusing to let him forget just how badly he had it.
Okay, maybe he was actually pathetic. Pining over a girl for years who only sees him as her best friend. But nobody could blame him. Every time he looked at you, it felt like the rest of the world softened and blurred at the edges. You were the one steady thing he clung to whenever thoughts of the crawl crept into his mind or worry for Dustin tightened his chest. Just knowing you were there was enough to ground him, a quiet reminder that he didn’t have to carry all of it alone.
You were solace wrapped in beautiful skin and an angelic face, and Steve still couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to earn even an ounce of your affection; even if it was only as a friend. He wouldn’t risk it. He couldn’t. Somewhere along the way, he’d accepted the quiet ache of it, choosing your laughter, your trust, your presence over the chance of losing you entirely.
Wanting you as something more hurt, but losing you would hurt worse, and so he held his feelings close, content to love you quietly even if all he wanted to was to scream how much he loves you.
Robin groaned. “You’re doing it again. It’s getting creepy now.”
“Doing what?” Steve asked, completely unaware that, in the middle of his wandering thoughts, his gaze had drifted back to you, settling there like it always did, natural and unthinking, as if his eyes knew exactly where they belonged.
“Going gooey-eyed over her,” she replied with a snort. “Can practically see hearts forming in your eyes.”
“You’re so annoying,” he muttered, but he caught the way Robin wiggled her brows when he very much didn't deny it. He flipped her off. “You’re way worse with Vickie.”
“Touché,” Robin shrugged, looking far too pleased with herself. “But, hey, at least I can do that to my girlfriend. You? You’re over here staring at Y/N like a sad puppy and doing absolutely nothing about it.”
“Touché,” Steve shot back with a glare, then let out a long, exhausted sigh, like this was a conversation he’d been hoping to avoid all day—which, honestly, it was. “It’s complicated,” he said flatly. “You know that.”
“You’re a coward, Steve,” Robin beamed.
“I know that,”
“An absolute down bad loser,” she added.
Steve rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Mhm.”
“A lovesick puppy,”
“This is the second time you referred to me as a puppy—“
Robin shushed him, holding up a finger. “Wait, I’ve got another one…” She clicked her tongue, eyes lighting up like a lightbulb going off. “A miserable, pathetic, yearner.”
He scowled at her. “Are you done?”
“Do you want me to list more of your characteristics?” Robin asked, genuinely curious.
Steve pointed an accusing finger at her. “You need to shut your mouth.”
“Who needs to shut their mouth?”
It felt like Steve had just gotten whiplash. His head snapped toward where you now stood beside him and Robin at the radio station table. Amusement sparkled in your pretty eyes, your glossy lips curving slightly, almost into a smile. He didn’t even realize how his whole body relaxed, how a breath slipped free from his chest, before he flashed you that easy, charming grin without a second thought.
“Hey sweetheart,” he greeted.
You giggled. “Hey Stevie,”
“It was—um, Robin was just—“ he rambled, hands going through his hair, a trait he does when he’s nervous and endearingly, whenever he talks to you.
“You’re such a lost cause,” Robin whispered to him and Steve prayed, actually prayed that you didn’t hear what she said.
Steve shook his head. “Robin’s just being annoying as usual.”
Robin rolled her eyes and stepped away from the both of you to check on the radios instead.
“Shit it’s 2pm already,” Steve cursed as he looked at his watch then back to you. “Let’s get you home, angel.”
You chuckled, a sound that shot straight through him like electricity, something he always wished he could bottle up and keep to himself. “Since when did you start listening to my dad?”
“Uhh…” He hesitated, then gave you a sheepish grin. “Since now?”
Your smile widened, pretty and effortless, and Steve felt himself drawn in like a moth to a flame. Were you a witch or something? That smile could bring any man to his knees, and Steve wasn’t exaggerating. He knew all too well about the assholes you’d dated before, the ones who’d melted at your charm. He clenched his jaw, recalling them with a mix of irritation and longing, and as Robin would constantly remind him, he was a jealous asshead—especially whenever he remembered the chances you’d given those guys that he would have killed to have himself.
You really had no idea what you’re doing to him.
“You’re such a gentleman,” you teased him.
He does not feel like a gentleman right now.
Seeing you with your hair loose, cascading in a dazzling wave over your shoulders, wearing shorts that only reached your thighs and a lacy top that hugged your figure perfectly, Steve couldn’t help but stare. You looked completely at ease in your own room, effortlessly beautiful, and every detail of you seemed to pull him in, making it impossible to look away.
Jesus Christ.
Steve swallowed audibly, his cheeks burning as his fingers itched to bridge the space between you. A fierce, almost desperate need surged through him to touch the soft, inviting skin that had been calling his name for as long as he could remember. He felt feverish, consumed by want and desire. Watching you sit cross-legged on your bed, looking up at him with those dangerously captivating eyes and soft, plump lips he ached to taste, he wanted nothing more than to burn this moment into his memory forever, unable to look away.
“—and he was being a complete, total jerk,” you rambled, frustration flickering across your face as you glanced at Steve, who was still staring at you like he hadn’t heard a single word. You cleared your throat, a little sharper this time. “Stevie?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” he replied automatically, shaking his head as if to clear the fog of his wandering thoughts.
“Were you even listening?”
“Yeah, yeah, I was—” He started, but trailed off the moment he caught your incredulous, are-you-kidding-me look. With a defeated shrug, he admitted, “No, not really, angel. Sorry.”
Worry creased your eyebrows. “Are you alright? You’ve been… weird today. Is it because of the crawl? Or Dustin?”
“No, no,” Steve spluttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I mean, yeah, this crawl shit is freaking me out and I’m worried as hell about Dustin, but I just… I think he’s a complete asshole.”
You gaped at him. “Dustin?”
Steve swore under his breath. “Not Henderson, sweetheart. The guy you were just talking about. Jake? John? Ja—”
“It’s Jared,” you supplied.
“Yeah, whatever. Him,” Steve said, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s an asshole. And he doesn’t deserve you. At all.”
You let out a halfhearted laugh, shaking your head. “You say that about every guy I’ve ever dated, Steve.”
Steve stared at you like you’d just said something outrageous. “Yeah, because it’s always true,” he shot back, completely serious. “They don’t listen to you, they don’t look at you the way they should, and they sure as hell don’t appreciate you.” He stopped himself, jaw tightening, then softened slightly as he met your eyes. “I just… I don’t like seeing you waste your time.”
You blinked at him, clearly caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. “Steve…” you said softly.
Steve didn’t know where the sudden surge of confidence came from, only that seeing you like this did something to him. Your pretty eyes were fixed on him, all attention and concern, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you worried at it absentmindedly. You looked so effortlessly beautiful it almost hurt to take in.
He moved closer, slowly, until he was crouched in front of where you sat on the bed. Even like that, he still loomed over you, and he didn’t miss the way bashfulness flickered across your face when you noticed just how little space remained between you.
You looked up at him through your lashes, breath a little unsteady, and for a moment the room felt too quiet, too small for everything sitting between you.
His voice came out softer than he expected when he spoke, careful, like he was afraid to startle you. “He’s a dickhead.”
You couldn’t help letting out a small laugh, the sound easing the tension between you, the kind that had begun to feel almost dangerous. Steve had always been good at that, at making you feel comfortable without even trying, and the realization left a faint bitterness in your chest.
No matter who you dated, you always ended up comparing them to him. Steve was your best friend, someone off limits, someone safely labeled as just a friend. And yet, the way he was looking at you now, with quiet reverence, like you held all the comfort he had been searching for, made that label feel suddenly fragile.
You swallowed, breaking eye contact first, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your shirt. “You don’t have to hate every guy on my behalf, you know,” you said gently, trying to sound light, normal.
Steve huffed out a breath, something almost like a laugh, but his eyes never left your face. “I know,” he replied. “I just… want better for you.”
The words settled heavy between you, unspoken meanings threading through the silence. You looked back at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time the thought crept in uninvited and terrifying.
What if better had been sitting in front of you all along?
“Like who, Stevie?”
The words landed softly, but they unraveled him all the same. Steve went still, breath catching in his chest as he looked at you, sitting there with that open expression that had always undone him. For once, he didn’t look away.
“Me,” he said quietly.
Your eyes widened, and Steve rushed on before fear could stop him, voice trembling but sure. “I mean… I know I’m your best friend, and I know I’m not supposed to feel this way, but I do. I have for a long time. Since Tina’s party. Since before I even knew what to do with it.” He swallowed hard, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I try to be okay with just being your friend because having you like that is better than not having you at all. But it’s killing me, Y/N, actually killing me.”
You didn’t speak right away. The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, and Steve braced himself for the worst, forcing his hands to stay still even though every instinct told him to pull back. His chest felt too tight, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
To his surprise, you reached out hesitantly as if you were second guessing if you should touch him, then cupped his jaw.
“I didn’t know,” you whispered, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin.
Steve leaned into your touch without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second as if he’d been waiting for this his entire life. “Robin and Dustin said I was too obvious.”
You laughed, bringing his face closer to you. “I’m sorry, I’m stupid.”
Steve let out a quiet, breathy laugh, eyes opening as he looked at you like you’d just said something impossible. “Hey,” he murmured, lifting a hand to rest over yours, grounding but gentle. “You’re not stupid. Just… a little oblivious.”
“A little?” you sheepishly smiled.
“I take that back,” Steve retorted fondly. “You were so oblivious. My oblivious girl.”
The words hung between you, warm and intimate, and something inside him shifted. You leaned in, fearless this time, and pressed your lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, and Steve froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, before closing them and melting into it.
He groaned softly into your lips, the sound low and unguarded, and immediately knew he was addicted. You tasted impossibly sweet, like everything he had wanted for years distilled into a single moment, and it sent a jolt straight through him.
His hands tightened gently on your waist, pulling you closer, desperate to feel every inch of you.
“This is driving me insane, baby,” he murmured between heated kisses, his other hand brushing up to tug lightly at the strap of your lacy top. “You drive me fucking insane, god.”
You squealed as Steve suddenly lifted you by the back of your thighs, carrying you effortlessly from the bed. Without breaking the kiss, he sat down and brought you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist as you straddled his lap.
A quiet moan escaped you, and Steve swallowed it like a man starved, his own breath hitching in response. Your lips were soft and warm against his, sending shivers down his spine, and every brush of your mouth against his felt like fire sparking through him. His hands moved instinctively, resting on your hips and pulling you closer, as if he could finally make up for all the years he’d held back.
He broke away from the kiss, eyes trailing hungrily to your dazed eyes, flushed face and swollen lips. “You’re mine now, sweetheart.”
You grinned and pecked his lips. “All yours, Harrington.”
steve harrington's sick of hearing all about you, lucas' elusive and charismatic older sister. when you visit from college, he understands the appeal . . . ( 1.5 k )
a/n: this is my first solo steve fic!!! i love him bad and also sinclair reader lol. there will def be some form of part 2 to this because i honestly really like this fic ( divider by @cafekitsune )
tags: jealous steve at the beginning, cursing, drinking, r is basically the hawkins darling and steve hates it, kinda mean steve at the start
You’ve been a plague afflicting the group for as long as Steve can remember.
Lucas curses like a sailor stubbing his toe in the WSQK?
“Y/N would kill you if she heard,” Nancy chides.
The chain on Mike’s bike slips off?
“I wish Y/N were here to fix it,” he sulks at Steve as he fiddles with the barrel adjuster.
Steve’s never seen you, only through childhood photos at the Sinclairs house- you and Lucas donning the same plaid t-shirt with your little arms wrapped around each other. Whenever you do come to visit your half-brother in Hawkins, Steve’s always too busy to arrange a meeting with the infamous Y/N Sinclair. Every time you’re mentioned, your name always seems to strike fear or inspiration in the younger teens (and even the older ones too), which is why Steve is mildly terrified to meet you.
His leg bounces up and down as he lays back in Robin’s couch, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. Robin drops down next to him, offering him a beer and nudging his knee to close his manspread. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, taking a swig of her own cold drink.
He pops the lid off with his teeth as Robin winces. “Nothing’s wrong,” he sulks, clearly showing the brunette that something is indeed wrong. Robin rolls her eyes as she pokes his broad shoulder with a teal fingernail. “You’re jealous.” she teases in a sing-song voice.
Steve shakes her off as he splutters defensively, “Of fucking what, Rob?”
“Of Y/N, dingus. She’s like your cool mom competition and now that she’s back in town, you’re scared she’s going to snag your title.” she determines correctly, “You’re terrified that she’ll be super fucking awesome and then you’ll be fraternising with the enemy. Joining the crowd of followers, if you will. It’s simple.”
Eddie strolls past carrying a large cooler of alcoholic drinks in his bare tattooed arms. “Y/N is fucking awesome.” he agrees.
“Why has everyone met this Y/N girl except for me?” Steve whines.
He’s barely met you but he seems to know everything about you: every single accolade, every single award, all the times you outscored him at whatever game at Palace Arcade. He even knows your favourite colour, for Christ’s sake. So yes, maybe you’re a little cooler than him or more athletic or whatever, but can he really believe the words of his notoriously hyperbolic friends?
Just as Steve is about to relax, no-nonsense, non-exaggeratory Nancy shatters his dreams in her delicate fist.
She’s pinning up her curls as she walks into the living room, Jonathan following close behind with a box of snacks at his hip. “What’re we talking about?” she asks through a bobby pin in between her teeth.
“Y/N,” Eddie and Robin say in unison. Steve groans.
“Oh, she’s cool,” Nancy hums, agreeing with the pair's sentiment much to Steve’s dismay, “she’s really smart, I’m happy that she’s back.”
The final nail in the coffin. “The kids love that girl,” Jonathan agrees, “Will and El were just asking when she was going to come visit last week.”
Steve buries his face in his palms wet with condensation from his beer. “Alright! Okay!” he half-shouts, “I get it! Y/N’s God and you’re all her disciples, jeez.”
Robin and Eddie have seen Steve get like this before, all cagey and defensive. It happened last year when Eddie joined the group. “Don’t be such a contrarian, Steve,” Robin scolds. She knows that he isn’t doing it to be mean, but she’s worried that Steve’s reasonable insecurity will come out as something harsher than he intends.
Steve knows how he sounds, criticizing the companions his friends keep without giving you a chance. He chokes down the sour taste in his mouth as he holds up his hands defensively. “Okay, fuck, sorry.” he grumbles.
The party’s in full swing by the time you arrive. Jonathan’s sprawled out on the carpet, stifling his giggles as Robin tries to balance a stack of VHS tapes on his stomach. Eddie’s engrossed in a conversation about the most waterproof eye makeup with Nancy as the doorbell rings. Steve completely forgets about your arrival as he stumbles to the door, pulling it open to reveal the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
Steve takes an embarrassingly long time to collect himself as he splutters with his hand on the doorknob. You blink at the beautiful stranger, perplexed, and Steve summons all his courage to not run away. He shivers as you appraise him, feeling hot all over when your eyes meet his.
“Hello,” you say finally, and Steve’s skin feels prickly.
“Hi- um, hello.” he stammers, looking surprised at himself. You determine that this is a man who doesn’t usually behave like a deer in headlights. It’s endearing.
“I’m-”
“Y/N,” Steve finishes for you. He swallows thickly before forcing himself to speak like a normal human being. “Sorry, I just, um-,” he breathes in deeply, “I’m Steve Harrington,”
He sticks out a clammy hand and you take it, biting back a smile. “I know.”
“Oh.”
Steve widens the door for you to enter, watching you kick off your black boots as you step inside. When you look up, his eyes dance away from yours, looking caught like a child with a hand in the candy jar. You giggle as he guides you into the living room with almost robotic movement.
Everybody is as he left them as Steve clears his throat. His voice sounds strangled as he announces, “Y/N’s here.”
Robin shrieks a sound that he’s never heard before as she jumps up, almost slipping on the carpet as she throws her arms around your neck. “Oh my god, you’re here!” she squeals. Jonathan and Nancy follow close behind, wrapping their arms around you and Robin in a tight group hug. Steve shuffles off to the side awkwardly as Eddie walks up to the entanglement of their friends, looking at Steve funny.
“Is that who I fuckin’ think it is?” he laughs as the group parts to make way for him. He pulls you in by the waist to spin you around as you shriek, beating on his back. “Oh, what the fuck, Munson!” you squeal, trying to pull yourself out of his grip.
Steve thinks he might throw up as Eddie sets you down back on your feet, planting a kiss on your cheek. “I missed you, rockstar. How’s Chicago been, babe?”
He watches the three of you retreat back to the couch as Robin lingers behind, giving him the same funny look Eddie had shot him earlier. He scrubs at his cheek self-consciously with a frown, “Is there something on my face?”
“So you finally met her.” Robin says, a smile creeping up her face, "Y/N Sinclair." She knows that look- the kind of expression people wear after meeting you for the first time.
Steve nods, watching you and Jonathan talk animatedly as Nancy offers you a beer. “She’s…cool,” he says finally. Robin snorts, punching him in the shoulder to encourage a second answer.
“Okay, fuck-” Steve groans, rubbing his shoulder as he sneers at his best friend. His breath catches when he looks over, your pretty eyes meeting his for half a second. Steve swallows thickly as he sighs dreamily. “I get why everyone’s so in love with her now.”
—summary: trapped in a radio station with the world about to end, you and steve decide there’s no better time than now to give in to desire, curiosity, and years of unspoken yearning —and because you need to know if the rumors about his measurements are true!
—pairing: steve harrington x female!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), friends to lovers, established pining, idiots in love, suggestive banter, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, some porn with some plot, big dick!steve, p in v sex, radio booth sex!!!, unprotected sex, creampie, body worship, praise kink, size kink, aftercare, steve being cocky and shy
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“It's too big, it won't fit” Dustin openly expresses his disagreement with Hopper's absurd plan to fly a whole helicopter into the center of the wormhole.
“Steve hears that all the time, and he goes in anyway,” Robin remarks in a suggestive tone, smiling knowingly at her friend, “don't you, Steve?”
After that, she winks at you.
Steve is frowning, baffled and entirely dissatisfied with what Robin just said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Murray, sitting on the couch right in front of him is smirking, his eyes wandering between yours and Steve's, and vice versa, puffing out a knowing chuckle.
“It's funny,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
You bite your lower lip, struggling to hold back laughter, feeling your cheeks grow warm as you sense Steve's gaze on you now.
So you just choose to play dumb. As usual.
You've heard about it, of course, many times before. Robin has told you over and over how over-sized Steve is, emphasizing that he would be exactly what you need, ever since you told her about your miserable and unsatisfying sex life.
The best fuck of your life, possibly.
“Ten out of ten,” she would say, shrugging her shoulders at your face, all contorted with skepticism and flushed with embarrassment. “That's what I heard.”
And unable to really say anything in his own defense, he smacks Murray on the shoulder, trying to get the man to stop giggling like a witch, but instead, he laughed even harder.
Steve's mouth opens and closes, stammering out a response.
“It's very funny,” he repeats, glancing at you this time and nodding his head.
Steve doesn't deny it either, you notice.
The conversation about the final plan against Vecna and the end of the world carries on all around you, but you can no longer really focus on that.
Instead, all you can concentrate on is Steve's scent invading your nose, the perfect opening in his sweater neckline that wraps around his neck, his left hand twitching on his knee, and his other hand reaching across the backrest of the couch where you are seated to support his own weight. But his fingers seem to have a different purpose and they graze your shoulder. Intimate, complicit.
One touch of him has you as horny as the fucking midsummer sun.
How could you possibly pause to think about the potential apocalypse in six hours when you're falling downward in a spiral from the slightest touch of his fingertips on your shoulder?
His closeness is suffocating, his body heat mingling with yours, making the room feel unbearably hot.
It's not until about forty minutes later that Steve is bold enough to look at you again, offering you a small, sheepish smile and sweeping his hand across his neck as he walks toward you with purposeful little steps.
He looks so good with that ridiculous backwards trucker cap that you have to physically restrain yourself from bouncing on him right there.
“Hey, look, I—I'm sorry about Robin. She's been acting weird about—” His voice falters as the air is knocked out of his lungs the moment you lock eyes with him, looking up at him so intensely that he is literally left speechless for a long moment. “About– about us. I've been telling her to stop sticking her nose in, but she's—well, she's Robin, you know her and—”
He keeps chattering uncontrollably, his brown eyes wandering down to your hips, appreciating what a great fit those jeans are on you. You look so hot in your monster-slaying outfit that it's making his face turn bright red and distracted.
“Is it true?” you interrupt him right there, because you don't have more time to waste. I mean, time is running out for all of you right now.
But you need to know.
His mouth gapes open in confusion. “W–what?”
“Is it really that big?”
Steve's brain short-circuits.
Completely. Catastrophically.
His jaw doesn't just drop; it hangs there as he stares at you, his eyes darting to your lips and then back to your eyes, searching for the slightlest hint that reveals that you're really joking.
But you aren't. And he just realizes it.
He glances around to see if there is anyone nearby, but fortunately for both of you, you are all alone. Finally.
Then Steve steps closer to you, his face morphing into one that expresses complicity and yearning and need.
“You really want to talk about this right now?” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through you. “With the world ending in, like, six hours?”
“Especially because the world is ending,” you consider, your voice surprisingly steady despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. “When then, if not now, Steve?”
Steve reaches out, his thumb finally finding the skin of your neck, tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing slowness.
“You want it now?” he has the nerve to ask, when you're looking at him like that, as if he were the center of the entire universe, as if the world weren't ending, as if everything weren't collapsing around you. “You want me?”
Twenty minutes later, he is only just pushing the swollen tip of his massive cock into you and you already have tears brimming in the corners of your pretty eyes.
He has you sprawled out on the desk in the radio booth—his idea, since no one could hear you there even if you screamed, which you would, he had promised.
Your shirt is tossed somewhere, along with your jeans and panties and bra. You don't even know where your shoes might be.
You're too busy trying to let your body relax and let him in. Because, holy shit, he's big. Big, big.
“F–fuck,” you whine out, feeling his pulse thrumming wildly under your palm clutched to his shoulder. “It's too big, Steve—”
“Shh, you've got this, princess.” He soothes you, pressing little loving kisses on your flushed cheeks, his lips wiping away every trace of tears. “Aw, it's okay. You're doing so well, so well.”
Steve groans as he pushes forward, just a little, because you're already crying into his neck, big tears falling down your cheeks now. The air leaves your lungs with every ragged whimper that crawls up your throat, every time he forces another inch deeper into your tight pussy.
“Hmm—!” you moan, your head thumping back against a radio monitor. “Oh my fucking God...”
You look heavenly under him him, with your legs spread, the gates of paradise wide open for him.
And he's massive, filling you so perfectly that you feel your insides stretching to their absolute limit.
“I know, I know,” he coos into your ear, his voice strained and thick with the effort of holding back. He is being so patient and good to you. “Just breathe for me, baby— fuck— just breathe. Let me in, yeah?”
Because he knows he can't just dive in. He needs to open you up, that you adjust to his size, to make sure this doesn't hurt you, Steve wants to make things right with you after all.
With a shaky motion he pulls back just an inch and slides down a little more, his knees opening yours wider.
“Doing so well for me, baby. So good, I–I'm halfway there,” he's praising you in soft, trembling whispers, placing gentle, affectionate kisses all over your tear-stained cheeks. “I'm going to go in a little deeper, o–okay? Just a little more, mhm...”
You nod your head eagerly, gripping his shoulders, clawing at his back, and forcing him closer to you. Your legs wrap around his hips, urging him to thrust deeper.
He sinks in deep —all the way to the hilt— in one smooth, heavy thrust. Your eyes roll back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.
He's so big you can feel him in your fucking throat. You can feel your guts rearranging to fit his shape, molding and squeezing him so deliciously that you've got Steve whimpering on your chest, soaking your skin with drool and tears.
“There you go,” Steve whispers, his forehead dropping against your tits, “I'm all yours now. Taking me so fucking good, like no one else, f–fuck, baby. Still so fucking tight— fuck”
Steve's hands are shaking as they grip the edge of the desk on either side of your hips, his knuckles white as he tries to anchor himself. The feeling of being entirely encased by you, of your warmth and your tightness clamping down on his length, has his self-control hanging by a single, frayed thread.
“Steve...” you sob out, the sensation so overwhelming it's almost dizzying. “Don't... don't stop. Move— please, ohh—”
He is a good boy, so pulls back very slowly, just a little. The friction make your hips hitch off the desk, and then—he drives right back in.
Steve isn't just fucking you; he's claiming you, taking everything he possibly can of you, reaching your soul and lifting you to unknown heights. Every inch of him slides against your gummy walls with a perfect fit, hitting that special sweet spot of yours every time he bottoms out.
“You're... I—” he chokes, his voice breaking as he starts to pick up the pace.
Every time he bottoms out, his hips slap against yours with a wet, filthy sound that echoes off the metal equipment in such a pornographic way that has you all worked up and shivering.
Slap, slap, slap!
“I— I can't— you're so t-tight,” he slurs, his eyes blown wide and glassy with pleasure. “So perfect”
He looks perfect. For some absurd reason, his hair looks flawless, even though you're constantly pulling, ruffling, and tugging at it. His hands, big and veiny and craving you, cling to your flesh, marking it, claiming it, pawing at your hips, your ass, your waist. He's out of control, he finally has you there, all for himself, at his mercy and will. To touch, to kiss, to fuck, to claim as his own.
His hands caress a path down to your thighs, hiking them higher onto his shoulders to get an even deeper angle. Although his eyes display a sense of uncontrolled ferocity, his treatment is careful and gentle.
The shift allows Steve to bury himself to the all the way into the deepest part of your core, his pelvic bone grinding against yours as he sinks inside you. You let out a broken, high-pitched cry, your fingers tangling in his hair once again, pulling him down so you can find his mouth.
When your lips meet, the kiss is messy and desperate. It tastes like salt and heat and longing and love.
Steve moans right into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound that you feel in your chest. He's moving faster now, his breaths coming in short, jagged hitches.
He's hitting that spot again, more firmly, more determinedly—the one that makes your vision go blurry and your toes curl into the air.
“Steve—” you gasp into the heat of his mouth, your body vibrating with the intensity of it all. “I need— I need more!”
“More?” he purrs, incredulous and playful.
He pulls out of you with a wet, loud pop that makes you whimper at the sudden coldness and emptiness he left behind, but before you can even protest and whine about it, his big hands are on your body again, hoisting you up.
“There you go, sugar,” he coos softly, “Yeah, mhm, just like that.”
He spins you around, your palms slamming onto the cluttered surface of the desk. You lean forward, your chest almost touching the wood, scattering papers and radio logs as you find your footing.
You're bent over, your spine arching perfectly, presenting yourself to him in a way that makes Steve let out a low, animalistic growl.
From this angle, he can see everything—the plumpness of your ass, open for him, the line of your spine, the gaping hole of your pulsating pussy, the wreckage that he himself has made in there.
“Look at you,” Steve breathes out in awe, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, before tentatively slapping one of your ass cheeks, grunting at the sight of the jiggling under his palm.
He hisses as he slides a teasing finger along your folds, your pussy responding instantly to him and sucking him in on instinct.
“Look at her. You look so fucking good like this.”
Steve doesn't give you a chance to bitch about it, stopping your ass from wiggling back in search of him ravenously and just lines himself up and lunges back into your pussy, his massive length sliding back inside you in one devastatingly deep stroke.
He gazes at the way your folds stretch around his bulbous head, drool dripping from his half-open lips.
At the new position, he’s hitting your cervix with every thrust, sending jolts of pure electricity straight through your spine up to your brain.
“Oh! Steve!” you babble his name over and over, with your voice cracking. You grab whatever you can over the desk so hard your knuckles turn white, your head hanging low as you watch your own reflection blurred in the glass of the radio monitors. You're a mess. “Baby, fuck— right there!”
He’s relentless now. With his hands firmly anchored on your hips, he uses you as leverage, pulling you back onto him every time he drives forward.
“I've got you,” he answers your cries immediately, kissing down the point where your ass meets your back, “I've got you, baby.”
He's looking in awe the way your body is reacting to him, lowering his gaze to the space where his body connects with yours, admiring the sight of your pussy stretching out all around him, forming a white, creamy line around the girth of his cock.
You're taking every inch of him as if you were made for this. For him.
“You like that?” Steve snarls cockily, one of his hands landing on your lower back and forcing you to arch it for him as he notices that you are begin to squeeze impossibly. You are close. “Is it big enough for you, hm?”
“Yes—yes, please— oh, Steve!”
He obviously has you cumming sooner than you can blink. And it's a earth-shattering, soul-shaking, life-changing orgasm.
Your breath comes in ragged sobs, your vision spotting with white crazy shapes, you feel like you're floating off into the distance.
“Baby,” Steve is calling your name in a breathless whispers behind you, noticing you're still on cloud ten, shaking like jelly underneath him, so much that he has to hold you tightly by your hips, “where—”
“Inside,”you manage to croak. “Cum inside, I need it, please. Cum in me—”
You're hardly finished formulating the words when he delivers one brutal, final thrust, sinking so so hard inside you the desk groans under the weight of his force. He's growling, sobbing, praying your name, and cursing, all at the same time.
“Oh, God—” he chokes out, his body seizing.
It is God. The way your pussy is clenching him, milking out every drop he has for you.
And he is cumming so much that his seed starts to leak out around the base of his cock. He is filling you to the absolute brim, spurting ropes after ropes. Then he lets out one last, shuddering breath of your name, burying his face between your shoulder blades,kissing your sweaty skin appreciatively.
Steve is whispering sweet words of praise, repeating over and over how good and perfect and gorgeous you are.
“Is this a terrible moment to ask you out for dinner?,” he sheepishly asks after just a few seconds of silence, a moment that feels comfortable and heartwarming.
His hands are caressing your sides reassuringly, fingers trembling as he waits quietly for a response from you and pulling away from your back, not without first pressing a shy, soft kiss upon your shoulder.
Shy. As if he weren't literally buried balls deep inside you, his cum oozing out of your pussy after filling you to the fucking brim.
You let out a low, dazed laugh that vibrates through the desk, your cheek still resting against it as you try to remember how to breathe. The contrast between the animalistic intensity of the last ten minutes and his sudden, boyish vulnerability is almost enough to make you cry all over again.
“Dinner?” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper, raspy from all the moans and cries and whimpers he got out of your throat. “Steve, if we survive tonight, you can take me wherever the hell you want.”
He lets out a relieved, shaky breath, almost too shy to look you in the eye. “It's a date then. Enzo's?”
He finally begins to withdraw, the sensation of him sliding out of you leaving you feeling cold and so empty that you have a sudden urge to start complaining. You can feel the warmth of his seed beginning to trickle down your thighs.
Steve is quick to help you up, his hands steadying your waist as your knees threaten to buckle. He cleans you up with a fresh towel he finds in a nearby drawer, his gestures and gaze full of concern and care.
“You okay?” he asks so gently.
His hands lingering on your waist to make sure you’re steady before he starts frantically scanning the floor for your clothes. The air in the booth is thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of what just happened, but the ticking clock of the apocalypse is finally starting to penetrate the bubble you’ve been in
“I've never been better,” you admit, smiling. You watch him getting dressed now while you sit on the desk. “So... Enzo's?”
“Enzo's. I’m gonna wear a suit. I’ll even get the hair extra perfect for you,” a goofy, lopsided grin spreading across his face at the mere possibility of a date with you. “You don't know how long I've waited for this.”
Steve draws back toward you, like a force of nature, and you reach out to him, your hands coming up to his neck. He watches you fix his jacket, his gaze softening.
You kiss him on the cheek and he is left breathless, with that goofy little smile on his lips. Your hands caress his chest affectionately, “Robin was right. Ten out of ten.”
His smile just keeps getting bigger, that classic, cocky Steve Harrington smirk returning to his face as he adjusts that trucker cap back over his hair. “Only ten? I'll have to try harder next time.”
Summary: Every year, your village holds the Hollow Moon Festival and sends seven Chosen into the Demon Wood. This year when your name is called, you go without protest. You are the lone one to make it to the other side to find someone waiting for you.
WC: 15,354
GENRE: Low fantasy, fated lovers if you squint
AU: Smut, Mild Angst, Fluff
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Reader is ostracized, looked down on and rejected by her village for being a bit out there. Themes of loneliness and sadness, reader reflecting on how isolated she is often, people being assholes, one (1) man tries to grab her and she decks him, implications of reader being watched by something/someone, some mild horror during the Demon Wood walk / depictions of sounds of death and smells of death, eerie vibes mostly through the first half of the fic, Chan Has Been Watching Her But Lets Not Make It Creepy Ok, world building doesn't really make sense idk, explicit language, sexual content include oral x 2 (f. rec), vaginal fingering, overstim, lots of praise, a bit messy in place, one (1) spit moment, Chan teasing reader/rubbing that shit without putting it in bc he's insufferable, unprotected sex, a stupid amount of orgasms because I needed to hit wc, some cuddling/chatting post sex, idk these two losers are down bad on sight, they've been wandering around lonely af and its like what if we fuck about it, anyway.
A/N: This fic is from my Haliween Jack-O-Lantern Lotto where all of the fic ideas submitted were put on a giant spinning wheel on the internet and I just hit spit and it selected one. I did have to select again because the person whose fic that was originally chosen left the internet but c'est la vie Josepher (@daechwitatamic) gets lucky and gets her fae Chan and I know you're thinking Hali, how is it that Jo specifically gets chosen, and all I can say is you can take that up with wheelofnames.com. Thank you EVERYONE who submitted, though - there are actually a few ideas on there that might get turned into something real (looking @ you Aeris hehe) but we will see.
A/N 2: Lowkey I do not like this fic don't ask me why I spent all this time fixing it and somehow read through and went. So this makes no sense. Happy Haliween Jo. This is also not beta read so if there's mistakes.... look away divas.
MASTERLIST | ASK | NOW PLAYING ▶︎: HUNTER BY PARIS PALOMA
HEAVY MIST HANGS IN THE AIR. It smells like vetiver and musky earth, the damp air clinging to your cloak and weighing it down. You remain still, crouched in the line of trees, hidden in their shadow. The sun has just begun to rise somewhere on an unseen horizon, the world slowly fading from black to grey.
Moss crawls up the trees and rocks, dew clinging to the verdant green. A spider crawls up the tree next to you, the movement catching your eye. You watch as it pauses, sensing you. You look at the spider and it looks at you, two predators sizing each other up. It decides it doesn’t want anything to do with you and continues climbing up the tree.
You crouch in the underbrush, a shadow hitting near the roots of a twisted elder tree. Above you, the black branches loom over you like shadows, watching you hunt beneath their boughs. The trees here are old, thick with creeping moss and peeling bark. Dew collects in the hollows of leaves, trembling when the breeze stirs.
Up ahead, your eyes return to the clearing. You nearly start when you see the small herd of deer stepping into view. You’ve been waiting for them, but the three of them move like silent ghosts. They’re slender and alert, each step taut with instinct. One of them is young, not yet full-grown, ears twitching at every sound. Behind her you notice a fawn, coat soft and dappled, its white spots melting into brown.
You remain motionless, licking your lips as you wait for them to enter the clearing fully. Signs of their passing are all over the glade - grass pressed into ovals where they’ve been bedding, the scent of musk and earth heavy in the air.
Pulling a bow while sitting isn’t easy. You have no other choice, though. You can’t stand - they’ll see it immediately - and your legs have gone so numb from crouching that you don’t think you could stand without your knees knocking anyway.
Carefully, your fingers curl around the shaft of the arrow already nocked on your bow. Slowly, you begin to raise your weapon. Your movements are so careful that it makes your arms shake until you’ve fully drawn the bow. Your heart doesn’t quicken, doesn’t pound.
The string of the bow kisses the corner of your mouth. You aim for the oldest doe, the matron leading the herd. Her neck is long and thick, her breath misting faintly in the greying dawn. You target her out of necessity, not sport, and you know the second oldest doe is old enough to lead them when their matriarch is long gone.
You draw in a breath and let the arrow fly.
The reaction is instantaneous. The herd of deer scatters the second the arrow hits. You’ve aimed well, dropping the doe immediately. She only kicks twice before going still, the other deer scattering through the woods with a noisy, raucous crash.
Relaxing, you stand, pressing your palm against the elder tree to lean your weight on as your leg muscles constrict. You groan, feeling the buzz of numbness spread and tingle. Your knees pop with the strain of having been crouched there for hours waiting for the deer to come down and bed for the morning.
Nothing moves in the clearing as you shake out your legs before sliding your bow over your head, string strapped across your chest. You remove a hunting knife from your belt instead and begin to approach the doe carefully, looking for any signs that she’s still breathing and ready to fight back.
When you’re sure she’s dead, you kneel down and reach out a hand, pressing against her hide. The body is warm and wet with the mist that clings to her tawny coat. You close your eyes and bow your head, breathing in deep.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
You mean it. You take no joy in prowling the woods and killing the creatures that live among the trees, but you need to eat and you need the money from the tanner that they bring you. Very few people are brave enough to hunt in the Demon Wood, and your willingness - or necessity - to do so is what keeps you warm, housed and fed.
Returning to your spot in the trees, you grab your backpack and bring it over to the doe’s body and get to work. You tie her hind feet together and toss the far end of the rope over a strong branch. Carefully, you find a heavy rock to serve as an anchor before gritting your teeth and tugging hard on the rope, using your full weight to pull the doe off the ground and high enough for you to dress it.
Tying off the rope, you wipe your burning hands on your cloak, panting. You’d long stopped trying to drag your kills back to the village, instead dressing the deer and storing what you need in treated leather pouches. It’s far easier and now you don’t have to worry about passing out under the weight of trying to drag an eight pound doe back to the village.
It’s bloody work but you’re used to it. Your mind drifts as you move on instinct. You’d had to pay the village butcher to teach you how to make the correct cuts and the village tanner to explain how to strip away important skin, but it's paid off. Now you know how to salvage all the right parts of your kill without puncturing anything that’ll make you retch.
Halfway through, a needle-thin awareness pricks the back of your neck. You tense at the shoulders, hands pausing on the doe’s warm, taut muscle. Around you, birds sing. The shadows have somewhat faded as the sun has risen, though its rays are unable to pierce heavy grey clouds.
Your breath fogs in the air, the winter chill getting stronger with each passing day. You glance around the clearing, eyes dancing between each one of the elder trees. You don’t see anything there, but you feel something - the same instinctual awareness you’ve been getting for years when hunting.
It doesn’t always happen. Sometimes, you go weeks without feeling it - months, even. But every once in a while, you feel a set of eyes you cannot place, a familiar and almost intimate gaze that you can never find among the trees.
It’s been happening more, lately. The awareness. You’ve felt it almost every time you’ve walked into the Demon Wood, any time you walk alongside it. You’ve grown accustomed to it, almost friendly. But the alien feeling still puts you on edge.
A chilly breeze lifts the edges of your cloak, the trees rustling with the wind as the leaves shake and sing. You lose all sense of sound as you look around, trying to find the source of your apprehension. Like always, you cannot place it, but you know it’s there, your hunters instinct confident.
The sound of chiming bells reaches you. Licking your lips, you turn yourself back to your task with a renewed determination, eager to leave. You’d known you were close to the Forest Bells, but the eerie sound of them chiming in the wind unsettles you.
Your grip on your knife is a little tighter as you work. The tingling at the back of your neck doesn’t go away, lingering as you cut away meat and seal it in individual leather bags. You try not to let your thoughts spiral into what it could be - wolves, a bear, one of the shadowy cats from the mountain.
Demons. Hollow Ones.
For as long as you’ve hunted in the Demon Wood, you’ve never seen a demon. You’re not sure if they’re something you can see, really. According to your village’s history books, the Hollow Ones of the woods only reveal themselves if they need to, and if they need to, you’d be dead before you can commit what they look like to memory.
Still, the likelihood that it’s the Hollowed Ones watching you is likely. The fear of that knowledge has never gone away or lessened - you’ve just made it manageable. Your fear is just as palpable as the first day you decided to brave the woods, but you’ve learned to manage the symptoms.
Hunting isn’t against the rules. The Hollow Ones have no problem with villagers entering the Demon Wood and using the wood, fruits or creatures found there. The only rule is not to go past the bells, which you can hear ringing louder and louder as your fear increases.
Despite how cold it is, you feel sweat gathering on your forehead. You use the back of your forearm to wipe it, careful not to let the doe’s blood smear across your forehead. You only have a final cut to make and you do so with intense precision, careful not to damage the meat as it comes away.
Relief floods you as you turn and add it to the back, pulling the strings to draw it closed with shaking hands. The urge to leave the doe hanging for some other predator to come chew at is strong, but you decide against it. It feels wrong to let the rest of it go to waste, out of the biting range for scavengers who can utilize what you’ve left.
Despite the anxiety of the presence pressing at your awareness, you lower the doe down. You use the rope to pull her out of the clearing and into the woods where there’s a dell perfect for disposing of the carcass. You untie the doe and heave her down the slope of the dell, the leaves aiding as she slides down into the dip.
Gathering the rope, you hurry back to your things, opening a canteen of water to wash the blood off your hands. You ignore the sting of the frigid water, eager to get the red off and pull your gloves back on. Clean, you pull the leather gloves on and gather the bags of meat, tying them off to your belt quickly, looping the large ones on the rope to toss around your shoulders.
Grabbing your bag, you give the clearing a final glance. You see nothing but the impressions of the deer who had slept there the night before and the blood on the damp earth from you cleaning the deer. A shiver ripples up your back and you turn, hand resting on the hilt of your knife as you plunge back into the woods, leaving the prickling sensation and the soft trill of bells behind.
-
The village sits at the edge of the Demon Wood, nestled right against the endless expanse of dark elder trees that stretch east to west. By the time you reach the edge, the mist has evaporated to a hazy fog. Smoke rises from squat chimneys, the sun barely filtering through the heavily clouded sky above, casting a colorless pallor over the crooked buildings.
You step past the broken wooden fencing that separates the forest from the field, your boots sinking slightly into the churned mud of the main road. The scent of damp hay and smoke mixes with the metallic scent of the meat on your person, each bag thumping as you walk.
Red ribbons have begun to appear in the village, fluttering over doors and window frames to herald the season’s turn. It's only three days until the Hollow Moon Festival and the village is well into the preparation to celebrate. Lanterns are strung between posts and the streets are fuller than usual, everyone abuzz with preparations.
You pass two old women sitting near the well as you enter the village proper. One of them looks up and meets your eyes but doesn’t smile. She gives you a polite nod as always - not rude, but not warm. Neither does the blacksmith who pauses mid-hammer as he works on glowing steal, eyes glancing briefly to watch you march past.
You’re used to it, so you keep walking, breath misting the air until you arrive at the butcher’s shop. The building is half-stone, half-timber with dark smoke trailing from one of the vents. You smell fat cooking somewhere, making your stomach grumble as you push the door open.
It smells like blood and lard laced with salt as you enter. It's warm inside despite the frosty air outside and you're grateful, shrugging the bags of meat from around your shoulders as you approach the counter.
“Back already,” Maven notes, eyeing the bags as you drop them to the counter with a thump. “You hunt more than anyone else in this village, you know?”
“I’m a single income household,” you note. You drop the rest of your bags on the counter. “Doe.”
Gaven grunts. He isn’t fond of you - he’s not fond of anyone - but he doesn’t ask questions when you bring him meat. He only cares that you bring him good cuts, good quality, and that you don’t bicker with him about prices or bitch at him when he marks them up when he sells them to others.
“Been lean this season,” he notes as he opens the bag and pulls out your carefully cut meat to inspect. “Not many other people bringing in anything. So I’ll give you a fair price.”
“You always do.”
It’s true - Gaven is one of the few members of the village who gives you fair prices and doesn’t make you argue about not getting what your services are worth. You appreciate that about him.
When he finishes wrapping each piece, he pays you out. It is a fair price and you thank him silently with a nod and a wave before heading back out, far lighter than when you came in.
The walk is easier now. You slip your hands in your pockets, cloak ripping around you as you go. You pass through the town square, watching as a team of men hoist a massive wooden carving of a creature with dark eyes, sharp canines and claws to represent the Hollow Ones into a standing position.
Turning away from them, you start down a path that leads you to the very south of the village. The tanner’s hut is about half a mile out of the village - she used to live closer, but the smell and rot of tanned hides and chemicals had finally driven the other villages to bully her further to the outskirts.
You’re inclined to agree about the smell. You wince as you approach, the smell worse than death. The scent of urine, rot and sun-baked leather is heavy in the air as you approach, near marking your eyes water. Flies linger in the yard even in winter, buzzy around Greska while she scrapes something stretched taut across a wooden frame.
“You again,” she notes, not bothering to look up. There’s only one villager around who comes here frequently. “What do you have?”
Without comment, you open the last remaining bag and pull out the stripes of hide you cleaned and rolled tight. She pockets the scraper to take the skin from you, unrolling each to hold them up and examine them against the sunless sky.
“Patchy,” she mutters. “Little thin in places. Sinew’s a bit rough, too. You rushed the skinning.”
You didn’t. You rushed the meat harvesting, but the skinning is near perfect. You don’t argue, though. There’s no point with Greska, who always finds something wrong with your goods despite being eager to buy them off of you.
She looks at you. “Three silvers.”
“They’re worth at least five.”
“Take or don’t. No one else is going to buy them from you.”
“Three silvers and two coppers.”
Grunting, she tosses the stripes of hide on her table and digs around her pockets. She holds her gnarled, acid-scared fingers out to you and you take the coins, ignoring the way the smell seems to cling to them.
Greska shoes at you. “Away with you, Demon Bride.”
Rolling your eyes, you leave her as she picks up the scraper to start her work again. It isn’t the first time she - or anyone else - has called you that, and it won’t be the last. Despite the fact that you mind your business and you provide goods and services to a handful of people in the village, your eagerness to enter the Demon Wood time and time again has never sat well with the rest of the village.
You don’t care. They don’t need to respect you - they just need to pay you for what you do. And they do, so you let the rumors wash away like water off a duck’s back, never in a mood to fight them or argue with them.
Back in town, you run through your mental list of errands. You need needles, thread and salt. The needles and thread are easy enough to buy, but you know the salt is going to be expensive - more so because Sal hates you, despite never having offended him to your knowledge.
Most of the vendors take your money without comment, but they never make small talk with you. No one asks how your day is going, no one asks what you’re up to. They know what you’re up to - hunting. Sitting in your house. Thinking about hunting. Practicing with your bow. You have no parents to take care of, no siblings to teach anything.
It’s just you, your bow, and your silence.
You don’t blame them. Once upon a time, you used to hate the way your neighbors treated you. Now, you understand their fear. How could they trust an unmarried woman who lives by herself and comes and goes from the Demon Wood as she pleases? Who wouldn’t be wary of the woman who leaves before the sun rises and comes back with blood hands smelling of death.
Surely the Hollow Ones must like you if they let you hunt in their woods so frequently. Surely you must be a demon’s bride, to walk so confidently in shadow. You’re not sure if the Hollow Ones like anyone, but it’s never been a matter of like. You just have no other skills.
You never had a mother to teach you to read or sew - sickness had taken her when you were a child. Your father only knew how to hunt and use his hands, and had passed on what he could before he became Chosen during the Hollow Moon Festival ten years ago.
Now it’s just you living in the same house he’d taught you to string a bow, patching the same holes that get a little worse every winter.
On the far side of the town square, a group of women are sitting on benches braiding dried herbs into garlands meant to hang over doors for protection the night of the Hollow Moon Festival. One of them pauses as you pass, eyes following the dried blood flaking from your boots, lips pressed together firmly.
She doesn’t say anything, at least. She lets you pass in silence, her eyes on you as you pass through the square almost entirely interrupted until someone steps in your path. You step to the side as Dawon tries to intercept you.
Dawon is tall and broad, dressed in finer clothes than you with embroidered cuffs and a velvet cloak. He’s handsome, the smile on his face charming as he tilts his head to the side to drink you in. He’s the son of the current Village Elder, the finery and access to nice things generational.
“You're out of the woods early, witch,” he smirks. He doesn’t mean it like the others do. Dawon doesn’t actually think you’re a witch, or he’d never approach you. “I admire your hard work.”
You stare at him with a blank expression. It makes him step closer to you and you refuse to move, meeting his gaze steadily. If there is one thing you’ve gotten good at, it’s not backing down from a standoff.
“You know,” Dawon sighs. “You wouldn’t have to do all the hunting and dressing and gross blood if you’d just accept my proposal. You’d be well-fed still. But clean and warm.”
“I’m warm enough, Dawon.”
He sighs. “You’re not getting any other offers, you know.”
“That is my preference.”
He frowns when you don’t back down. The charming veneer cracks and he laughs without humor. “Perhaps they’re right about you. Maybe you do belong to the demons, huh? You’d rather one of them take you than be with a respectable man.”
“The demons don’t bother me the way respectable men do.”
“Well. Then perhaps your wish will be granted and you’ll be Chosen, hm?” His smile turns razor sharp. “Like father, like daughter.”
It’s meant to hurt, but it doesn’t. You continue to stare at him unwaveringly, watching the way his handsome expression belies the mean, ugly creature beneath. Dawon could be nice, if he wanted to be. And while he doesn’t think you’re a witch, he does think you’re something to conquer, something to break like the precious horses his father breeds.
When he realizes you’re not taking the bait, his rage turns sour and he steps away from you. He looks you up and down one more time before shaking his head with a frustrated scoff before heading toward the women braiding garlands, greeting them with a booming voice.
You leave without sparing Dawon a second glance. The mention of your father being Chosen years ago should sting, but you’ve long since learned to bury that particular pain. The names of those who have been Chosen are forbidden to be uttered in the village after they depart, which makes it easier for their loved - you - to move on.
The general market is a small affair, made up of a cluster of wooden stalls draped with faded cloth awnings. Merchants call out to passerbys, their voices competing with the chatter of villagers bartering for goods. Red ribbons flutter on the stalls today, tied to posts and woven into baskets, a constant reminder of the upcoming festival.
You don’t like the festival much. Even before it took your father from you, you’d been fearful of it, clinging to his hand and watching as the village elders lit bonfires to honor the Hollow Ones before members of your community were Chosen to enter the Demon Wood and walk beyond the bells to be given to the Hollow Ones.
The festival is inescapable. It happens every year with the first moon of winter, a ritual you cannot escape. Every year, there is a day-long festival with celebrations and food and drink and parties. Every year, there is a feast with your family, the final one before you might lose a loved one. Every year, seven sacrifices are Chosen to send into the Demon Wood for the Hollow Ones.
Seven. Always seven.
You shake off the anxiety that creeps in when you think of the festival. It isn’t exactly an honor to be Chosen, but it’s not dishonorable, either. It simply just… is. The Chosen do not return and their names are wiped from the tongues of the townspeople, lest the Hollow Ones get confused and come looking for their Chosen.
The first stall you approach at the market belongs to Tian, a wiry woman with a sharp tongue and sharper eyes. Her skill is in embroidery and fashion, but she comes to markets to sell needles, thread, bolts of cloth, and other items specific to her trade.
Tian watches you warily as you pick through her table, including spools of coarse lined and bone needles. You point to a small bundle of three and three needles she’s put together as a set, keeping your expression neutral.
“Six coppers.”
It’s not the worst deal she’s ever given you, so you hand over the coin without comment and take the wares from her table. No small talk, no pleasantries, just the transaction, clean and quick. It’s how you prefer it.
The salt, as expected, is another matter entirely. Sal’s stall is at the far end of the market, and you can already see him hunched over the table with a permanent scowl. You don’t bother with greetings when he glances up at you, face turning into a scowl.
You point to a small sack of coarse salt. “Seven ounces.”
“Eight silvers.”
Your jaw tightens. “Seven ounces isn’t even worth a single silver.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“I’m not paying eight silvers for salt.” You hesitate. “I’ll pay you a single silver. You know damn well it isn’t even worth that.”
Instead of replying, he gestures for the coin, nodding. You dig into your coin purse and slap the silver on the table. He shoves the pouch of salt to you in exchange, snatching your silver off the table like you might steal it back, despite the fact that you never have. You turn away without another word, trying not to let your anger at the price get the best of you.
The walk out of the village feels lighter now, your errands done. The coins in your pocket clink softly, a small reassurance that despite having to weather the wary looks and whispers from your community, it wasn’t for nothing.
Behind you, the village fades as you cross muddy fields. Your home sits on the edge of the village’s boundary like Greska’s, but on the north side near the Demon Wood. Your father built it long before you were born for him and your mother. It’s isolated, tucked against a low hill and half-hidden by a tangle of brambles.
The door creaks as you nudge it open, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs heavy in the air. The cottage is small, with a single room, a stone hearth, a narrow bed and a rickety table where you make your arrows. You hand your bow on a peg by the door and set your bag on the table to unpack your wares.
By now, your routine is second nature. You put away the things you bought and then head to the well out back, pumping until you’ve got a full bucket enough for dinner and to clean out the bloody packs you use to transport meat.
Inside, you start a fire in the hearth. Once the flames are confident enough and the logs crack, you go about sharpening your knife. It’s the same routine every time you return home from a hunt, a rhythm that anchors you.
The silence of the cottage is heavy, but comforting. Here, you don’t have to weather the storm of insults or nicknames. Here, you don’t have to be steadily calm to Dawon’s face or hear him proposition you again and again. Here, you’re just normal. Just you. Someone who has learned to survive and carved out a life for yourself.
Your thoughts drift to the festival again as you sharpen your knife, unbidden. The Hollow Moon Festival is the one time of year your village really feels alive. Beltane is hardly as important as welcoming the winter. The bonfires will blaze high and at the end of the night, seven of you will leave your homes behind to enter the realm of the Hollow Ones.
No one knows what happens. Some people believe that the Chosen are devoured. Others believe they have transformed into Hollow Ones themselves. You’re not sure what to believe, but you know that you have a healthy respect and fear of the Hollow Ones, even if you’re not sure what they look like.
You suppose you could resent them for taking your father. It’s a game of chance, really - all eligible villagers write down their name and place it in the casket for drawing by the Village Elder. Everyone over the age of sixteen has an equal chance of being selected, and yet you imagine it's easy to hate the Hollow Ones, to blame them.
When you were younger, you did. Your father had been Chosen when you were only fifteen, leaving you behind alone in a village that was already wary of you by then. They thought it unfit of him to teach you to hunt and string a bow, passing on the only knowledge he had to his only heir. With him gone, all that was left for you to do was to follow in his steps. Hunt like him. Be wary and respectful of the woods.
The village thinks you’re equal parts stupid and brave for going into the Demon wood as often as you do. You disagree. Stupidity and bravery implies that you have a choice, and you never have. Hunting is the only thing you know, and the only skill you have to keep food on your table and the roof over your head.
It was that or starve, which doesn’t seem very brave to you at all.
Sheathing your knife, you rise from the table. With the fire going strong, you fill a pot with water to boil, tossing in herbs and a small chunk of salt and the cubed venison you’d kept for yourself. While the stew simmers, you go to your room and pour the rest of the water in a basin, peeling off your clothes to splash water across your face and neck and around your upper body, scrubbing away sweat.
Before getting in your bed, you kneel. You don’t know who you’re praying to. Don’t really believe in the Gods specifically. But you do it anyway, as much of a routine as any other part of your life.
“If you can hear me,” you whisper. “I would ask that you keep me unafraid of the dark. And that maybe… maybe I weren’t so alone. That is all.”
Simple ask completed, you rise and crawl into your bed, falling asleep wondering what happens to the Chosen.
-
Grey dawn greets you on the day of the Hollow Moon Festival. It's cold outside, the first bite of winter sharper today. You pull your cloak tighter as you step out of your cottage, shivering as the wind cuts through the fabric. The village expects your presence - though it's not necessarily welcome - and you know better than to defy tradition.
The Hollow Moon Festival is not optional. To not attend is to sentence your life to banishment into the Demon Wood anyway. You can’t remember the last time someone tried to avoid the festival all together - it just doesn’t happen anymore.
Your boots sink into frost-crusted earth as you walk the familiar path to the village. The red ribbons are tied everywhere now, wrapped around every post and window, fluttering like blood against the slate-grey sky.
The village is alive with preparations, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and roasting meat. Masks hang from stalls and doorways, crudely carved faces painted with jagged lines to confuse and mislead the Hollow Ones until the Choosing Ceremony. The festival portion of the day is meant to hide the villagers, to muddle their names and faces so the demons cannot hear or see them clearly until midnight, when you all offer yourselves freely to the demons.
It’s a bittersweet deception, a desperate celebration to ward off the inevitable.
You reach the village square where the crowd is already gathering. Children dart through the streets, their laughter sharp and fleeting. Everyone wears a mask, some simple, others elaborate, all designed to hide identities. You pull your own from your bag, slipping the plain face of a wooden wolf over your face. You tie it on, the weight of it familiar and heavy.
The square is a riot of color and sound. Bonfires roar on pyres, the heat from them melting away the threat of winter. Musicians play discordant songs on flutes and drums, the music vibrating in the air. Vendors hawk food and trinkets, their voices loud but strained.
You weave through the crowd,d keeping to yourself as you always do. No one bothers you. Most people can’t tell who you are with the mask on and you prefer it that way. Out of the hundreds of people filling the town, you’re able to blend in seamlessly, buying a skewer without the price hiked up or enjoying a sticky cake while watching a play without being whispered about.
The day passes in a blur of noise and motion. As much of a spectacle as the festival is, you sense the fear and anticipation beneath the surface. People get a little drunker than usual to fight their anxiety, they hug a little tighter just in case they don’t see friends and family in the morning, people eat a little more because they may never eat again.
Everyone holds their breath for midnight.
As dusk begins to fall, the villagers begin to drift toward their homes for their final feast. It’s a tradition meant for families, for those with loved ones to hold close before the choosing. You have no one, so you drift home along, the weight of solitude heavier than usual.
The path is quiet now, but when the wind picks up, you swear you can hear the sound of the bells from the Demon Wood. You quicken your strides, feeling that same sudden awareness like you’re being watched. Your heart picks up in speed as you walk, eyes fixated on your cottage as you go, convinced that the Hollow Ones have drawn near because of the noise and now watch you.
Your cottage is dark when you arrive, the fire having gone out. You’re quick to light a candle, the anxiety of being watched still on you like a second skin. The stew you prepared the night before is cold, but you reignite the hearth to heat it. Your fear melts away with the growing flames and the tingling sensation from the woods finally fades.
Alone, you have dinner. The silence is only broken by the crackle of the fire and the occasional howl of the wind. This is how the last decade of final feasts have gone for you, at a table with no one to smile and love, in a home of shadows and dust.
On these nights, you feel your father’s absence. You think of the dinners you used to share with him when he’d tell you stories of the wood, of hunts gone right and wrong, his voice a steady anchor even as the festival loomed over your head.
Now it's just you and the faint sound of bells carried on the wind. You hate how much you wish you weren’t alone, despite being good at it.
When your meal is done and after the sun has long since set, you prepare yourself to return. You don’t want to go - not for fear of being Chosen, but because you don’t want to watch people fade into the woods and see the way their loved ones glance at you and wish it was you instead. It is an inevitability that happens each year and you hate it most of all.
The walk back is heavy. You feel the tension tight in your shoulders and the anticipation buzzing along your skin. You keep a wary eye on the woods, the shadows beneath the elders so dark you can’t make out anything. The woods are quiet tonight, only the sound of the wind swelling in the trees accompanying you as you walk.
Ahead, the village is an orange beacon. You feel your palms sweat as you pass through the first few buildings, the air thick with wine and smoke. The bonfires burn brighter now, their light casting eerie shadows across the masked celebration.
You stay on the fringes, leaning against a wooden post to watch the revelry from behind your wolf mask. No one approaches you and you’re glad for it, instead watching with crossed arms as lovers dance and children chase one another in circles.
A familiar figure stumbles toward you, velvet cloak swaying. You’d known Dawon anywhere from the sheer size of him, but the finery and askew mask give him away. He’s drunk and flushed, his grin wide as he catches sight of you, realizing who you are beneath the mask.
“There’s my witch,” he slurs, stepping close. “Hiding in the shadows, as always.”
You don’t move. “Go away, Dawon.”
He laughs. “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s a party.”
“Then have it somewhere else.”
“Why are you so difficult? I just want to give you an easy life. Warm bed. Clean hands. No more blood.”
“I like blood. It’s honest.”
He scowls and steps closer, the scent of wine heavy on his breath. “Do you think you’re better than me? Is that what it is?”
Instead of answering, you turn to leave. You’re not looking for a fight - on this night least of all - and you’d rather leave him complaining and drunk. He reaches for you though, wrapping his hand around your wrist to tug you back.
The suddenness of it shocks you. You act without thinking, striking fast. Your fist connects with his jaw, a sharp crack that sends him stumbling back, mask flying. The villagers near the two of you go quiet, heads turning to look at him as he roars in anger. He clutches his face, cursing.
“Don’t touch me again,” you warn, voice shaking.
“You’ll regret that, you bitch!”
He doesn’t come closer, though. You see the fear in his eyes, the realization that maybe you are a witch. He cradles his face turning from you flushed red and furious, crashing through the crowd. People watch him as he goes before turning back to you, their gazes heavy.
Flexing your hand, you hiss at the pain. You hadn’t meant to punch his mask, but it had been in the way. The festival continues despite your heated exchange and you drift further into the crowd, trying to shake off the feeling Dawon left hanging over you like a cloak.
When the bell tower finally chimes twelve, the music fades and the crowd begins to quiet. Swaths of people begin moving toward the main road in a massive procession toward the edge of the village. You join them, moving with the other eligible villagers. The eligible are everyone sixteen and older, no exceptions. Illness, status, marriage - none of it matters for the choosing ceremony. The Hollow Ones want the Chosen, they don’t care who they are.
A group of preteens cut through the crowd, carrying a large wooden casket with the. You watch as they walk by taking the contraption to the area marked off for the Choosing Ceremony at the edge of the Demon Wood. They vanish as the crowd surrounds them, following them to the large ring of torches up ahead.
Several lines form for the Choosing Ceremony. You pick one at random, standing in line with the cold wind snapping at your cloak to sign your name on a piece of paper before dropping it into the casket that the younger teens were carrying. From that casket, seven names will be drawn. You could be one of them. You could not be.
The Demon Wood looms dark and silent. The bells drift on the wind. No one speaks. You feel the hair on the back of your neck tingle as you near a table where you’ll write your name and take off your mask. Slowly, you turn your head to scan the line of dark elder trees. You see nothing, but it doesn’t mean that there isn’t something who sees you.
Someone behind you grunts to move forward. You blink, realizing it's your turn to write your name and take off your mask. You pull off the wolf face first, discarding it in the pile of faces and animal heads next to you. With shaking hands, you scrawl your name on a piece of parchment and fold it, drifting forward to drop it into the casket with hundreds of other pieces of paper already.
Finished, you join the other villagers among the semicircle of torches. Ahead, you see the Village Elder - Dawon’s grandfather - waiting with his arms linked behind his back, ghoulish in the flickering orange light. Seeing him makes you uneasy.
Tension ripples through the crowd when the group of teens lift the casket once more and bring it forth until they place it at the Village Elders feet. He raises his hands to quiet the crowd, but no one is speaking, the tension crackling in the air.
Your heart hammers in your chest and you twist your fingers in your cloak to steady them. You’re not sure if you’re afraid of being Chosen. You’re also not not afraid, you suppose. Still, you watch with held breath, that needle thin feeling prodding at you as the Village Elder stoops low, closing his eyes to drag his hand through the casket.
The hush of papers against his hand is grating. He removes the first strip of paper, his wrinkled hands unraveling the folds. He holds it close to his eyes, aided by the torches to read the scrawled writing across the paper.
“Lira Varn,” he announces, his voice carrying.
A tolling bell echoes over the crowd and you flinch. Your voice is lost with the unanimous chant of the crowd muttering, “One for the Hollow, six to follow.”
Lira, a young woman with dark hair, steps forward. Her face is impassive but her mouth is pinched tight. She balls her fists in her dress, moving to stand next to the elder. She looks at the ground, refusing to look up at the crowd or the Demon Wood.
The Elder pulls another name and the crowd chants. Two for the Hallow five to follow. Then another. Each time, the bell rings, and the chant follows. Five names are called, each one bringing more tension than the last, a mix of hope and terror as the list winds down.
A sixth name is called. The bell tolls and the chant follows. The pressure in your chest begins to ease, but the feeling of being watched does not. You feel it now more than ever, the sharp instinct of someone staring at you in the woods. It makes your stomach twist as the Elder reaches into the casket and pulls the final piece of paper, unfolding it.
Your name echoes in the torchlight.
Heads turn your direction as the bell tolls over your head. You feel the world tilt, like you might lose balance, and yet you find yourself walking forward as the rest of the village chants around you. You feel as though you’re walking on a knife's edge, ready to tip over if you step wrong.
Your heart hammers and you feel sweat slick the back of your neck despite the chill. You join the line of six standing in the torchlight, blinking. The world takes on a strange, echoing quality to it, like you’re experiencing everything with a body that isn’t quite your own.
The Elder doesn’t speak when he hands you a robe. It doesn’t feel like your hands that take it from him or your hands that wrap it around your shoulders. Doesn’t feel like your eyes when you look up to see the red of your new cloak and the green of your old disposed at your feet.
You faintly wonder who your home passes on to. There’s no one to inherit it. You wish you’d brought your bow. Not that you can take it with you, but you think it might be nice to feel the twine of the string one more time, feel the way the wood vibrates after firing an arrow.
No one speaks. No farewells are allowed here. Fate has made its choice, and you and the other six Chosen are expected to make your final walk through the Demon Wood and past the bells. The Elder walks in front of each of you, silent blessing you a final time with a press of a thumb to the forehead.
When he reaches you, he grins. The wickedness of his smile sticks with you even as you turn to face the wood, the dark path unwinding before you, invisible among the darkness of the elder trees. You glance at the others - you don’t know them. Not well, anyway.
You say nothing.
Ahead, there is only the Demon Wood, but no one moves. Though you were Chosen last, you suck in a breath and you are the first to begin your walk. You put one foot in front of the other, nearing the darkness of the woods, lifting your chin to meet it head on.
You’ve been in these woods countless times before, even at night. It feels different now, though. Heavier. Deadlier. You pass the first line of trees, glancing to your right to see that haltingly, the other Chosen have begun to follow you. They cluster together and though they don’t speak, their fear is palpable as they let you take the lead.
A presence presses against you as you move further into the trees. It’s nearly impossible to see more than a few feet in front of you, the moon above hidden by clouds and branches. You stumble on a root but catch yourself, palm scraping against bark.
Someone behind you is crying. You don’t turn around, moving slowly through the trees like you have hundreds of times before. You follow the sound of chiming bells, their silver voices singing on a dread wind. The air is colder here and the darkness feels like a living thing that presses against your skin, thick and suffocating.
Your red robe drags through the underbrush as the light from the torches fade behind you. The elder trees loom taller as you walk deeper into the wood. You know it’s about a third of a mile walk to where the bells begin. The bells aren’t the marker for the end of the forest, but they’re a warning that should you pass them, you’re free to take at the Hollow One’s pleasure.
The others follow your deliberate step, your hunter’s instincts guiding you over uneven ground. The chiming of the bells grows louder, goosebumps skating over your skin as you draw nearer. Someone breathes raggedly behind you, the fear palpable.
You keep your cool, not letting your thundering heart get the best of you, despite the fact that you feel the wood watching you again. The unseen eyes feel closer than ever, a heavy weight on you as you move in your small procession.
The path is no path at all, just a winding suggestion through the trees. The air is heavy with the scent of rot, of things long dead and buried beneath the earth. You pass a tree with peeled back bark, revealing sap that is frozen in the cold.
Behind you, someone breaks and cries harder with a soft, hiccuping sob. You don’t know which of the other Chosen it is, but the voice sounds like an older man. His footsteps falter, and you hear him stumble and gasp as he catches himself on a tree.
“Fuck this,” the man cries. “I’m not going!”
You turn to see his shadow bolt into the dark, his red robe snapping behind him. He crashes through the underbrush, loud and uncoordinated. You wince as he tries to make his escape and-
His scream splits the night. You freeze, your blood going cold. The other Chosen don’t move, all of you snapping toward the sound of the man’s terror. It cuts off abruptly, only the sound of the bells chiming in the heavy silence.
A branch snaps and it turns into chaos. Chosen try to run and you step out of their way. The girl next to you - you realize it was the first girl Chosen, Lira - grabs your wrist in panic, her eyes white. You grab her wrist, grip firm as you tug her toward you and out of the way of a woman running by.
“Don’t run,” you warn. “It won’t help.”
Two of the other Chosen run, both of them vanishing before they get cut off with a horrible scream. The remaining Chosen huddle behind you, shaking. Convenient that they trust you now, but perhaps not before, when you were an outcast.
The air turns thick. You don’t look back. You can’t. The bells are louder now, a silver chorus that pulls you forward, each note a hook in your ribs. Lira shakes her head and lets go of you, stepping away, back toward the village. You open your mouth to tell her not to move, but it’s too late.
A wet, tearing sound rips through the dark and Lira makes a small, animal noise. Something drags her back by the ankle and she hits the ground hard. You catch only a flash of her pale fingers clawing at the moss, nails breaking, before the darkness swallows her. No scream. No sound. Just the soft pop of bone breaking and the soft, guttural sound of a choke. The scent that follows turns your stomach over, iron and wet earth, laced with something sweeter like fruit left to rot.
The two men left try to bolt in opposite directions, screams of terror piercing. The one on your right makes it three steps, his foot catching on a root as he pitches forward. You hear the impact and the grunt, followed by something uncoiling. There’s a low, wet hiss and his red robe flutters upward, caught on something you can’t see before he’s yanked down and toward roots, screaming all the way.
On your left, the other man crashes through the trees. You don’t follow, watching him in mute horror as he plunges through the trees. You barely catch a shadow peel off a tree, unfolding until it crashes into him. The man’s scream is cut short, a crunch silencing him.
For a few moments, you don’t move. You stand shaking, a cool wind making your robe flutter around you. The bells sing, calling to you.
You keep walking
The path narrows. The trees press closer, their trunks slick with sap that glows faintly. The ground beneath your boots is no longer dirt, but something softer and springier. You don’t look down, focusing on the bells. They’re closer now, a wall of sound that vibrates your teeth.
Something brushes your cheek. You flinch but it doesn’t feel sharp or threatening - it’s soft, a caress. Something fond. When you turn your head, it’s gone, but the sensation lingers like a fingertip dragged across your skin.
The air is heavier here, thick with the scent of crushed petals and old blood. Your robe drags, snagging on roots that weren’t there a moment ago. A whisper curls in your ears and you shiver - there are no words to it, more like a breath. Cold. You feel it in your spine, a shiver that isn’t fear but recognition.
The woods know you.
So you keep walking.
The bells are deafening now, a storm of silver. You push through the last bit of darkness and see the edge of the forest, the dark light on the other side. Your steps quicken and you push through, looking up as you begin to walk under silver bells.
Gods, the bells. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. They look like they’re strung on threads of moonlight, hanging from branches that stretch into a sky you can’t see. They sway with the wind, ringing in overlapping waves that make the air vibrate, your vision blurring. It feels like you’re stuck in a space in between, the pressure of two invisible walls pushing and pushing, making your ears pop until you move.
You step out of the forest and it stops.
The air changes. Warmer. Sweeter. The bells aren’t as loud on this side of the forest, though you don’t dare turn back to look at them.
On this side of the forest, the grass is silver-blue and ankle-deep, each blade edged with faint light. Flowers with petals like stained glass pulse softly, motes of gold drifting from their throats. The sky above is velvet black but all wrong, two moons suspended in the sky, one bone white, one blood red.
A black cat blinks at you. You stare at it. It’s small and sleek, unremarkable except for its eyes - molten gold ringed in green, ancient and amused. It blinks again, and you feel the weight of its expectation press on you like a conscious thought. It turns and without a sound, it pads away.
You know immediately to follow.
The path it takes isn’t a path at all - you watch, mouth open as the grass parts for the cat and closes behind you. You spin around, watching as it stitches back together like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Craning your neck, you look at the small lights around the trees and realize they’re small things - creatures - with too many legs and wings like shattered mirrors.
You walk until the bells are a distant memory and the two moons are directly overhead. The cat leading you stops at the lip of a shallow basin you hadn’t noticed. You carefully approach, leaning to look onto the basin. At its bottom is a pool so dark it reflects nothing - not even the moons.
Licking your lips, you look back up at the cat. Its eyes flicker, and a voice - not a sound, but a thought - unfurls in your mind.
You kept your footing when the others broke. You did not run. You did not beg. Name your price, huntress.
Suddenly, you understand. This is a bargain. You held up your end of the deal by walking all the way through the woods, and this is the other end of a deal. A reward for doing it.
The pool ripples though there is no wind. On its surface, you see your cottage - cold, dark, empty. Then the village square with Dawon, his sneer present. Then the woods you know, arrow nocked, heart steady.
“I want,” you say slowly. “To not be alone. To never be afraid of the dark. To… be someone’s equal.”
The cat purrs, blinking once. Done.
It stands and stretches briefly before slipping down the basin and sliding into the pool. It doesn't sink - it walks across the surface like glass, each step leaving a ring of silver fire. When it reaches the center, it turns to look at you one last time.
He waits for you. One who has waited for a companion. One who never fears the dark. One who is equal.
Behind you, the bells sound. Your skin tingles and you turn to look over your shoulder. You cannot see the edge of the woods where you came from. Only strange trees and those strange moons, with grass that ripples in an invisible breeze.
When you turn back, the cat is gone.
In its place stands a man. His eyes are the color of night, his hair inky, bangs falling in his face. His skin is tawny gold, smooth and unmarred. He’s beautiful in a terrifying way, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and lips curved in a faint smile. He’s in a midnight silk tunic, embroidered with faint silver vines that shift when he breathes and a cloak of shadow that pools at his feet like spilled ink.
A Hollow One.
He doesn’t move. He simply watches you, head tilted, as though you are the strangest creature here, not him. There’s no malice in it, but you feel your heart spike. His gaze feels like the same weight that has followed you in the woods for years. Familiar. Prickling. The sensation should terrify you, but it doesn’t - that feeling of being watched is suddenly the most trusted thing here, the only thing familiar to you.
In one fluid motion, he holds his hand out to you, beckoning.
He waits for you. One who has waited for a companion. One who never fears the dark. One who is equal.
You feel it in your chest first, a tiny tug toward him. Your feet move before your mind catches up, one step and then two. You slide down the shallow basin to the surface of the pool, expecting to land with a splash but you don’t.
The dark surface holds, cool and firm beneath your boots, rippling only when you move. You let out a breathless laugh, delighted when you see sparks of silver ripple across the surface when you take a step. It’s beautiful - whatever this is. You look up to see the man smirking at you, watching as you approach.
His eyes never leave yours and when you step up closer to him, you realize his eyes aren't just inky black - there are flecks of amethyst and silver there, so beautiful that you stumble over your own steps. It seems to amuse him, a single brow raising as you stop in front of him. You realize there are freckles littered across the bridge of his nose, strangely boyish on such a regal face.
His hand is still outstretched to you. Slowly, you lift your hand and place yours in his, fingers shaking. His palm is warmer than you expect, and you feel a spark of fire go through the touch, making you flinch. His smirk spreads into a full smile as he wraps his fingers in yours, lowering your joined hands to tug you closer. He smells like cedar and something else warm, calming.
“Come.”
Turning, he leads you and you step with him, the velvet of his voice drawing you forward.
The forest beyond the basin is not the Demon Wood. The trees here are ancient and colossal, their trunks pale as birch but veined with threads of light that pulse like living arteries. Their leaves are silver on one side, black on the other, and when the wind moves through them, they chime softly - just like the bells in the Demon Wood.
The tingle you always feel in the Demon Wood returns, that needle-thin awareness at the nape of your neck. You glance at the man who leads you by the hand and the sensation grows stronger.
Mist hangs heavy in the air. Here, the air smells sweeter, and with something dark and crackling that you can’t place. The air is even foreign, a sensation buzzing along your skin that is entirely alien to you, but not unpleasant. Your hand is still in his, fingers interlaced with a warmth that seeps into your bones.
The Hollow One leads you through the shadowed wood, his grip firm but comforting, like you could pull away if you wanted to. You don’t, though. You can’t explain the sudden pull to him, but you stick close, feeling the subtle thrum in his palm.
Beyond the bells is strange. The trees here are impossibly tall, their trunk pale as moonlit bone. Strange dark veins ripple through them, pulsing faintly like blood through arteries. The bark is smooth under your freehand when you brush one for balance and you snatch your hand away, gasping when you feel the buzz of presence.
“Mind the trees,” the Hollow One murmurs. “They're alive in ways yours are not, and they like pretty things like you.”
You glance at the tree, alarmed. He laughs and tugs you along, though you avoid the trees now, looking at them suspiciously.
Inky black leaves rustle overhead. When they turn on the breeze, you hear faint chimes, different from the bells with a much higher, eerie voice. The ground beneath your boots is springy, carpeted in silver-blue grass that parts for your steps and closes behind you like it had for the cat.
Shadows move in your periphery. You catch glimpses of things in the trees. They’re not animals - not quite. Elongated limbs unfolding from branches, eyes like shattered stars glinting in the dark. A shape slithers between trunks, too fluid with too many joints, and you think of the shadows that attacked in the Demon Wood, your stomach flipping as you step a bit closer to the man who walks with you.
Fractured moonlight pierces the trees occasionally. You catch snatches of the twin moons, one red, one white, as you pass under the shade of the tree, two watchful guardians as you move deeper and deeper into the wood. The air changes, the pressure firmer here, buzzing against you as you delve into the shadows.
Your breath hitches. Your shoulder brushes the man’s arm. His thumb strokes once across the back of your hand, a reassuring gesture that grounds you. You stay close, the heat of his body a beacon in the strange dark.
Finally, the trees thin. The air grows warmer and sweeter, like crushed petals and ripe fruit. He slows, releasing your hand to gesture ahead with a graceful sweep of his arm. You step past him haltingly into a private glade, and you let out a sigh of relief you didn’t know you were holding.
It feels like a sanctuary. The grass here is thicker, shimmering like spun moonlight. In the center, a shallow pool mirrors the moons perfectly, its surface undisturbed but edged with faint ripples. Around it, flowers bloom in impossible colors with petals like stained glass, throats pulsing softly with light.
Here, the air hums with light. The Hollow One watches you take it in, his expression unreadable but intense. His amethyst-flecked eyes never leave your face and suddenly you feel exposed under that gaze, shifting from foot to foot.
You turn to him, the air between you crackling with something you can’t name. Your skin still prickles where you’d held hands, and you ache to reach out and touch him again, to feel the same warmth. You can’t explain this draw to him, the way your body instinctually wants to lean in, the magnetic pull that you fight so hard.
He smirks like he senses your plight and steps toward you. “I’m Chan,” he murmurs. “King of the Court of Two Moons. I’ve waited centuries for someone like you. An equal.”
The words hang heavy between you and your heart stutters. Centuries. The weight of it presesses on you, the thought of something being centuries old - and the thought of it waiting for you. Suddenly, you’re reminded of all those times you prayed not to be alone, and you wonder if finally, someone has answered.
Still, your fear is still recent, the tang of blood on your tongue as fresh as the echoes of screams in your mind. You swallow, looking at him cautiously.
“What happened in the Demon Wood?” You whisper, eyes darting to the trees. “When the Chosen ran?”
Chan’s expression darks with something you think might be regret. “Centuries ago, your village struck a bargain with us to keep us out of your world. They send us seven Chosen who willingly come into our land to live with us, and we stay away from your village. To run away as a Chosen is to break the bargain, and you cannot break a bargain with the fae.”
“What’s that word?” you ask.
“Which?”
“Fae.”
“Ah.” He smiles. “It’s what your people call the Hollow Ones. They have no concept of the fae and the Fae Realm, and thus have fashioned our like in the best folktale they can. Demons they call us. We are not.”
You blink. “So this realm is different from mine and you’re not supposed to come to mine.”
“You’re smart. Yes, the Demon Wood is a threshold, a veil between worlds. What your village fears are demons are the fae, beings of shadow and light, bargain and balance.” His eyes sparkle. “This realm is ours, though. Eternal and unchanging and yet ever-shifting.”
“Do you cross into my realm anyway?” you ask, suspicious.
“We linger only in the wood. The wood is ours, not yours. And since the Chosen never make it across to fulfill their end of the bargain… we take from the wood as we please.”
“So I have been at risk any time I enter the woods.”
“Yes. That is why we have the bells. To stray beyond the bells is to stray too far. You have a chance in the woods. You do not go beyond the bells.” He pauses. “You’re different, though. A huntress. The fae respect that.”
You think of the woods. Of the way that the others ran, screaming. Snatched. Broken. A knife of fear presses into your ribs when you realize how close you strayed to this realm before, how you walked through the wood with creatures like that a step behind. You’d always known you weren’t the apex predator, but the thought unsettles you.
Chan lifts a hand, brushing the curve of your forehead. The touch is feather-like but electric, and your eyes flutter as you lean into it, unthinking. You think of that awareness you sometimes had while hunting, the way you could feel something watching. Waiting.
You feel that same pressure now, like a kiss at the back of your neck as Chan stands next to you.
“You feel familiar,” you admit. “Like I know you.”
“Don’t you? You’ve felt my gaze, huntress.”
Your skin prickles. The realization should terrify you, but instead, it sends a thrill through you. When you hunt, you’re the most honest version of yourself. No one has ever seen you like that - truly seen you. Glancing at Chan, you suspect that he has, if his is the gaze that’s been on you this entire time.
“I admire you,” he admits. His fingers trail down your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You take but you also give. You hunt with respect, and you whisper thanks to the fallen. You try to maintain a balance in a world that offers none.”
His words land. You think of the way you bring back meat to the butchers, skins to the tannery, bones to carvers. Despite your villagers hating you at each turn, you brin them what you need. Accept whatever they give you. Keep the cycle going. You’d never seen it as a balance impossible to maintain until now.
“You gained all that through simple observation of me hunting?” you ask.
He grins and you notice pointed teeth. “I did. Am I wrong?”
“No, I guess not.”
In the low light of the moons, you examine Chan. The freckles on his nose are so faint, but they make him look human. Boyish, even. He lets you examine him, tilting his head as his pupils expand a little, drinking you in. The light of the white moon hits his hair just right and you make a sound of surprise when you realize that there are two small, velvet horns on his head, half hidden by his wavy hair.
“You have horns!”
He grins. “Gift from my mothers line. Court of the Hunt. They grow with age. Mine are small because I’m young. “For a fae.”
“May I?”
His grin grows and he bows his head toward you. You smile, emboldened, and reach out to brush your fingers along the velvet curve of one horn. It’s warm, soft as suede. Chan stills, breath caching as you trace the spiral to the tip. A shiver ripples through him and he makes a sound at the back of his throat.
“Pretty,” you murmur.
His exhale is shaky. “You’ll be the death of me, huntress.”
“Hardly. I suspect you’re the predator here, not me.”
“You don’t understand,” he says, voice thick with strain. “My soul has ached for you. For the equal who sees the world as I do. It is taking more restraint than you can fathom right now to keep my hands off you.”
Your breath catches. Heart thundering, you drop your hand from his hair, staring up at him. You see it now, the way his breathing is more labored, the wildness behind his eyes, the way his fingers flex. No one in your village ever wanted you, but Chan does. Visibly.
The realization ignites a fire in you. You’ve never wanted to be desired more than you do in this moment. Years of being alone, of being rejected, of only being desired by Dawon as something to conquer and own - you hadn’t realized that it hollowed you out, craving so much for someone to see you, to understand you, to want you despite the blood and the strangeness.
And he’s standing in front of you. Strange. Terrifying. But honest.
Licking your lips, you whisper, “So don’t restrain yourself.”
The tension snaps taut, a bowstring drawn to its limit. Your heart is pounding, body thrumming with need you can’t name but feel so strongly it makes you dizzy. His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up, dark and hungry, hesitant, like he’s unsure you’re being honest, like you might back out and run away like the other Chosen.
“Chan,” you whisper.
It’s all he needs. He closes the distance and presses his mouth to yours. His kiss is fire, slow at first but burning hotter as it turns deeper and hungrier. His hand cups your jaw as he angles your head, tongue sweeping past the seam of your lips to claim yours.
You melt into it, hands fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer. You make a pathetic noise in the back of your throat and he nearly grows, mouth turning frantic, swallowing the sound.
Chan breaks the kiss kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, lips wet and warm and wanting, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin and make you gasp.
“Let me worship you,” he pants. “Like no one ever has and you’ve always wanted. As my equal deserves.”
You nod, breathless, and he guides you down onto the soft grass, the silver-blue blades cradling you as you lean back. His hands roam, pushing your red robe open, leaving you in just your plain clothes. You arch when his thigh slides between yours, firm and unyielding.
Chan leans over you, pressing kisses everywhere your skin is exposed, peppering your neck and collarbones. Your breath stutters, your hands tangling in the collar of his tunic, gasping as he bites and nips your skin. You’ve never felt like this before, each brush of his mouth sending you into a frenzy, your skin overheating and the ache between your legs so bad you start to whine.
He grins, pressing a wet, sloppy kiss beneath your ear. He guides his hands to your hips and places his knee against your aching core, kept apart only by the fabric of both of your trousers. “Grind on me, huntress. Take your pleasure.”
The friction is immediate, but not enough. You rock against his thigh, feeling your arousal as it soaks through your pants as he helps guide you. Your gut tightens and you twitch, chasing a feeling that is foreign to you but you want more of.
Chan watches you, transfixed, his hands on your hips guiding but not forcing, letting you set the pace as you find what you like, chasing the way grinding down onto him makes you feel. He bites his lower lip, sharp canines glinting in the light as he watches you, entranced.
He looks at you like you’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen and it makes your throat tighten with emotion.
Tension coils in your stomach and you whine, tossing your head to the side. He takes the opportunity to lean down, dragging his sharp teeth along your jaw, sucking little bites into your skin, tongue soothing the sting each time.
It feels so good, you feel something in you snap. Your thighs clamp around his knee as you convulse, a ripple of pleasure vibrating through you. You can barely breath, panting fiercely as the tremor holds you for a few seconds, your pleasure peaking before it relaxes and you suck in a harsh breath, shivering.
Chan doesn’t let you recover. His hands grip the sides of your pants and pull. You make a small sound of surprise as the cool air hits your warm, sticky cunt, thighs still trembling with the heat of your orgasm.
With a growl, he shifts lower, pushing your legs again. His mouth descends, kissing the inside of your thighs briefly, a soft groan escaping his lips as he leans down and presses his tongue to your pussy. You make a high pitched sound, twisting in his hands but he holds you firm as his tongue presses to your entrance.
You mumble his name, the sound stuck in your throat as your eyelids flutter. It feels so fucking good. He licks at you hungrily, tongue delving into your folds, tracing you from hole to clit before sucking your clit in his mouth gently. You writhe in his hands, the ambient sounds of the glade replace with the wet sounds of his mouth sucking at you, hands pinning you wide.
Chan is relentless. You babble his name, barely able to breath, fingers scrabbling in the grass, in his hair. Your fingers brush along the velvet horns and Chan whimpers, the sound so desperate and broken that you do it again, holding him to you. His mouth turns feverish, his moans vibrating against your clit, making your spine tingle.
“Come on my tongue,” he begs, voice muffled and wet between your legs. “Let me drink you down”
You do. Hard. Your back bows, thighs clamping around his head as you come again, gushing over his chin. He laps it up like it’s nectar, tongue gentling only when you’re shaking, whimpering, utterly spent.
Chan rises, licking his lips, eyes feral. He sheds his clothes with impatient tugs, ripping off his trousers, boots, everything. You lay panting beneath him, staring up at him with a dizzy head, skin sweaty. His hands tear at your shirt, peeling the fabric away from you, the cool night kissing your skin and pebbling your nipples as you shiver.
His cock is thick, flushed dark, a bead of precome glistening at the tip. You reach for it, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
“Watch,” he growls.
Chan’s fingers hover at your entrance, tracing lightly. You suck in a sharp breath and he grins, but his eyes are trapped between your bodies as he presses a finger into your cunt, slow and deliberate. He curls his finger, pressing against your front wall with a precision that makes your hips jerk.
“So fucking tight,” he mutters, starting to fuck you gently with his finger.
His thumb brushes over your clit in a lazy circle that sends sparks shooting up your thighs. You’re already dripping, cum coating his knuckles, dripping down onto the grass. He presses in another finger, making you gasp as he twists his wrist, curling both of them hard against that spot inside of you that has you seeing stars.
Your back comes off the ground, a broken moan tearing from your throat. He adds a third finger without warning, the stretch hard but good. His free hand pins your thighs open and he leans down to spit on your pussy, adding to the mess. You breathe his name, trembling.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “Taking my fingers so well.”
You whimper and he shushes you with a kiss, sucking your tongue into his mouth. He draws another orgasm from you like that, desperate and broken and trembling. He grins against your lips, working you through it before he pulls his fingers from you with a wet pop.
Chan lifts his fingers to his mouth, pressing them in. He sucks at them greedily, tongue rolling around his digits before he pulls them out and sits up to wrap his hands around his cock. He strokes himself once, twice, slow and filthy, letting you see every inch. Then he notches the head at your entrance teasingly before dragging it up through your slick folds, coating himself. You whine, hips bucking, but he holds you still.
It feels glorious. You breath shakily beneath him, the feeling of his slick cockhead rubbing against your clip making you twitch and whimper. He watches you with fucked out eyes, a feral grin on his face, loving the way you lose it for him, loving having this effect on you with just the barest hint of wet friction.
“Please,” you beg. “Please I can’t.”
“Anything for you, huntress.”
Chan presses the head of his cock to your entrance and pushes in. You let out a loud sound and he swallows it with his mouth. He sinks in. Slow. Agonizing. Inch by inch, stretching you open until you’re impossibly full. The burn is exquisite, the drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks up your spine. When he bottoms out, he pauses, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.
When he starts to move, the world tilts. He moves slow, deep thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you. His free hand slides under your hips, tilting you so he grinds against your clit with every stroke. The pace is maddening, hard enough to jolt your whole body, slow enough to make you feel every ridge and vein of his cock.
His name leaves your mouth. You’d never known his name before now, but you think you’ve known him this entire time. Every hunt. Every time that awareness pinned you down. Every time you suddenly felt not so alone. It was Chan the whole time, a guardian, an equal, waiting and watching.
He releases your wrists to grip your throat, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. Not choking, just claiming. His other hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles that match his thrusts. You clench around him, seizing up and he gives a deep groan, shaking as he fucks you.
“Come for me again,” he pants. “Come on my cock, huntress.”
You do. You shatter around him, clenching so hard he groans, hips stuttering. He fucks you through it, relentless, until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, and still he doesn’t stop, the wet snap of his hips messy and loud as he grips your ass in his hands, pulling you down onto him.
Chan pulls out with a wet pop, making you gasp. He doesn’t give you a second to breathe, flipping you gently to lay on your stomach. He lifts your hips up as the smell of damp earth and soil hits you. He presses his cock into you from behind in a single push and you writhe, fingers digging into the ground.
The new angle is devastating. He hits deeper, harder, the head of his cock dragging against your front wall with every snap of his hips. One hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back so he can lick a stripe up your spine. The other snakes around to rub your clit again, mercilessly.
“So perfect for me,” he pants. “My perfect huntress. Fuck I’ve wanted you for so long, wanted to taste you, wanted to feel this fucking cunt squeeze my cock, to come undone.”
“Fuck,” you cry, out.
“Come on,” he pants. “You can come for me again. You were made for me, mine.”
You’re beyond words, reduced to whimpers and moans. The pleasure is too much, too sharp, but you chase it anyway, grinding back against him, meeting every thrust. The glade spins, moons blurring overhead.
When you come this time, it’s with a scream that echoes through the trees. Your whole body convulses, walls fluttering around him, pulling him deeper. Chan follows with a guttural groan, spilling hot inside you, hips jerking as he rides out his release.
Chan pulls out slowly, watching his come drip from you, and flips you onto your back again. His cock is still hard, slick with both of you, and he strokes it lazily as he spreads your thighs wide.
“What a pretty pussy,” he teases. “Can you take it again? For me?” You nod and he bites his bottom lip, nodding. “Yeah? Of course you can. I’ll give it to you in a second, yeah? Want to taste you more.”
When his mouth settles over your messy core, it’s soft and opened mouth, a lazy kiss. The flat of his tongue drags up your folds in one long, indulgent lick, gathering the mess he made with a low, satisfied hum.
Chan is unhurried, savoring every drop. He avoids your clit, letting you relax, going boneless. His tongue traces your tight entrance, laughing at the way you clench around nothing, zigzagging back up until he finally sucks your clit gently into his mouth, tongue sweeping over it before he releases, letting the cool air hit your wet heat before he presses a kiss to you again.
Only when your thighs stop trembling, when your breath events out and your fingers loosen in his hair does he press one final, lingering kiss to your clit. He lifts his head, lips glossy, eyes half-lidded. “There. Now you can take me again.”
When he slides back in, he’s slower this time, savoring the way you flutter around him. The pace is languid, long, deep strokes that make you feel every inch. His mouth finds your breast, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.
Your hands slide into his hair, pulling his mouth to your lips. The kiss is messy and claiming, the faint taste of your arousal on his tongue. Your fingers brush against his horns again and he gives that same, desperate whimper that you crave.
“Careful,” he whispers shakily. “Senstive.”
You grin, content to pull at his hair and brush your fingers to the base of his horns as he drives you to the brink of madness again, every nerve exposed like a live wire. You’re beyond sensitivity now, every touch electric. The pleasure builds slowly and relentlessly, coiling tighter and tighter until you’re trembling, tears pricking your eyes. Chan kisses them away, murmuring praise against your skin.
“So good for me. So perfect. My huntress. My queen. My equal.”
My queen makes your heart stutter. You come again, gentle this time. It’s a slow, rolling wave that leaves you boneless, gasping his name. He follows seconds later, burning himself deep into you, spilling with your name - your real name - reverent on his lips.
For a few seconds, you lay joined together, both catch your breath, the world swimming and blurry as you recover. Slowly, he pulls himself out and lays next to you, breathing hard.
The glade hums around you. Flowers close their petals, motes of gold drifting down like snow. Chan pulls you into his arms, your back to his chest, the sheen of sweat sticky but not unpleasant between you. He kisses your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear. His proximity buzzes against you like a second skin.
“Thank you for being brave enough to come to me, huntress,” he murmurs. The words send a shiver through your spine.
The glade settles into a hush around you. Chan’s heart beats against your back, warm and real. Above, the two moons hang directly overhead, casting twin halos across the glade. Their light drips down your sweat-slick skin in white and red streaks, pooling in the dip of your waist where Chan’s thigh hooks over yours to pull you closer.
You laugh as he nuzzles you, skin buzzing at the affection you dreamed of having. Minutes pass. Or hours. Time here is slippery, but you don’t mind, content to lay with him - someone who sees you. Chan’s fingers trace idle patterns along your hip, lazy spirals, then sharper lines. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, stirring the fine hairs there.
Eventually, Chan’s hand stills on your hip. “This place,” he says, “is called the Hollow Basin. It’s older than my court. Older than the moons, some say.” A pause. His fingers resume their tracing, slower now. “It’s a place where time is slower, meant for those who have lost time.”
You turn your head just enough to see the edge of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. “What time have you lost?”
“Plenty. Centuries of it, watching the threshold between our worlds. Waiting for someone who wouldn’t run.” His eyes flicker. “They all ran. Centuries of them. And then you didn’t.”
“I felt you as I walked. It brought me comfort.”
“I hoped that it would.”
You swallow, throat raw. “Tell me about your court.”
“This is the Court of Two Moons. Night is our kingdom. Day exists elsewhere. The red moon is our hunger. The white is our content. They orbit each other, always in balance.” He levels a look at you, meaningful. “Equals.”
You smile. “What are the other courts?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’ve been alone for a long time. Talking is nice.”
He squeezes you tightly to him. “You’ll never be alone again. Never.”
“Good. Tell me about the others.”
“There are six courts in total. Five others, far beyond the edge of mine. We each have a threshold - your Demon Wood is only one. A seam. We’re not demons, as your people call us. Mortals simply lack the understanding of the beings here.”
Chan shifts, rolling you gently so you’re facing him. “Tell me about your hunting,” he says, voice almost a whisper. “About your first kill.”
You smile. “I was twelve. It was a rabbit, and my father made me skin it myself. I cried, and he didn’t comfort me. He told me the world doesn’t comfort, it teaches and at first, I hated him for it. Then I understood.”
Chan nods. “My first was a shadow-wolf, larger than a horse. It had taken three of my court. I was eleven and angry, and when I killed it, my mother wept. Not for the wolf, but because I had done it in anger.”
You think about how poorly the villagers treated you. About Dawon lashing out. “Doing things in anger is slow poison.”
“It is.” He watches you thoughtfully. “You remind me of my mother, in a way.”
“That so?”
“She’s queen of the Court of the Hunt. Fierce with a bow. Wary, but brave. She would like you.”
You slide a hand between the two of you to trace his jaw with your fingers. You watch his lashes flutter shut for a moment, enjoying your attention. His skin is smooth and warm as you drag your fingers across the slope of his jaw and then his cheeks, brushing the freckles.
“Tell me more about you,” he whispers. “I like listening to you.
“You watched me. You probably already know everything there is to know.”
“I saw the surface. I saw you thank your kills. The way you minded the bells but didn’t fear them. Saw the way you punched that fool in the square.” There’s a flicker of amusement there. “Saw the way you were treated. I did not, however, see what was going on in that head of yours. That is a magic I don’t possesses.”
You swallow around his words, throat thick. “I didn’t think much. I just… did. Routine. Hunted. Sold what I had. Lived. I… often asked for someone who wouldn’t flinch when I came out of the woods covered in blood. Sounds stupid when I say it outloud.”
“Not stupid. Honest.”
“I liked the quiet. The way the woods were cool at dawn. I liked being good at something, at being necessary even if no one thanked me for it.”
Chan is quiet. You glance at him to see he’s watching you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are brighter than ever.
“I hated the festival,” you admit. “Hated the masks, the way everyone pretended they weren’t afraid. I hated Dawon. Hated the way the village needed me but never wanted me.”
The truth of the words being said out loud is a weight lifted from your shoulders. You hadn’t realized you were carrying the weight at all, but as you lay in the moonlight with him, you realize how badly you needed to say them, how they were poison in your gut.
“I hated being alone. But I was good at it,” you admit.
“You’re not alone now.”
You glance at him. “I’m glad.”
He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, soft and reverent. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright with something ancient and new.
“I want to show you something.”
Carefully, he pulls away from you. The loss of heat is immediate and you make a sound but he soothes it with a kiss to your jaw, tongue darting out playfully. You whine again but he only hums, satisfied as he stands and offers a hand.
You take it and he lifts you. You shiver in the breeze and he beds to pick up the red robe of the Chosen, pausing only to lean forward and press a wet lick to your thigh where you’re still sticky. You gasp and he grins, sharp teeth glinting as he stands and helps you into the robe before he slides his pants back on.
Chan leads you to the edge of the pool at the edge of the glade. He kneels, dipping his fingers into the water. It ripples, then stills, and an image forms. It’s your cottage, cold and dark. The surface ripples as the image fades to the village square at dawn, smoke curling from chimneys, red ribbons fluttering. Then the Demon Wood, bells chiming softly in the wind.
“Water is a mirror here,” he murmurs. He pools you to kneel in front of him as he wraps his arms around you. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking into the surface. “It can look into places, if you ask it the right questions.”
“Like the basin the cat led me to?”
“The cait sith,” he corrects. “Yes, similar. That pool is… different. But sort of.” He squeezes you. “Ask whatever you want it to show.”
You hesitate before murmuring, “Will the village be safe?”
The pool ripples. An image of the square at next year’s festival, children laughing, bonfires blazing, no screams, no blood. The bells chime once, soft and clear.
Chan nods. “The bargain holds. They will send seven. All will most likely run.”
“Can I see your court?” He nods and gestures to the pool, urging you to ask. “Show me the Court of Two Moons.”
The image shifts. A vast hall of pale wood, roots twisting into arches overhead. Thrones of living vine and starlight. Fae in silks and shadows, some with wings like shattered glass, others with antlers of bone and gold. Music that makes your bones ache. At the center, a dais, with two empty thrones.
Your breath caches and he grins, pointing to the larger of the two, twisted with pale white wood. “Mine.” His hand drifts to the smaller one, made of antlers. “That has been empty since before me. None has been equal to fill it until now.”
“I know nothing about ruling.”
His laugh is soft. “You were brave enough to walk through the woods and keep going. You gave back to your village when they were thankless. You tried to be fair. To be patient.” He gives a teasing flick of his tongue to your earlobe. “You took my cock like you were born for it, a queen.”
Heat floods your cheeks. You think of the village, of the wary glances, of Dawon’s sneer, of the weight of your bow and the silence of your cottage. Then you think of Chan’s mouth on your throat, his cock inside you, the way he looked at you like you were the answer to a question he’d asked for centuries.
You turn your head and kiss him, slow and deep. He smiles into the kiss, tongue parting your mouth lazily like he has eons to kiss you - and he does now, maybe. “Mine?” He asks.
⤷ ゛THE WOLF SMILES ⭑.ᐟ ˎˊ˗ ❛ obsession wears many faces, sometimes a hand that shields, sometimes a voice that soothes, and sometimes a smile so tender it makes you forget that every act of devotion can also be a snare. ❜
⎯⟢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⎯⟢ synopsis: Meeting Choi Seungcheol, who is both your father’s most trusted right-hand man and your greatest temptation, sets into motion a tale of love, power, and ruin.
⎯⟢ wc: 23.1k
⎯⟢ tags: mature themes, explicit sexual themes, dark!seungcheol, dark romance, age-gap (10 yrs), forbidden romance, mystery thriller ⸝⸝ cws: 18+ mdni, graphic violence, family dysfunction, psychological manipulation, multiple deaths, verbal and physical abuse, murder, power imbalance, obsession & possession, mentions of drugs, poisoning, blood, manipulation, false testimonies, stalking, guns/weapons, smut, unprotected piv sex (please don’t.), rough sex, praise kink, possession kink, daddy kink, fingering, cowgirl, missionary, doggystyle, emotional manipulation during sex, petnames (baby, little dove, angel)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.⟢ ݁˖ sel speaks ⭑.ᐟ this is my very first one-shot on this new blog! i wasn’t supposed to post anything on here anytime soon but my schedule cleared and i finished my to do list for my main blog, so here i am!! i have been biased wrecked by Cheollie so much more than usual these days, so i decided why not debut my first piece for this blog with our beloved leader! i really hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it! 🤍 (p.s. this took me about three weeks to finish…)
They say the wolf is easy to spot; sharp teeth, wild eyes, a presence that makes the air heavy. But the ones you should fear most don’t growl or bite.
They smile.
You learn quickly that love can be a kind of violence, dressed in warmth, whispered through promises that sound like salvation. That obsession doesn’t always come crashing like a storm, it seeps in like fog, soft and suffocating, until you no longer remember where it began or if you ever wanted to escape.
He smiles at you once, and you understand.
Some wolves don’t hunt. They wait.
And you… you were always going to walk straight into his jaws.
ii. WHEN EYES FIRST CAUGHT
You were born into a world already carved out for you, the youngest daughter of the CEO of one of the largest conglomerates in the country. From the moment you opened your eyes, you were the family’s spoiled and sheltered baby, wrapped in silk and money and expectations you didn’t yet understand.
Your father was a busy man… too busy, always too busy. He threw money at you like it was a cure, like it could bandage over the hollowness his absence left behind.
When you were little and tugged at his sleeve asking to spend the day with him, he would never meet your eyes for long. He’d offer you an excuse about business, the same tired phrases again and again, his tone clipped and distracted.
“Daddy has to work. There’s a meeting I can’t miss.”
“Later, sweetheart, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t pout. Here… tell the driver what you want. He’ll take you anywhere. Buy anything.”
And he always did. He’d return with gifts before you even had the chance to sulk for long. The newest dollhouse, the latest limited-edition toys, dresses that glittered like glass under the light. Anything your little heart desired would appear in your room the next day, wrapped in glossy boxes with ribbons so elaborate they looked like they belonged in a store display.
Growing up, you were fine with it.
You told yourself you understood; your father was an important man, a man who carried the weight of entire companies on his shoulders. He couldn’t be expected to sit and play with you for hours. You accepted the trinkets and treasures as proof of his love, even if it was filtered through his wallet rather than his time.
But as you grew older, into your teenage years and then into a young adult, something inside you began to shift. You started buying the most expensive, most unnecessary things you could find, not because you needed them, but because you wanted him to notice. You wanted his attention, even if it came in the form of scolding.
You remembered the way his face would crease when he saw the ridiculous things you spent his money on. He would sigh heavily, press his fingers to his temples as if warding off a headache, and lecture you in that halfhearted tone that sounded more like habit than genuine reprimand.
“Do you even understand the value of this money? You think it grows on trees?”
“One day you’ll have to wake up and realize the world doesn’t work like this. You can’t just buy happiness, you can’t just throw money at everything.”
And you, leaning lazily against the expensive new car he had technically paid for, would roll your eyes and mumble something under your breath, “Hypocrite.”
You weren’t listening, not really. Because even in his irritation, at least he was looking at you. At least he was talking to you.
You had only one sibling, an older brother named Jaemin. And where your father gave you indifference wrapped in money, Jaemin gave you something sharper. His hatred for you was not the normal teasing cruelty of an older brother; it was a deep, festering resentment, the kind that dripped into everything he did.
He wished you had never been born, and he never tried to hide it.
When you were children, he despised the way you butted in when he had his friends over, your small frame appearing in the doorway with wide, curious eyes, asking questions and demanding attention. He loathed the way you always came out on top of your classes, every report card earning praise from your mother while he stood on the sidelines, overlooked and compared. He hated the spoiled way you lived, how you wore your father’s indulgence like a crown, how you rolled your eyes at lectures and shrugged off reprimands.
Your mother was the only one who truly loved you.
The only one who gave you attention without conditions, who brushed your hair back from your face and kissed your forehead when you cried. She was the one who attended every recital, every event, the one who defended you when your father grew frustrated, the one who clapped the loudest when you succeeded.
She loved you fiercely, openly, without measure.
And then, four years ago, she died.
Her health had been declining rapidly, the illness she had stealing her away from you piece by piece until finally, there was nothing left.
When she was lowered into the ground, it felt like part of you was buried with her.
Your father stood at the funeral like a statue. Stoic. Unflinching. His face was unreadable, his eyes dry. He didn’t cry. He didn’t mourn. It was as if the love he had once shared with her had long been eroded by boardrooms and contracts and time. And Jaemin, your brother had looked almost relieved, his mouth set in a flat line, his gaze wandering, as though the woman who had favored you had been nothing more than a nuisance to him.
So you mourned alone.
You mourned every day.
Because your mother had been the last person who made you feel loved, the last person who made you feel important, wanted. She had been your anchor in a world that otherwise only gave you neglect or resentment.
And when she was gone, it was as if the world had decided you didn’t deserve warmth anymore.
That was true.
Until Choi Seungcheol.
You knew the name long before you knew the man.
He was the Chief Operating Officer of your father’s empire, the second in command, the right hand your father trusted most.
Seungcheol was relatively young compared to the other men that filled the boardroom with their gray hair, thinning crowns, and paunchy middles, but youth had never disqualified him. He was sharp, so sharp it seemed he cut through every problem before it could even form. Smart, hardworking, ambitious, the kind of man who wore discipline like it was stitched into his very skin.
Your father admired him. More than that, he treated him like a son.
A bitter irony, because Jaemin was his real son, and Jaemin loathed Seungcheol for it.
Jaemin believed it was his birthright to inherit the company, to sit on that gilded throne as CEO simply because he was the eldest child.
But your father, for all his flaws, was not a fool.
He had built the company from nothing, brick by brick, deal by deal, and he could see how irresponsible Jaemin was, how his short temper and laziness would ruin years of labor in less than a year.
Your father had considered you, of course. You were everything Jaemin was not; focused, clever, unshaken. But in your father’s eyes, you were still a woman, a woman who gets distracted by shiny and pretty things, a woman who spends money as if it did a matter-of-fact grew on trees, and women, to him; no matter how capable… had no place in a world of men who devoured each other across long tables of glass and steel.
That left Seungcheol, the strongest candidate of all. And yet, every time your father so much as hinted at succession, Seungcheol would shake his head with a calm smile and say, “Sir, you’re still young. Retirement is far away. Jaemin has time to grow. He’ll learn.”
You remembered the first time you met him.
It wasn’t earlier in your life, despite his years at your father’s side. He had been working for your family for so long, but somehow, fate never pulled you into the same room. At company galas you were off somewhere else, still in university, or across the world shopping with your friends.
You never crossed paths, not until a year and a half after your mother’s death.
It had been an ordinary morning when your father called, his voice clipped over the phone. “Your brother forgot his phone and laptop at home. Bring them to the office.”
You had scoffed, irritation curling hot in your chest. Why couldn’t one of the dozens of secretaries do it? Why did you have to be the errand girl for your sorry excuse of a brother? You were about to refuse until your father added, in that cold way of his, “If you don’t, I’ll cut your card in half.”
So you went.
The building your father built from the ground up loomed like a monument, glass and steel kissing the sky, its sleek lines reflecting back the sun. You slipped out of the car with oversized sunglasses covering your eyes, strutting through the lobby like you owned the place… because technically, you did.
Employees turned discreet glances as you passed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm against marble floors. The elevator ride to the top floor was smooth, silent, the air tinged faintly with expensive cologne and disinfectant.
When the doors opened, you stepped into the private floor, greeted Mina, your father’s longtime secretary, with a polite nod, and let yourself into the office without knocking.
The scene inside froze for a second.
Your father sat at his massive desk, stoic as ever, papers stacked neatly in front of him. Jaemin stood across, mid-rant, his hands gesturing wildly as he bitched about something or whined about someone.
And there, sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite your father, was an unfamiliar man; unfamiliar, but arrestingly handsome.
Their eyes all darted to you at once.
“Sweetheart, I’m glad you’re finally here,” your father said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable as always.
“Took you long enough,” Jaemin muttered, snatching the phone and laptop out of your hands with zero gratitude.
“You should be thankful I even came, Jae,” you giggled softly, offering him a smile you knew he didn’t deserve, swallowing down the urge to cuss him out in front of a stranger.
Your father cleared his throat. “Darling, this is Choi Seungcheol,” he said, gesturing toward the man across from him. “My Chief Operating Officer. I don’t think you two have ever met before.”
You turned your gaze to him fully then. His black hair was styled neatly, framing a face both sharp and soft all at once. His eyes, dark and cutting, raked over you with a gaze that was far too deliberate, lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of it travel your skin. A dimple carved into his cheek when he smiled, slow and devastating, as he rose to his feet.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice rich and smooth as velvet. He extended his hand, and when you placed yours in his, his grip was firm yet warm.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” you politely smiled back.
He held on longer than necessary, his eyes locked onto yours in a silent exchange you couldn’t quite name, before he finally let go.
Your father continued, almost oblivious to the tension sparking in the air. “Seungcheol has been with me for years. He’s young, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the most reliable man I know. Hardworking, level-headed. If there’s anyone who understands this company inside and out, it’s him.”
Jaemin scoffed under his breath. “Yeah, we all know how perfect he is.”
Your father shot him a warning glance, but pressed on. “He handles operations with precision. Nothing slips past him. If I’m not here, he’s the one people go to.”
“Because that’s not supposed to be me, right?” Jaemin cut in again, his tone sharp with bitterness.
Your father ignored him.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jaemin turned to you then, venom dripping in every word.
You tilted your head, smiled sweetly, and said with mock excitement, “Yes, I do! Something very important.”
Your father didn’t even look up from the papers in front of him as he asked, “What is it?”
The question was routine, nothing more.
“I’m going to get a massage, a facial, and my mani and pedis. Maybe even go shopping,” you replied brightly, your tone light, teasing even.
He only nodded halfheartedly, his pen scratching against the paper, his eyes still down.
Jaemin snorted. “Very important. The world would stop spinning if you didn’t.”
You simply nodded, smiling, used to it by now, letting his sarcasm roll off like water.
Unbeknownst to you, Seungcheol had been watching the entire exchange closely.
At first, his gaze had been fixed on you, his attention unshaken, drinking you in as if you had pulled the air straight out of the room the moment you stepped through the door. Then, as Jaemin’s words sharpened and grew cruel, Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward him, hardening, daggers barely concealed behind his polite expression.
Finally, he spoke, his tone even but laced with quiet conviction. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”
The words silenced the room for a second. You turned to look at him, surprised, and your smile this time was genuine. He smiled back, slow and sure, that dimple deepening again.
“Well,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “I’ll leave you all to it. Goodbye, Dad. Jae.” Your gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on Seungcheol before you added, “Mr. Choi.”
He inclined his head, polite, though his eyes still followed you as you walked out the door, the click of your heels fading down the hall.
iii. THE WOLF NOTICES
The moment you had walked in, Seungcheol thought the room shifted. You weren’t what he had expected, not that he had been expecting you at all.
For years, he had worked by your father’s side, known of the daughter who lived in luxury, seen your name splashed across tabloids, whispered in passing. But the real thing, the reality of you was sharper, brighter, and infinitely more dangerous than idle gossip could ever suggest.
The sunglasses you wore slid down just enough for him to catch the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes. You walked like you belonged there, and in a way, you did. Confidence cloaked you like silk, the kind of ease only someone born into power could wear so naturally.
He had thought himself immune to distraction; meetings, boardrooms, negotiations, nothing ever shook him. But the second your laugh cut through the tension, light and teasing at Jaemin’s expense, something inside him bent.
When your brother sneered at you, Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. He had always known Jaemin was reckless, entitled, bitter. But watching him spit that venom at you, watching the way you took it with practiced grace, unbothered, unbroken… he felt something stir in him.
A quiet, simmering urge to protect, to defend, to shield.
And so he had spoken, his words deliberate. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”
The way you smiled at him in response, it left an echo in his chest.
When you finally left, offering him that final glance, polite but laced with something more, he realized he was still standing, hand tingling faintly from where it had held yours.
The wolf, Seungcheol thought, had just found something worth watching.
From then on, he never really left your side.
Not in the obvious way, not as if he was tethered to you, but in the careful, deliberate manner of someone who knew how to move without being seen until he wanted to be.
It was a shocking development for you.
You had never expected to be close friends with a man who was nearly ten years older, who wore his authority like a perfectly tailored suit. But here you were sharing silences, lunches, and the strange rhythm of companionship with Choi Seungcheol.
After your initial meeting, you found yourself seeing him more often.
At first, it was nothing; polite smiles exchanged in the corridors of your father’s empire, a nod of recognition whenever you crossed paths in the office. It was impersonal, courteous, and you told yourself that was all it would ever be.
Until your father, in one of his rare bursts of paternal insistence, proposed that you intern for him instead of flying off to Paris or Milan again to “waste time and money.”
“You need to do something with your life,” your father had said in that clipped, dismissive way of his.
You had rolled your eyes and countered, “I just graduated. Don’t I get a few years to figure out what I want? Isn’t that normal?”
The truth was simple… you didn’t enjoy business.
You never had.
The reports, the numbers, the endless chatter of investors, it bored you, drained you, made you wonder if you had been born only to be spoiled, to live a life of indulgence without consequence.
And honestly? You didn’t see anything wrong with that.
But the house, the one your mother once filled with warmth, was suffocating now. Each room carried her absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The silence was oppressive, the marble cold. You needed something to distract yourself, and so, reluctantly, you agreed to intern.
That’s when Seungcheol began to move closer.
At first, he was just there during breaks. Your father was too busy to notice you, Jaemin couldn’t be bothered, and you didn’t care to make friends with anyone else in the company.
Seungcheol filled that space without asking. He would sit beside you in the break room, his presence calm, his attention steady. He didn’t demand conversation, he let you speak when you wanted to, and when you didn’t, he filled the silence with quiet remarks that somehow made the air less heavy.
Sometimes, he’d take you out to eat. “Come on,” he’d say, holding the elevator door for you. “You’ve been staring at that screen for two hours. Food is non-negotiable.”
Other times, when you were too busy or too stubborn to leave your desk, he would appear with takeout bags, sliding them onto your table without ceremony. “Eat,” he’d tell you simply. “You’ll get sick if you don’t.”
And you, strangely, would listen.
It became a rhythm.
Even on his days off, you’d find yourselves together. Sometimes at cafés, sometimes driving aimlessly just to waste time, and sometimes at your estate.
When your father invited him over for meetings, Seungcheol would linger long after, slipping out only to climb up your window like some ridiculous storybook character.
You’d laugh when you saw him, sprawled in your armchair as if he belonged there.
“Do you even realize how insane this is?” you’d whisper, tugging him away from the curtain in case the staff noticed.
He’d grin, unbothered. “Friends climb windows. It’s a rule.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” he’d reply without hesitation, and you’d roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.
Sometimes he stayed until you drifted off to sleep. He’d lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching you breathe until your lashes fluttered closed. Once, when you asked him why, he answered in that calm, low tone of his: “Because that’s what friends do. They stay until you’re safe.”
It was unsettling, the way he listened to you. Really listened. You weren’t used to that. When you spoke, he didn’t glance at his phone or nod absentmindedly. He leaned in, absorbed every word, and sometimes repeated them back to you later, as if to prove he hadn’t forgotten.
You remember one evening, sprawled on the couch with him beside you. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… existing. My dad is pressuring me to do something just like my brother, but it’s just like I was made to be spoiled and nothing else.”
“You think being spoiled means you’re useless?” he asked, his eyes sharp in the dim light.
You shrugged. “Doesn’t it? That’s what my brother always says.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It means people should have taken you seriously sooner. It means they underestimated you and that you have the all the power to do nothing while everyone does everything for you.”
You blinked at him, surprised. No one had ever said it like that before.
And so, without either of you saying it aloud, your friendship began.
But Seungcheol was always watching.
You noticed it in the little things first, from the way his gaze followed you when you moved around the office, the way his hand would shoot out instinctively to cover the sharp corner of a desk when you bent down to pick something up. The way his shoulders stiffened if someone brushed past you too closely in the hallway.
Once, a junior employee bumped into you, muttering a rushed apology. You brushed it off with a laugh, but Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed into a glare so sharp the poor man practically ran away.
“Cheollie, relax. He didn’t mean it,” you whispered.
“He should’ve been more careful,” he muttered, his jaw tight.
Another time, you struggled with a stack of files that threatened to topple from your arms. Before you could ask, he was there, effortlessly taking the weight from you. “You’re not supposed to carry things like this,” he chided.
“I’m not helpless,” you shot back playfully.
He gave you that look, half amusement, half warning. “No. But why struggle when I’m here?”
Even outside the office, he hovered. At a crowded restaurant one weekend, a waiter brushed too close to your chair. Seungcheol’s hand settled on the back of it, a silent claim, his eyes tracking the waiter until he was out of sight.
You didn’t think much of it, naïve enough to chalk it up to friendliness, to that fierce protectiveness you found comforting.
Seungcheol learned your habits quickly. What drinks you preferred. The way you always peeled the crusts off your sandwiches. The exact moment your mood shifted from amused to irritated. He adjusted himself around you with subtle precision, guiding you with a hand at your back, distracting you when the air grew too heavy, steering you away from things that would darken your expression.
You never noticed how deliberate it all was. You only knew that he was there, always there, quietly absorbing, quietly guarding. And when his eyes lingered too long, you told yourself it was nothing.
After all, friends watched out for each other.
iv. THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
Your father noticed first.
He always noticed more than you thought. His eyes had been on you for years, sharp as knives and cold as stone, the kind of gaze that could slice through silks and pretenses alike. You thought you were careful. You thought the friendship, the hours of laughter, the stolen moments, the lunches tucked away in quiet corners was yours to keep.
But he saw.
He always saw.
It happened late one night, in the quiet of his home office.
The room smelled faintly of whiskey and paper, the heavy oak desk drowning in documents you doubted he ever actually read. He was in his chair, back straight, hands folded, his face an unreadable mask. You stood before him, already feeling too small, too much like a child again despite being a woman grown.
“Sit,” he said, calm, commanding, as though he were addressing another executive and not his youngest and only daughter.
You sat, the leather of the chair cold beneath your palms, your stomach twisting as you realized this wasn’t just one of his endless talks about “responsibility.”
His eyes bored into yours, heavy, deliberate, suffocating.
“I’ve been observing something,” he began slowly, his voice low and even. “Your… relationship with Seungcheol.”
Your throat went dry. Your fingers curled against the chair’s arms. You forced your voice to stay steady.
“We’re just friends,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively.
It was true.
At least, it should have been. But you felt the guilt the moment it slipped past your lips, the way your chest tightened, the way your gaze faltered. Because it wasn’t the full truth. There was a part of you that wished it wasn’t just that, a whisper in the back of your mind that admitted only to yourself that you were drawn to him, that he was almost too good to be true.
Your father’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing.
“That better stay that way,” he said firmly. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was enough to cut through you like glass.
Your heart sank, your lips parting, but he didn’t stop.
“You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.”
The words stung before you could stop them. You opened your mouth, but his hand lifted in warning.
“He is a serious man,” your father continued, each word deliberate, cruel in its control. “A man with a future. He will need a strong and serious woman by his side. And you,” his eyes locked onto you, unyielding, “are none of that. You will ruin him.”
Your breath hitched. The sting behind your eyes burned as though your tears were waiting for permission to fall.
“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his tone sharp now, cutting away any chance of argument.
You swallowed hard, blinking furiously, the tears refusing to fall in front of him. You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, unable to say anything more.
“Good. You may go.”
Dismissed like an employee at the end of a meeting.
You stood on shaking legs, the unshed tears burning at the corners of your eyes. You turned, hand gripping the doorknob as though it was the only thing tethering you to yourself.
When you opened it, the world outside the office felt too wide, too heavy.
And there he was.
Seungcheol.
Leaning casually against the wall, his phone in hand, dressed sharp but relaxed in a way only he could manage. He was waiting for his meeting with your father, his head bent, scrolling through something. He hadn’t heard. Relief hit you for a fleeting second.
But then he looked up.
His eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in your expression; the damp shine at the corner of your eyes, the slight tremble in your lips. His phone dropped to his side instantly.
In two strides, he was in front of you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing instinctively against your skin.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice was low, urgent, laced with something close to anger and worry all at once.
You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile so brittle it hurt.
“I’m fine,” you lied softly. “I was just yawning, and it made my eyes water. That’s all.”
“Don’t do that,” he pressed, brows furrowing, his grip steady on your face. “Don’t pretend. Tell me.”
Your heart twisted, but you pushed the smile harder, shaking your head again.
“I’m going to bed,” you said firmly, gently pushing his hands down. “And my dad’s probably waiting for you. You should hurry in.”
He searched your face, as though he could tear the truth out of you with just his stare.
“Baby—”
“Goodnight, Seungcheol.”
You turned before he could say more, your steps quick and uneven as you retreated down the hall. Behind you, you heard him sigh, frustrated, but he didn’t follow.
In your room, you shut the door, your chest heaving. You changed quickly, hands fumbling with your clothes, grabbing the first satin nightgown you could find; blue, the fabric clinging soft against your skin. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, your movements too rushed, too desperate to outrun the words echoing in your head.
You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.
He needs a strong, serious woman.
You are none of that.
You will ruin him.
The sting burrowed deep.
It wasn’t just the insult, it was the way your father had said it, so certain, so final. As though you were doomed to be a disappointment not only to him, but to the one person who had made you feel seen in so long.
What hurt worse, what made your chest tighten until it was almost unbearable, was the thought of someone else, another woman, strong, serious, perfect; standing at Seungcheol’s side instead of you.
You didn’t understand why that image made your throat close, why it hollowed something in you.
You curled into your bed, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the tears until exhaustion pulled you under.
You didn’t hear the soft scrape of your window opening.
You didn’t hear the careful footsteps across your room.
A few minutes later, Seungcheol was kneeling beside your bed, his tall frame folded in the dark, his hand reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. His gaze caught the faint wet trail across your cheek, a tear that had escaped after all. His thumb followed its path slowly, and then, with a deliberate motion, he lifted it to his lips, tasting the salt of your sorrow.
His eyes darkened.
He watched you sleep, his gaze heavy, drinking in the sight of your body rising and falling with each breath. The satin of your gown had ridden up, baring the length of your thigh to the cool air, and still he stayed, his hand twitching with restraint.
Minutes passed before he bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there longer than he should. When he pulled away, his jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.
Seungcheol left as quietly as he came, but the storm inside him followed into the night.
Behind the wheel of his car, his knuckles whitened as his grip strangled the steering wheel. His jaw locked, muscles tense, eyes burning as the memory of your father’s voice replayed in his mind; every insult, every dismissal, every word that made you cry.
He had heard it all.
And it lit something dangerous in him.
Something that whispered he needed to do something.
Something soon.
It was as if fate had heard the vow that burned in Seungcheol’s chest that night.
A domino effect followed, one piece tumbling after the next, each obstacle pushing the two of you closer and closer until there was no more room to pretend.
A few days later, you sat in his office during your afternoon break, a cup of coffee in your hands as though its warmth could shield you from the memories of that night with your father.
You had perfected the art of pretending by now; eyes bright, lips curved into a smile, laughter slipping past your mouth like nothing had ever happened.
You were fine. You were well. A master at pretending.
But Seungcheol saw right through you.
He leaned back in his chair, silent, watching you with the patience of a predator. He didn’t call you out, didn’t press, but you could feel the weight of his gaze each time your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
He said nothing… for now.
And then, like the first domino, you gave him something else to fixate on.
You sighed, sinking deeper into your chair. “I told Anna and Chloe about you.”
That caught his attention instantly. His posture shifted, his eyes sharpening like knives, but he let you continue talking about your friends.
“I mean, I expected it to be normal, you know, catching up, gossiping like we always do. They asked me what’s new, and I told them about you. I thought they’d giggle, ask if you were cute, maybe tease me a little.” Your fingers toyed with the lid of your coffee cup. “But when they found out you’re ten years older than me…” You shook your head, your voice dipping. “They started talking shit about you.”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once, but he stayed silent, his eyes on you, waiting.
“I defended you,” you rushed on, your throat tightening at the memory. “But then they came after me too. Calling me stupid. Saying I shouldn’t hang out with you because it’s weird, because you work for my father and all that.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through, repeating their words as though they had carved themselves into your skin. “They said I’m embarrassing. That I’m just playing some pathetic game. That you must be using me. That I’m…” You swallowed hard. “That I’m nothing but a spoiled brat desperate for attention, clinging onto someone way older due to my daddy issues.”
Your chest ached, the humiliation raw again as you relived it. “They texted me earlier, though. Apologizing. Saying they thought it through and realized they were wrong to judge. That they should be supportive of me instead.”
You blinked, forcing a laugh that crumbled at the edges. “But it still hurts. I mean, I’ve been friends with them for years. And instead of supporting me, they judged you. They judged me.” Your voice cracked, your eyes stinging. “It hurt more than I thought it would.”
Seungcheol’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His eyes darkened, the veins in his hands straining as he gripped the armrest of his chair until his knuckles whitened. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, every inhale sharp, every exhale sharper. Rage rippled through him, silent but palpable, like a storm pressed beneath the skin.
And then, in one smooth shift, his voice softened to honey.
“Come here,” he murmured, his tone gentle, coaxing, as though the anger you glimpsed was only a trick of the light. He patted his lap lightly, his other hand reaching out for yours.
You hesitated for a moment, but when his hand wrapped around yours; warm, steady, reassuring, you found yourself moving without thinking. You let him pull you onto his lap, his arms winding securely around you, holding you close. The moment your cheek pressed against his neck, you melted, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as you breathed him in.
“You defended me,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple as he spoke. “Thank you, angel. You’re just as protective of me as I am of you. Do you know how much that means to me?”
You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed as he caressed your thigh, slow and deliberate.
“Do you know how good you are for me?” His voice dipped lower, raspier, a dangerous whisper curling like smoke in your ear. “So, so good for me.”
A sound slipped from your throat, half sigh, half purr as warmth pooled in your chest at his words. You clung to him tighter, soaking in every syllable.
He chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling against you. “But they… they hurt you, didn’t they? They made you cry. They made you doubt. And they hurt me, too, with their words. Friends shouldn’t do that, should they? Friends should support you, like I do. They should protect you, like I do.” His thumb stroked over your thigh, his voice lowering to a coaxing lull. “But they didn’t, did they?”
You shook your head slowly, your lips parting, your body pliant in his arms.
“They aren’t your true friends, baby. I am. I always will be.” His lips grazed your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth before trailing down to your jaw, soft kisses searing into your skin. “You only need me.”
Your breath hitched, his words seeping deep, deeper, until they settled like truth.
“Tell me you understand, hmm?” he whispered, nipping lightly at your neck before soothing the bite with a lick. “Tell me you know you only need me.”
Your body shivered, your head nodding blindly. “I–I only need you.”
“That’s my girl.” He kissed your forehead, then your cheek again, slow and deliberate. “Those lowlives don’t deserve you. They never did. Honestly, I always thought they were using you. Hanging onto your name, your money, your shine. But me? I don’t need any of that. I just need you.”
You whimpered at the praise, leaning into the press of his mouth as it trailed down your shoulder, his hands squeezing your thighs with just enough pressure to make you sigh.
“They hurt you, baby,” he murmured again, coaxing, insistent, “so why keep them? Let them go. Tell them you can’t be friends anymore. You don’t need them. You only need me.”
You nodded again, the words tumbling from your lips like a vow. “I only need you.”
“Good girl.” Seungcheol reached over to the desk, his hand plucking your phone as though it belonged to him as much as to you.
He unlocked it without hesitation, the ease of it barely registering in your haze. He handed it back to you, settling behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms still caged tight around you.
“Now… tell them,” he whispered, his breath warm in your ear. “Type it out. Tell them you can’t be friends anymore.”
Your fingers moved, almost robotic, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes as you typed exactly what he told you. Each word, each message crafted by his voice in your ear, his lips pressing tender kisses against your cheek, your neck, your jaw whenever you obeyed.
When their replies came; apologizing, pleading, confused, angry… he read over your shoulder, his scoffs sharp.
“Pathetic,” he muttered darkly. “Desperate. They don’t deserve another second of your time.”
You stayed quiet, numb to their protests, lost instead in the steady rhythm of his lips against your skin and the silk of his voice telling you what to do.
By the time the conversation ended, by the time you had sent the final message ending it all, he kissed your temple again and whispered, “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s perfect. You don’t need them. You have me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”
Your voice was a whisper, broken but sure. “You’re all I need, Cheollie.”
And it was true, you believed it.
The last time you saw Anna and Chloe had been a few days ago, when their words cut into you like knives.
Tonight was the last time you would ever speak to them.
Because a few weeks later, in Paris, the two of them were found dead.
v. HEAVEN TAKES, HELL HOLDS
The sky was absurdly blue; so clean and wide it made the black of everyone’s clothes look obscene. There were no clouds, only a sun that threw itself across the grass as if to prove the world had not noticed the cruelty it sheltered beneath. A gentle wind moved through the trees and lifted the edges of the funeral programs in the hands of strangers, it smelled faintly of cut lawn and something floral that tugged at the back of your throat.
It was ironic in a way that felt obscene, a perfect day for two coffins to be lowered into the earth.
A week ago, the message had arrived like a dull stone dropped into still water.
Anna and Chloe were gone.
Paris, the city where they’d always gone to be loud and youthful and slightly reckless, this time it answered with silence.
At first you were told it was an overdose. They had party habits… harmless, you told yourself; molly, a little weed when the music thinned and the crowd swelled. Those things tasted familiar to adolescents and it’s survivable. You’d done that, too, you’d been with them at times like that. You’d always thought it couldn’t be enough to take them.
Then the second call arrived, colder and heavier saying that tests had been rerun at the parents’ insistence.
Something else had shown up… cyanide, a ghost of a chemical no one expected in the glitter of a nightclub.
Molly, laced with poison.
The image of the two of them, laughing in light and then collapsing just like that, lodged in your throat. The authorities sifted through footage, questioned everyone at the party, watched cameras frame faces that met Anna and Chloe and then walked away. CCTV revealed gestures and shared glances, but none of it looked like the handing off of a murder.
The leads went cold and stubborn.
The killer, remained a faceless presence in the edges of footage. It was a riddle with no answer. Until this day, until this field; those girls were dead at the hands of a cruelty that had no name.
You stood in all black, the fabric pressed and formal, your sunglasses a shield over eyes that had not yet learned how to be soft. Two caskets sat side by side on the green, their woods a dull brown against the manicured grass. Families leaned close, crying into one another’s shoulders, the sound was small and relentless.
The two families had elected to bury them together because the girls had been inseparable since childhood who were bound by years of jokes, slumber parties, and teenage drama.
The joint funeral felt fitting, so straightforward it hurt.
You were there because someone had to be, because the ritual drew the people who loved them closer, and because Anna and Chloe had been yours in some ways that mattered more than the distance that had grown between you. Your father had the excuse of an empire; business, boardrooms, a thousand obligations. Jaemin couldn’t have cared less. So you stood with Seungcheol.
He had not left you once. Not to speak with acquaintances, not to take a phone call, not to fiddle with papers as if the universe outside his office was a problem for someone else. He stayed. When the families wept, when the priest spoke the necessary words, when hands clutched the hems of suits and graves dug deeper, he was a solid figure at your side.
You said nothing through the ceremony, words felt like poor instruments for this depth of shock. When you finally spoke it was only because Anna and Chloe’s mothers came to you, small women made enormous by grief, hands kept busy folding themselves around you as if to anchor you to a present that still accepted condolences.
“We’re so glad you came,” Anna’s mother murmured, voice breaking. She folded you into a hug so fierce you tasted salt on her shoulder. “They were always talking about you. Thank you for being here, truly.”
Chloe’s mother took your hands, palms warm and trembling. “We know how close you were. They always said you were like a sister. I’m so sorry you had to—” Her words dissolved into a sob. She pulled you in and pressed you against her, and for a moment you were nothing but a channeled sadness, a vessel for other people’s grief.
You tried to explain, fumbling for reasons that fell small and insufficient. “We had an argument a few weeks ago… nothing serious, really. Usual things, silly things. We—” Your voice came out in stutters, admitting too much. “They said mean things. We drifted. I thought it was just time, you know? Growing different. I told them I might be working more with my father and they always wanted me to come to parties and raves and things I said I couldn’t make…” You swallowed, the syllables thick. “If I had known– if I had just… I would have been there.”
Seungcheol stayed close, shadow and shoulder as he listened.
Most of what you told the women was accurate; the argument, the drift, the timings. There was truth in your words, ordinary and blunt, but there was also the private ache you only admitted in small tremors. His eyes narrowed once when you mentioned the CCTV and the inconclusive reports, an itch of curiosity passing over his face.
He listened the way he always did, like a man marking pieces on a board.
Anna’s mother sniffed. “Life can be cruel, darling. It’s easy to misunderstand. But you did what you could now, and that’s enough.”
Chloe’s mother clung to your hand. “They wouldn’t want you to blame yourself,” she said, as if she could lift your guilt from your shoulders. “They were stubborn, they were wild, it’s what made them them. They would want you to live. We’ll find out who did this, you know. We won’t stop.”
You tried to smile through it. “I know. I just—” Your sentence broke as the sob found you and you let it. Your shoulders shook as you apologized to the two women: “I should’ve been there. I should’ve… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
They folded you into their arms until you couldn’t tell where you ended and they began. “Don’t say that,” Anna’s mother whispered. “They wouldn’t want you to carry this. They keep laughing with us, they would roll their eyes at you like they always did.” Chloe’s mother pressed her forehead to yours. “We’ll catch whoever did this. Promise.”
Seungcheol stepped forward and took you into his arms. His body was a constant, rigid and warm, and you folded into it as if habit and need had always led you here. He guided you gently away from the small cluster around the caskets, an island formation that whispered of public grief.
He spoke for you, softly, “ We’ll go now. Thank you, truly. For everything.” He turned to the mothers, offering condolences that were steady and practiced. “If there’s anything you need… anything at all, tell me.”
Their faces were tired but grateful, they nodded, murmured thanks, and departed.
Outside, he put you into his car with the same exactness he used always: door, seat, seatbelt clipped with a hand that hovered protectively to make sure the strap lay right. He watched you remove your sunglasses and wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand as if the motion disturbed him. His look was a mix of careful possession and something you hadn’t yet named… fierceness held dangerously close to tenderness.
When he slid behind the wheel and started the car, his voice came low. “Are you alright?” he asked, watching you in the side mirror. “I didn’t expect you to cry so hard…” His sentence trailed off as if he’d assumed you had been composed until this point.
You shrugged, the action meant to be small and deflecting. “It just… hit me now,” you said, and the words felt thin even as you said them.
This was the truth, also an excuse.
His face shifted. “They don’t deserve your tears after the things they did to you, angel,” he said bluntly, a hand finding the steering wheel with new intensity. “That was their karma.”
The words slid over your chest, strangely lancing.
You blinked up at him, the naive part of you wanting to find warmth in his certainty, the other part still raw from your father’s lecture, shrinking.
“I’m scared,” you said then, surprise at the truth of it.
A flicker of confusion passed over Seungcheol’s brow, brief and almost pained. “Why would you be scared?” he asked, voice puzzled, then without waiting for your reply, he lifted his free hand and cupped your face in one swift, possessive move that made you sigh involuntarily. The car hummed around you as he watched the small line of your mouth, the dampness at the corner of your eyes.
The outline of the city passed the windows and blurred in motion. “What if I’m next? What if whoever did this… comes after me?”
His words dropped like stones wrapped in satin. “That won’t happen,” he promised, his tone a blend of reassurance and threat. “Because I’m here. I will protect you. Anyone who even thinks about harming you will suffer.” He did not shout, he stated it as if it were a fact.
Seungcheol’s certainty was a net thrown wide.
You let yourself lean into the safety of that hand. He stroked your cheek, then the line of your neck, his touch purposeful, claiming, and the public stillness of him made your breathing catch. “You’re cold, baby,” he murmured, lifting one of your legs slightly, the hem of your dress slipping back enough for his palm to rest against the bare skin of your thigh. The contact was warm, not entirely unwelcome. “At least I’m here to keep you warm.”
His voice was silk, but there was an edge beneath the softness, the pattern of something that could close like a clamp. He cooed and reassured as he guided his hand further, murmuring, “It’s okay. Look at me. I’m here. No one will touch you without me knowing. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Naivety sat like a warm ember in your chest. You wanted his voice to be true. You wanted his hands to be the shelter he promised. There was a tiny, perverse comfort to the idea of being protected, of being declared precious enough to be guarded so fiercely. And so when he threaded his remarks with judgment of others; “they don’t deserve your tears,” “they were using you,” “they were never true friends” the poison slipped in as a lacquered truth.
It was easy to let his words rearrange your thinking, they fell with the cadence of expertise and care.
You listened and the car hummed on. You let the familiarity of his touch dull the raw edges of your grief.
The line between comfort and command blurred beneath his voice. Each small, warm insistence, his hand at your face, then at your thigh, the lifted hem, the private warmth of skin pressed to palm… it pulled you further from the shaky place where you had stood before.
You told yourself his words were sweetness, kindness, the balm you needed.
Seunhgcheol stroked your neck and said again, softly, “No one will ever hurt you when I’m here, remember that.” He sounded like a promise, and your heart answered like a gullible child.
You closed your eyes and let the motion of his car and the rhythm of his voice drown the edges of the day.
You let go of Anna and Chloe again for the hundredth and final time in your mind, and when you agreed to the small, dangerous bargains he proposed, it felt like survival.
Outside, the sun kept shining. Inside the car, the world narrowed to his voice and the press of his hand, and your lashes fluttered like the lids of a bird too tired to fly.
vi. FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Seungcheol brought you home, his hand steady at the small of your back as though the world outside was determined to take you apart piece by piece and he was the only one capable of holding you together.
The drive had been quiet, thick with the echoes of sobs you’d struggled to contain at the funeral, the taste of grief sharp on your tongue but he never let go of you, not once.
Thankfully, when you both stepped into the estate, the silence was broken only by the creak of the door and your footsteps across the marble. Your father and brother were still at the office, their absence both a relief and a weight. It meant you didn’t have to face their questions, their scrutiny, their watchful eyes. It also meant there was no barrier between you and the man at your side.
Seungcheol didn’t hesitate; he guided you up the stairs with quiet insistence, leading you into your room as though it belonged to him just as much as it belonged to you. When the door shut behind you, you felt the air shift, warmer and heavier, pressing against your skin like an unseen hand.
Without a word, you crossed to your vanity. The mirror reflected a pale, tired version of yourself, shadows clinging under your eyes, lips still trembling from the tears that had not long ago spilled. You reached up and plucked one hairpin after another from your hair. Each soft click of metal against the tabletop echoed louder than it should, and soon your hair tumbled free, cascading down your back in waves.
The relief was fleeting.
You were still lost in your own thoughts, trapped in the labyrinth of your father’s voice, your friends’ absence, your own gnawing doubts.
From behind you, Seungcheol sat on your bed, leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes following your every move. He looked as though he were unraveling you with his gaze alone, watching the way your fingers trembled just slightly as you set another pin down, watching how your shoulders slumped beneath the weight you carried.
“Baby,” he called softly, his voice cutting through the thick silence.
You froze, the pet name tugging you back to the present. Turning your head, you met his gaze in the mirror before slowly turning fully toward him. He was still there, lounged but alert, his eyes never leaving you.
Without speaking further, he lifted a hand and patted his thigh, the gesture commanding and patient all at once. He nodded once, a silent order for you to come to him.
Wordlessly, as though something in your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, you moved. Each step toward the bed felt deliberate, your pulse quickening with each one. You crawled onto the mattress, your hands sinking into the sheets as you made your way to him.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched you climb onto his lap, his gaze dark and heavy with something unreadable. The front of your dress dipped low, and he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes lingered on the soft swells of your chest, rising and falling with each nervous breath. When you finally settled on his lap, straddling him, he leaned back slightly, his hands resting on your hips, eyes never wavering from your face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked lowly, his voice gentle but edged with demand.
You shook your head quickly, eyes darting away from his.
“Use your words,” he pressed, the firmness in his tone slicing through your silence.
Still, nothing came out. Your lips parted, but no sound followed.
A quiet, disappointed click of his tongue. “Tsk.” His eyes narrowed, unamused by your avoidance.
The tension in the air thickened. He leaned in slightly, his gaze unyielding as he asked, “What did I tell you in the car earlier?”
Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, soft, almost trembling: “That no one would hurt me when you are here.”
A faint smirk curved his lips, but his eyes remained sharp. “And?”
You swallowed hard before continuing, your voice weaker this time. “That Anna and Chloe deserved it… and it’s their karma.”
His head tilted, studying you closely. “Then why do you still seem to be worried?”
“I don’t know…” you whispered, your voice breaking at the edges. “I can’t seem to forget.”
For a moment, silence lingered.
Then Seungcheol’s hand moved, large and steady, cupping your cheeks. His thumb brushed against your skin, slow and tender, before sliding down the column of your throat. His palm wrapped gently around your neck, not tight, but firm enough that you felt every inch of his presence. His lips dipped closer to your ear, his voice nothing but a whisper.
“Do you want me to help you forget it, baby?”
Your breath hitched. A pause of hesitation heavy in the air before you gave the smallest of nods.
“There’s my baby,” he cooed, his voice suddenly soft, almost sing-song, as though he were soothing a child. “That’s it. I’ll make you forget.”
The air between you crackled as your heart pounded through in chest.
Seungcheol leaned in, his forehead pressing yours, his breath suddenly ragged and hot, washing over your lips like a fevered breeze. You felt the phantom brush of his mouth, a near-contact that sent a jolt through your core. Your lips instinctively parted, aching for the connection, leaning forward just a fraction.
He pulled back.
Just an inch. Just enough for cool air to rush in where his heat had been. Your lips chased him instinctively, a small, frustrated sound escaping you; a breathy whine that echoed in the charged silence.
That sound. It ignited something primal in him. His eyes, dark as obsidian, flared with hunger. The hand cupping your cheek tightened possessively, fingers digging into your jawline just shy of pain. He didn't kiss you. Instead, his thumb brushed roughly over your bottom lip before his head dipped again. His tongue, hot and wet, licked a deliberate, slow stripe across your parted lips.
You gasped, the sensation shocking, intimate. Your mouth opened wider on a startled inhale.
Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. His tongue surged into your mouth, not seeking permission but claiming territory. It slid against your own tongue, rough and demanding. A deep, guttural groan vibrated from his chest directly into yours at the feel of your surrender, the taste of you. Then his mouth crashed onto yours, sealing the invasion.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was fire and possession. His lips moved fiercely against yours, slanting, demanding.
A low moan escaped you, muffled against his mouth, a sound born of shock and unwelcome, overwhelming pleasure. His other hand gripped your hip hard, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every hard ridge of his body beneath you, the insistent pressure of his arousal against your core even through layers of fabric. Your hands flew up, not to push away immediately, but to clutch at his shoulders, fingers tangling in the expensive wool of his suit jacket.
The kiss deepened, became messy, wet. The slick slide of tongues, the desperate drag of lips, the harsh breaths mingling, it was a chaotic symphony of need. He groaned your name against your mouth, the sound thick with lust. “Mine,” he rasped between bruising kisses, the word a branding iron on your soul.
And then, the fog of sensation parted for a single, sharp moment of panic… your father’s disapproving face flashed in your mind. You tore your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, pushing weakly against his chest.
“Cheol! Stop!” Your voice trembled with a perfect blend of shock and fear. “We can't... my father... he forbade this! He said—”
“I know what he said!” Seungcheol snapped, cutting you off, his voice rough with sudden fury. He didn't release you; his grip on your jaw and hip tightened painfully. His eyes burned into yours, fierce and unyielding. “I was there. I heard every condescending word that fucker had to say about you.” His lip curled in derision. “‘Seungcheol deserves someone smart. Someone serious.’”
You flinched at the mimicry of your father’s tone. “It... it is true,” you whispered, playing the wounded card, letting your gaze drop. “He said I'm not... not good enough for you.”
Seungcheol scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound that echoed in the room. “Good enough?” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Your sorry excuse of a father doesn't know anything. He doesn’t know me. He doesn't know you.” His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip almost tenderly, a stark contrast to the venom in his voice. “He doesn't know what burns inside you. What I see.” He leaned closer, his breath hot on your face. “He doesn't know that I only want you. That I would do absolutely anything. That I would crush anyone,” his voice dropped to a chilling whisper, "kill anyone... who try to stand between us.”
The raw violence in his words hung heavy in the air. It was terrifying. It was possessive. It was undeniably his. You stared into his dark eyes, seeing the fanatic devotion, the dangerous edge of obsession that bordered on madness.
A beat of charged silence stretched between you; the frantic rhythm of your breathing the only sound besides the drumming rain that unknowingly started outside.
Then, something shifted.
The fear didn't vanish, but it was eclipsed by a wave of something darker, hotter. The carefully constructed dam holding back your own hidden desires cracked. Your gaze locked with his, filled with a sudden, fierce hunger that mirrored his own. You saw surprise flicker in his eyes for a split second before you pounced.
You crashed your lips back onto his with a force that stole his breath. This kiss wasn't hesitant or fearful; it was ravenous. Your arms flew around his neck, fingers plunging into his dark hair, pulling him impossibly closer. A low growl of pure satisfaction rumbled from deep in Seungcheol’s chest as he met your fervor with equal intensity.
Hands became desperate explorers. Yours traced the strong line of his jaw, scraped through his hair, pulled him deeper into the kiss. His hands slid down from your jaw and hip, roaming hungrily over your back, down to your waist, palming your ass through the black silk of your dress, grinding you hard against the thick ridge of his erection straining against his trousers. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue.
The kiss descended into pure erotic chaos. Lips slanted, tongues dueled, teeth scraped. Whimpers and breathy moans escaped you with each possessive squeeze of his hands, each demanding thrust of his tongue. He nipped at your lower lip, drawing another gasp that he swallowed greedily.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your swollen lips when you broke for air, foreheads resting together again, both breathing harshly. “Look at you. So desperate for me.” His hand slid boldly up your thigh beneath your dress, bunching the fabric. “My perfect little dove.” He kissed you again, hard and deep before pulling back slightly, his eyes blazing down at you. “Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his thumb finding your clit through the soaked silk of your ruined panties and rubbing a hard circle that made you arch and cry out. “Tell me you want me to ruin this pretty dress and fuck you senseless right here.”
You moaned, grinding down against his hand, the friction exquisite torture. “Cheollie...” It was half-protest, half-plea.
“Say it!” he commanded, increasing the pressure, his other hand tightening painfully on your ass.
The words tumbled out, laced with the moan he ripped from you, “I want you– want you to ruin me, please. I’m yours... please... only yours...”
A predatory smile spread across Seungcheol’s face as he surged forward to reclaim your mouth, the kiss turning filthy again, punctuated by your gasps and his low groans of approval. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. The sound of tearing silk was sharp and final in the quiet room as he ripped them aside. The cool air hit your exposed heat for only a second before his hand was back, fingers sliding through your slick folds with a groan of pure pleasure.
“So fucking wet for me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with triumph and lust. “All mine.”
He pressed two fingers deep inside you, curling them deliberately. “Ride them,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Show me how badly you want it.”
A whine escaped you as you rocked your hips, grinding down onto his hand, seeking friction, seeking him. Emboldened by his command and your own desperate need, your hands flew to your dress. With a frustrated tug, you yanked at the fabric, the delicate material giving way under your urgency, joining your ruined panties on the floor. Your bra followed in a swift movement.
Seungcheol’s groan was pure appreciation, his eyes raking over your bare skin. “Fucking perfect,” he breathed. In one smooth motion, he pulled you closer, his mouth latching onto one taut nipple, sucking hard while his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside you.
The dual assault drew a loud, keening moan from your throat as you rode his hand with increasing desperation. He switched breasts, lavishing the same attention while looking up at you through hooded eyes. “That's it, baby. Fuck my fingers like you mean it.”
“You feel so good,” you panted, arching into his mouth. “So deep, Cheollie...”
“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured against your skin, releasing your nipple with a wet pop.
“Cheol, please. More. I want it more.” Your voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible above the pounding in your ears.
He chuckled, a dark, rich sound that vibrated through your bones. “I’ll give you anything you want.” He flipped you onto your back with surprising ease, your body a pliant thing beneath his. The soft mattress cradled you as he rose, shedding his clothes with an almost violent urgency. The crisp sound of fabric hitting the floor, the glint of moonlight on his bare skin, all of it intensified the surreal, desperate moment.
His body, sculpted and powerful, stood over you, a shadow against the dim light. “Look at you,” Seungcheol began, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble. “Lying there, all spread out for me. My little whore. You think you’re so innocent, don’t you? So pure.” He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing you. “But I see the truth. I see the hunger in your eyes, little dove.” The way your body practically screams for me.” He knelt, his knees pressing into the mattress beside your hips.
“Your father, that old fool thinks you’re going to corrupt me… but it’s the other way around, baby. I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to make you forget every single one of his precious rules.” Seungcheol’s hand reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of your jaw, then down your throat, lingering at the hollow of your neck. “And those friends of yours… they talked so much shit, didn’t they? About you, about me. They deserved everything they got. Didn’t they?” His eyes, dark and intense, pierced through you, demanding an answer.
A shiver, not entirely of fear, ran through you. “Yes,” you breathed, the word a confession, a surrender. “They deserved it. All of it.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, a truly wicked expression. “That’s my girl.” He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “Now, open for me. I’m going to show you what real pleasure feels like. I’m going to make you forget everything but me.”
Seungcheol positioned himself between your legs, his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing against your slick entrance. The head, slick with pre-cum, nudged, teasing, a promise of what was to come. You gasped, your hips lifting, begging for him. He plunged in, a single, powerful thrust that stole your breath.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat, a sound of profound satisfaction as he buried himself deep inside you. You cried out, a mix of pain and otherworldly pleasure, your body stretching, accommodating his impressive length. He caged you between the bed and his strong arms, his muscles flexing, taut with effort.
“Ah, fuck,” Seungcheol groaned, his voice raw, hoarse with lust. He pulled back slightly, then slammed back into you, a relentless rhythm beginning. “So tight for me. So good for me.” He began to pound, each thrust a deliberate, powerful invasion.
The bedsprings creaked a frantic song beneath your combined weight, a testament to the force of his movements. Your moans, loud and uninhibited, filled the room, mingling with the wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin, the rhythmic schlick-schlick of his cock sliding in and out of your depths.
“Cheol, oh god, Cheollie,” you whimpered, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. Your head thrashed on the pillow, your eyes wide, unfocused.
He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, dark whisper. “Listen to yourself, baby. Listen to those sounds. Your friends, those bitches, they’re cold in the ground. Died pathetically like they deserve, poisoned. And here you are, getting dicked down, moaning my name. No care in the world, are you?” He pulled back, his eyes burning into yours, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “Tell me, angel. Do they deserve this? Do they deserve to be forgotten while you get fucked senseless?”
A wild, almost manic laugh bubbled up from your throat, a sound that shocked even you. “Yes!” you shrieked, your hips bucking harder against his. “They deserved it! Every single bit of it!”
Seungcheol threw his head back, a triumphant, guttural laugh erupting from him, a sound of pure, unadulterated madness. He pounded harder, faster, his hips slamming into yours with brutal force. The bed shook, the headboard thudding against the wall. “That’s my girl!” he roared, his voice thick with a perverse delight. “That’s my fucking girl!” His thrusts deepened, each one driving you closer to the edge, your body convulsing with the intensity of it all.
The pleasure was agonizing, a searing fire that consumed you, burning away any last vestiges of innocence.
You were a mess of moans, gasps, and desperate pleas, your body a willing slave to his rhythm. He grabbed your legs, lifting them high, resting them on his shoulders. The new angle stretched you, opened you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper. He kissed you then, a fierce, possessive kiss that tasted of sweat and lust and a hint of your own blood where his teeth had grazed your lip. He thrust harder, his cock grinding against your cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.
“Forget about you father,” he rasped, his breath ragged against your lips. “Forget everything he ever told you. About what’s right, about what’s wrong. About who you are. Because you’re mine now and forever. Understand? Only mine, baby. Only I matter. Say it.” His eyes, dark and demanding, bore into yours.
A wicked smirk, a reflection of his own, spread across your face. “Only you matter, daddy,” you whispered, the words a raw, unbidden confession.
A low, primal groan rumbled in Seungcheol’s chest, a sound of pure, masculine triumph. He pulled out, the wet, sucking sound echoing in the room, making you whine in protest. He flipped you onto your stomach, your ass rising in a tempting curve. A sharp, stinging slap landed on your ass cheek, making you yelp, a surprised moan escaping your lips. He grabbed your hips, pulling you back, your body arching against his.
“Good girl, just like that baby,” he purred, his voice a dark caress. “You like that, don’t you? My little whore. My good girl. Say it again, baby. Say ‘yes, daddy.’”
“Yes, daddy!” you cried out, your voice hoarse, desperate.
Seungcheol repositioned himself, his cock pressing against your eager hole, slick with your own juices from the previous assault. He pushed, slowly at first, then with a surge, burying himself deep inside you from behind. Another guttural groan tore from him, a sound of pure satisfaction. You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, your body tensing, then relaxing around his invading length. He began to pound, a relentless, primal rhythm that drove you further into the mattress. The sounds were louder now, more visceral; the wet squelch of his cock, the rhythmic thwack of his balls slapping against your ass, your own desperate moans, and his low, guttural grunts.
“Look at you,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust, his hips slamming into yours. “My little animal. All fours for daddy. This is where you belong. Under me. Taking every inch.” He grabbed your hair, tugging gently, tilting your head back. “You’re so beautiful when you’re ruined, baby. So perfect.”
You whimpered, a low, continuous sound, your body trembling, on the verge of shattering. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure, building, building, an unbearable crescendo. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, biting gently, marking you. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice a possessive rumble. “Always. Forever.”
Your climax hit you like a tidal wave, a violent, all-consuming release that left you screaming, your body convulsing, muscles clenching around his throbbing cock. You bucked against him, a desperate, primal dance, as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over you.
Seungcheol roared, a triumphant cry, his own climax hitting him hard and fast. He emptied himself deep inside you, a hot, pulsing gush that filled you, claiming you completely. He collapsed onto your back, his heavy weight pinning you to the bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Your bodies, slick with sweat and other fluids, slowly stilled, the only sounds the ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of two hearts that had just been irrevocably intertwined in a web of dark desire and twisted devotion.
vii. WHEN BLOOD TURNS COLD
Forever and Always
That was what Seungcheol whispered into your ear that night, words carved into your chest like an oath you could never let go of.
From then on, you forgot every single thing your father had ever told you. His warnings, his cold lectures, his disappointment, they meant nothing anymore.
You were more defiant than ever, your rebellion sharpened and fueled by Seungcheol, who praised you for every little act of disobedience, who told you it was power to spit in the face of expectation.
You and Seungcheol grew inseparable.
In public, his hand lingered on your waist longer than it should, his lips sometimes brushing against your temple even when people whispered, even when they stared. You never flinched. If anything, you leaned closer, held tighter, kissed him where eyes could see.
He thrived in it, and you did too.
The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care because in his eyes, you were all that mattered. And in yours, he was the only one who ever truly did.
Weeks passed since the night you finally gave yourself to him. Weeks of stolen touches, defiant laughter, whispers only for each other. Your father hadn’t made a single declaration that he knew anything or if he even knew at all. Not that you cared anymore. His approval was no longer your oxygen. You had Seungcheol.
But someone else did notice.
Your brother. Jaemin.
And he had a lot to say.
It was late one night in the office. The building was quiet, stripped of its usual buzz, as employees trickled out one by one. The halls carried only the hum of overhead lights. You were in your office, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as you waited for Seungcheol to finish a meeting with an investor. He always took you home, always.
The clock ticked softly. Your legs were tucked neatly under your desk chair, your mind only half-present, when suddenly the door slammed open.
Jaemin burst in, his voice venomous and sharp.
“You disgusting whore.”
Your head snapped up from your phone, shock coursing through your veins. “Jae?” you whispered, standing and quickly closing your phone. Confusion knitted your brows as you stepped toward him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He sneered, his finger stabbing the air at you. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know everything.”
Your lips parted. You blinked. “Know what? What are you saying?”
“I know about you and that fucker Seungcheol,” he spat, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I know you’re spreading your legs for him like the little slut you are.”
The words hit like glass shattering against your chest. You stumbled back a step. “That’s not– Jaemin, you don’t understand–”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, dear sister,” he cut you off, his voice louder now, dripping poison. “You’ll never inherit Dad’s company. You know that. So what do you do? You go crawling to the strongest candidate, fucking him to get your way, to get his money. Fucking pathetic.” He jabbed his finger toward your face. “You’re a fucking whore, that’s all you are. A gold-digging whore!”
Tears pricked at your eyes, your throat burning. “I don’t want money, Jaemin!” you cried, voice cracking. “I don’t care about the company. I care about him. We care about each other, and that’s all—”
Jaemin scoffed, shaking his head violently, his lips curling into something cruel. “You expect me to believe that? You expect anyone to believe that?” His voice rose as he stepped closer, towering over you. “I will inherit this company. It’s mine. Rightfully mine, because I am the firstborn son. And you— you’re nothing. A spoiled brat spreading her legs to climb to the top. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Your back hit the edge of your desk, and you shook your head furiously, tears finally slipping down your cheeks. “Stop it, please—”
“Pathetic bitch,” he snarled.
Then his hand shot out, clamping around your throat.
You gasped, choking, your hands flying up to claw at his grip. The pressure burned, cut off your air, your nails scratching desperately at his skin. Your legs kicked against the carpet as you tried to pry his hand away.
“You think you can fool anyone with this little act?!” Jaemin roared, spittle flying from his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re nothing but a stain on this family, always were, always will be! You spoiled fucking brat!”
You struggled, your lungs screaming for air, vision blurring at the edges. Your nails dug into his wrist, but his grip only tightened, his curses slicing into your ears.
Meanwhile, Seungcheol had just finished his meeting, his steps purposeful as he made his way down the hall to your office. But the moment the door swung open, his world split in two.
He froze.
He saw you; his girl, his everything, being choked by your own brother.
Then Jaemin’s hand released you only to crack across your cheek, the slap echoing like a gunshot, sending you crumpling to the ground. You stayed down, your head bowed, gasping, fighting to catch your breath.
Seungcheol saw red.
His chest erupted with fury, his mind clouded with nothing but violence. Before Jaemin could even step back, Seungcheol lunged. His fist collided with Jaemin’s jaw, the impact cracking through the air. Jaemin stumbled, hitting the ground hard.
“You motherfucker!” Seungcheol roared, standing over him, his voice raw with rage. “You dare lay your filthy hands on her?!”
Jaemin spat blood to the side, then actually had the audacity to smirk. “What? You her knight in shining armor now?” he taunted, his voice hoarse but still cutting. “You’re nothing but a dog on a leash, Seungcheol. She’s got you wrapped around her finger, just like every other man.”
The words snapped something inside Seungcheol. He dropped down, pinning Jaemin beneath him as his fists rained down again and again, each punch harder than the last.
“You think you can talk about her like that?!” Seungcheol growled, his knuckles splitting open. “You think you can put your hands on her and live to breathe another fucking day?!”
Blood smeared across Jaemin’s face, his laugh bubbling through broken teeth. “Look at you,” he coughed out, “pathetic. Throwing punches for a spoiled brat. She’ll ruin you, just like she ruins everything.”
Seungcheol’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Another punch landed. “If you ever touch her again, I swear to God, Jaemin, I will kill you. You hear me? I will end you.”
You sat frozen on the floor, your cheek blazing red, a bruise already forming on your neck. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just watched as Seungcheol tore into your brother with nothing but fury in his eyes.
Finally, Seungcheol rose, his chest heaving, his fists dripping with blood. He pointed down at Jaemin, his voice low and lethal. “Get the fuck out of here. Before I do something worse.”
Jaemin wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, then smirked again, mocking even as he staggered to his feet. He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Have it your way.” He spat on the floor, blood staining the carpet. “But this isn’t over.”
With that, he limped out, leaving silence in his wake.
Seungcheol turned to you. You were staring at him with tear-streaked eyes, your breathing uneven, your cheek flaming red, your throat marred with darkening bruises. His rage melted instantly, replaced by something softer, protective. He dropped to his knees beside you, cupping your face gently despite the tremble in his hands.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re alright. He won’t touch you again.”
Your lips quivered, your tears spilling fresh. You looked up at him, your voice small, broken. “He hurt me, Cheollie… he hurt me.” And then you broke into sobs.
Seungcheol’s chest cracked wide open. He gathered you against him instantly, cooing softly. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. He’s gone now, you’re safe. I won’t let him touch you again. I promise, I swear on my life.” His lips pressed against your temple, his arms tight but gentle.
You sobbed into his chest, your body trembling as hiccups shook you. He rocked you slowly, whispering over and over. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. You’re safe with me. Always.”
Then, without hesitation, he slid his arms under you and lifted you up bridal style. You instinctively clung to him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, your tears soaking into his shirt. He stood, striding to your desk with you in his arms, snatching your phone and purse with one free hand before heading for the door.
You sobbed into his neck. “I’m scared… I didn’t know my own brother could do that to me…”
His voice hardened, but his tone to you was soft, reassuring. “You don’t need to be scared, little dove. Not when I’m here. I’ll take care of everything. He won’t get away with this. I promise you.” He pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’ll protect you. Forever and always.”
He carried you out of the office, down the empty hall, and out into the night. His strides were long, purposeful, his arm never loosening. When he reached his car, he settled you gently in the passenger seat, buckling you in himself, his fingers brushing over your trembling hands.
“You’re not staying there tonight,” he said firmly as he closed your door and slid into the driver’s seat. His knuckles whitened around the wheel, his jaw tense as stone. “You’re staying with me. I won’t allow you to sleep under the same roof as that bastard.”
The car ride was quiet but heavy. You hiccupped and sniffled, exhaustion dragging at your eyelids as Seungcheol’s voice filled the space. His words were steady, repeated like a vow. “Everything will be fine. I’ll fix this. You don’t have to worry anymore. Sleep, baby. I’ve got you. Always.”
Slowly, your breathing evened out, your tears drying as sleep took you.
Seungcheol kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was locked, his knuckles pale from gripping the wheel so tightly. Every muscle in his body burned with fury. Finally, he reached over, grabbing his phone and pressing it to his ear.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a calm voice answered.
“Seungcheol, you called.”
His tone was cold, sharp, merciless. “Wonwoo. I need you to do something for me.”
viii. THE PERFECT MASKED EXECUTION
Jaemin’s mind was running a hundred miles per hour as he gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had turned bone white. His breaths came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling like a man drowning in his own fury.
The sting from his split lip mixed with the hot burn of humiliation; Seungcheol’s punches still echoed through his skull. Blood dripped down his chin, streaking over the collar of his designer suit, staining it with a grotesque reminder of the shame he’d suffered tonight. It splattered on the leather interior of his expensive car, the sharp scent of iron mixing with the faint notes of cologne lingering in the air.
Every drop only fueled his anger.
When he finally pulled up to the estate, he didn’t bother to pull into the driveway. He slammed the brakes hard, jerking the car to the curb, and threw the door open with a snarl. His shoes hit the ground in heavy, uneven strides as he stormed toward the towering doors of the family home, the place that had always been his fortress.
Tonight it felt like a coffin.
The halls echoed with silence as he rushed through them, fists clenched, his jaw tight. His pulse thundered in his ears, every beat chanting Seungcheol’s name. By the time he reached his room, he was panting, chest heaving with rage.
The moment he pushed open the door, his eyes fell to the desk. Papers were scattered everywhere; his research, his lifeline, his one advantage.
Documents detailing Choi Seungcheol’s sins: shady deals buried deep, violent altercations hushed by bribes, money trails that could land him in jail. Jaemin lunged forward, hands shaking as he swept the papers into a pile and stuffed them into his leather bag with manic urgency.
Jaemin’s only thought was to get out, expose Seungcheol before he could make his next move.
But then…
Click.
Jaemin froze.
The cold press of metal at the back of his head sent ice down his spine. His blood turned to stone, his body locked in place. Then came the voice; deep, muffled through some kind of distortion. It was low, calm, and cruel.
“Tsk, tsk… look at you,” the voice tutted, mocking. “So desperate. So pitiful. I almost feel sorry for you.”
Jaemin’s throat closed, his breaths shallow. His voice came out hoarse, shaking despite his attempt at control.
“W-Who are you? What… what do you want?”
A chuckle hummed behind him, slow and deliberate. “Why don’t you turn around and find out.”
His body refused him at first, every nerve screaming to stay frozen, but his legs betrayed him.
Slowly, rigidly, Jaemin turned.
And there he was.
A tall man in all black stood before him. Broad shoulders, muscular frame, every inch of him cloaked in darkness. But it was the mask that rooted Jaemin’s feet to the ground, the full face of a red skull, grotesque and grinning, reflecting the dim light of the room.
The masked man tilted his head and laughed, the sound hollow behind the distortion. “So obedient. So pathetic. I thought you’d put up more of a fight, but… here you are, shaking like a child.”
Jaemin’s nostrils flared as he straightened, trying to disguise the fear clenching his gut. His voice sharpened, though it cracked at the edges.
“What do you need? Money? Is that it? I can give you money.”
The man shook his head slowly, deliberately. “Not here for money.” A pause. “I’m here… for a friend.”
The words hit like a riddle. Jaemin’s heart stumbled, his brows furrowed. “A… friend? Who the hell– what are you talking about?”
The masked man stepped closer, his boots heavy on the polished floor. “You wouldn’t understand. He told me you wouldn’t.” A long, low laugh. “Said you’d be too stupid to figure it out.”
Jaemin’s anger flared through the fear. His teeth ground as he snapped, “Answer me straight, damn it! What the fuck do you want?!”
The masked man leaned in, close enough for Jaemin to see his own trembling reflection in the glossy surface of the red skull. “What I want?” he echoed, almost playfully. Then his tone dropped, eerie and final. “I want you… to remember this moment.”
Before Jaemin could reply, footsteps echoed behind him. He spun, his stomach flipping.
Another figure had entered.
This one tall as well, clad in black from head to toe, but his mask was silver, the same grinning skull carved into its design.
Jaemin barely had time to register the glimmer of metal at the man’s side.
A bat.
Then—
BAM!
The blow crashed against his skull, pain exploding like fire through his head. His knees buckled, vision went black. He hit the floor, unconscious before he could even curse.
The man in the red mask crouched and hefted Jaemin’s limp body over his shoulder like he was nothing more than a sack of garbage. Without hesitation, the two men strode out of the room, their boots striking the floor with eerie confidence, as if they’d walked these halls a thousand times.
The man in the silver mask tilted his head toward the ceiling as they passed. Surveillance cameras lined the corners, their tiny lights dark, disabled. He let out a dry chuckle under his breath. “Perfect.”
Together, they moved down the corridor until they stood before the large wooden double doors of the patriarch’s office.
The red mask lifted his leg and kicked hard.
The doors flew open.
Inside, your father sat at his desk, papers neatly arranged, his glasses perched low on his nose. At the sudden intrusion, he jolted upright. His eyes widened in shock.
“What the hell is this?!” he barked. His voice thundered across the room as he shot to his feet. “Who are you? What do you want? Get out of my house this instant, or I’m calling the police!”
The red mask dropped Jaemin’s unconscious body onto the carpet with a thud.
Your father’s face twisted in horror. “What did you do to him?!”
No answer.
The red mask raised his hand, gun glinting in the dim light.
Bang!
Your father staggered back.
Bang!
His knees buckled.
Bang!
Blood sprayed across the mahogany desk.
Bang!
The fourth shot landed straight between his brows. His body slumped back into the chair, lifeless, eyes open but empty.
The silver mask calmly stepped forward. With deliberate precision, he lifted the bat he carried earlier and pressed it into your father’s lifeless hand, holding it there for a moment before letting it drop beside the corpse’s feet with a heavy thud.
The red mask seized Jaemin’s body once again, dragging him forward until he slumped into the chair opposite his father. With meticulous care, he forced the unconscious boy’s hand around the gun and left it there.
Minutes ticked by.
Eventually, Jaemin groaned, stirring.
The red mask’s hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out a phone.
He dialed.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
The man’s voice changed instantly; concerned, frantic, breathless.
“H-hello? Yes– yes, my friend and I, we were walking down Delaney Street… we… we heard gunshots! From inside the house! We– we didn’t know what to do, we were so scared, we just ran– please, you have to send someone, right now!”
“Sir, calm down. We’ve dispatched a unit. Stay safe.”
“O-okay, thank you! Thank you!”
He hung up.
A groan echoed through the office. Jaemin’s eyelids fluttered as he slowly came to. His head pounded, his vision swam. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He blinked, sat up—
And froze.
His father’s lifeless body sat across from him, blood dripping down his forehead.
“No…” Jaemin gasped, stumbling back. He stood so quickly the chair screeched against the floor. His hand suddenly felt heavy. He looked down—
The gun.
“No– no, no, no!” He dropped it instantly, the clatter deafening in the silent room.
His head whipped around, and there they were. The red mask. The silver mask. Watching.
Jaemin’s voice cracked as he screamed, spittle flying. “WHAT DID YOU DO?! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!” He repeated it, over and over, desperation breaking his voice.
Sirens wailed in the distance, flashing red and blue lights growing nearer until they painted the office walls.
Before Jaemin could speak again, the red mask’s fist slammed into his jaw. Pain exploded, sending him sprawling onto the carpet.
Upstairs, footsteps thundered. The silver mask tore into Jaemin’s room, sweeping every damning document he’d compiled on Seungcheol into a bag. At the same time, the red mask planted new papers; fraud accounts, stolen stocks, fabricated evidence of embezzlement… every page spelling Jaemin’s downfall.
By the time the police banged on the front door, the two men had slipped silently through a window, vanishing into the night.
They sprinted to a car parked in the shadows, slid inside. The red mask gripped the wheel, the silver mask flipped open a laptop on his lap, fingers flying across the keys as code filled the screen.
From a safe distance, they watched the estate come alive with sirens. Police shouting, battering down the doors, storming inside. Minutes later, two figures emerged; one body bag carried solemnly by officers, and Jaemin, wrists cuffed tightly, dragged into the flashing lights.
The red mask smirked beneath his disguise, then turned the key.
The car sped off into the night.
After several minutes, both men tore the masks away. One’s calm eyes glinted in the glow of the laptop, while the other leaned back, grinning like a wolf.
The one on the passenger seat dialed on his phone.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then a voice answered.
“So?”
“It’s done, Seungcheol,” He said evenly.
Across the city, Seungcheol leaned back against the headboard of his bed, shirtless. You lay curled against his chest, your breaths soft and steady as you slept, his arm wrapped protectively around you. A smile tugged at his lips as he chuckled lowly.
“I owe you, Wonwoo.”
“What about me?” Another voice cut in.
“I don’t remember asking you for help, Mingyu,” Seungcheol replied flatly. “You’re just a bloodthirsty psycho.”
“Coming from you,” Mingyu shot back, sharp and smug.
Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was calm. “Everything went according to plan?”
“One is dead,” Mingyu said bluntly, his laugh dark and unrestrained. “And one’s about to be the talk of the country tomorrow.”
Wonwoo’s voice followed, cool and precise. “Everything went smooth. I disabled all surveillance cameras inside the estate, outside, and every neighboring house within a block. No one saw a thing.”
Seungcheol hummed low, satisfaction vibrating in his chest as his fingers traced absent circles along your arm. “Good. Thank you, both of you.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone onto the nightstand. His gaze dropped to you, sleeping soundly against him, trusting him completely.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Everything was falling into place.
Tomorrow, the world would burn and you would be his.
Just as he had planned.
ix. THE LAST CURTAIN CALL
The next morning, you wake in a world on fire, yet in his arms, it feels like quiet.
The sheets are warm, heavy, carrying the scent of Seungcheol’s home, his skin, his breath lingering from the night before. His chest is solid against your back, his arm banded around your waist in a grip that feels protective, possessive, immovable.
The sun bleeds weakly through the curtains, but it’s the television that floods the room with light and noise.
You don’t move. You don’t want to. The cadence of his breathing anchors you, and for a moment it’s almost enough to believe you’ve woken into safety. His embrace feels like an answer your body has been craving without realizing it, his presence wrapping you in something that feels more permanent than walls, heavier than bloodlines.
Home.
On the screen before you, the world gnaws itself apart.
“Breaking news this morning,” the anchor announces, voice smooth but cutting. The camera flashes to the sprawling family estate barricaded with yellow tape, authorities crowding in and out of the gates, flashes from news cameras breaking through the gray morning. “The patriarch of the multibillion conglomerate SVT was found dead late last night in his home office. Officials confirm he sustained four gunshot wounds.”
You don’t blink.
Seungcheol’s grip only tightens around you, silent.
“They have also revealed that a metal bat was recovered at the scene, bearing the victim’s fingerprints. Police officials suggest the deceased may have attempted to defend himself before succumbing to gunfire. His eldest son, Jaemin was taken into custody last night, escorted in handcuffs following a violent confrontation. He was found at the home in possession of the firearm bearing his fingerprints. Blood on the recovered bat has been matched to his DNA.”
The screen shows Jaemin bruised, swollen, stumbling as police drag him through flashing lights and yelling reporters. He looks monstrous. You don’t flinch. Not even when the footage cuts back to the anchor’s tight, professional expression.
“Further evidence suggests found in the estate, a history of financial misconduct. Documents discovered in his private study indicate possible tax fraud and diversion of company assets. Sources close to the investigation believe these allegations may have motivated his actions.”
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, sharp. His other hand is on the phone, voice low but thrumming with controlled anger as he speaks into it. His thumb rubs your arm absently, a contradiction in touch.
“No,” he snaps, his voice edged. “Listen to me, this company will not collapse because of that bastard’s stupidity. The board will convene tonight. You’ll get the statement drafted, I’ll handle the press. We are not letting outsiders control the narrative. Do you understand?”
You listen in silence, curled in his arms, staring at your actual home swarmed with police on the television screen.
“And now on developing news,” the anchor continues. “Following this story, we have obtained exclusive CCTV footage leaked from the company headquarters by an anonymous source. Warning, some viewers may find this content disturbing.”
The clip cuts in, grainy, the boardroom office. You. Jaemin. His hand at your throat, squeezing, shoving your back into the desk. The sharp crack of his palm across your face. The grainy black-and-white version of you struggling, choking, your own face barely recognizable in distress before Seungcheol appears, dragging him off you, the image freezing there.
The anchor’s voice overlays, calm and clinical, “This footage, verified by multiple sources, suggests the possibility that the oldest heir may have been physically abusive toward his younger sister. While the extent of this alleged abuse remains under investigation, speculation has arisen that his motive for murder may have been tied to his attempts to seize control of the SVT conglomerate at any cost.”
The words slice cleanly.
You stare, unmoving, but suddenly your body betrays you, warm tears begin to slide down your cheeks. Slowly at first, then spilling faster, the noise of the television blurring into the sound of your shallow breaths.
Seungcheol notices instantly. His head turns; his eyes are sharp, burning, but his mouth softens when he looks at you. He mutters one final line into the phone, his tone cutting, final, a growl that leaves no room for argument.
“Get it done or get out of my way.”
The phone hits the nightstand with a sharp thud, and then his hand is on your cheek, brushing away the tears that keep coming. His voice dips low, gentle, almost coaxing.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You can’t. Your chest shudders, the sob finally breaking free. “H-how could this happen?” Your words stumble, your throat burning. “How could I believe he would– he would do something like this? My da– my dad is gone—”
Seungcheol pulls you up, presses your face into his chest, his hand stroking through your hair, down your spine. “Shh. Don’t do this to yourself, baby. Don’t you dare blame yourself for the monsters they chose to be. Your father…” His voice cracks sharp, then steadies into something smoother, a lie wrapped in velvet. “Your father couldn’t protect you. Your brother never wanted to. But me? I’ll never let anything touch you. Do you hear me? Never.”
You sob harder, your fists clutching at his shirt. “If I was home last night… if I was there—” Your voice fractures into hysteria. “What would he have done to me, Cheollie? What if he killed me too? What if— what if—”
“Stop.” His tone hardens, but his hand is firm, steady on your back. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. I would never let that happen. He will pay for what he’s done, you hear me? He’ll rot in jail for it. And you…” He tilts your chin up, forcing your teary eyes to meet his. His voice lowers, possessive, absolute. “You are safe. With me. Only with me.”
Your voice comes out small, almost childlike through your sobbing. “You promise? You’ll protect me?”
His thumb wipes under your eye, slow. He smiles, faint but sharp, his eyes burning with something closer to hunger than tenderness. “I already am, angel. You’re mine now. And no one will ever hurt what’s mine.”
After a few minutes after you two fell in comfortable silence, Seungcheol squeezed your arm and broke the silence.
“You should come to the meeting tonight,” he says. His voice is soft, persuasive. “You need to be seen, baby. We’ll go to the office together. It’s better that people see you… see the truth. The footage, the bruises, they’ll understand. The press will help. It’ll make Jaemin’s lies crumble faster.”
You press your palm to your chest as if to steady the frantic beat beneath. The office had dozen memories you can’t face today; the idea of leaving Seungcheol’s house feels like stepping off a cliff. “I don’t want to go, Cheollie.” you whisper. The words tremble out, small and honest.
He tips your chin up with a thumb like it’s the most natural, simple thing. “You don’t have to be brave for anyone but yourself,” he says. There’s a pause, then the softer edging of a plan. “But for this… please. Let them see what he did. Let them see you. Let them know. We need the world to feel the truth. For you. For me. For justice.”
You find yourself thinking, absurdly, that he is the only one using the word justice who doesn’t sound clinical. You nod because the nod is easier than arguing. “Okay,” you say, small.
“But promise… you won’t leave me. Not for a second,” you add, eyes wide and childlike with fear.
His face softens. “I promise. I’ll be right there. Every step, my dove.” He leans down to press a quick kiss above your temple and then he moves, purposeful and precise, to get you ready.
When you arrive the cameras are a living wall.
Flashbulbs pop like small, impatient fireworks. Reporters cluster at the gate, their voices a constant tide of questions. Seungcheol moves like someone who has rehearsed this choreography a thousand times; close to you, intercepting microphones with a shoulder, guiding you with a hand at the small of your back. You keep your sunglasses on because you’re not ready to map your face for every headline.
A reporter shouts, “Miss, how are you holding up?” A camera lens swings to you. You feel the weight of a thousand eyes and then the solid presence of Seungcheol’s hand squeezing your wrist. He leans in to the nearest reporter, cold and fast. “No comments. Move back.” His tone is not rude so much as iron-clad; the press takes two steps back without arguing.
He will not let anyone come near you. When a stranger reaches out, an older woman who wants to touch your sleeve, Seungcheol’s hand shifts like a blind barrier, blocking it gently but deliberately. “We appreciate your concern,” he tells her, voice smooth, and then to you, low, “Breathe, my love. Keep your sunglasses on. Let them see the bruise. They need to see.”
You want to hide the line on your neck. You reach instinctively for the silk scarf in your bag, but his fingers close around your wrist and stop you, soft but firm. “No.” The one-syllable absolute is not cruel; he makes it strategy. “If people see, they’ll know what he did. It helps.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd when they notice the faint red crescent at your jaw and the darker purple beginning to bloom along your neck. Hollow sympathies and blunt outrage fold over one another: “Oh my god, look at her.” “How could he?” “She’s so brave.”
You feel oddly buoyed by the chorus; pity is proof, pity is recognition, pity is evidence the world acknowledges what you felt alone.
Inside the meeting room a few floors up, the board members assemble around the long table. You sit close to Seungcheol who was on your father’s chair, as he has asked, as the rest of the room settles into the business of damage control. He pulls your fingers through his and interlaces them in his lap, his hand large and steady over yours.
The conversation is airless, taut with numbers and reputation.
The CFO opens with the facts, “We need to control the narrative. The footage is circulating; the tabloids will run their own versions. We’ll issue a statement tonight, legal will contact family counsel, and security will audit all internal operations.”
A senior director adds his voice practiced, “We also need a clear succession plan. The market hates uncertainty. We propose an interim CEO, a clean face, someone who can stabilize investor confidence.”
A board member looks at Seungcheol. “You’ve been the operator, if anyone can steady the ship, it’s you.”
Another voice, lower, suggests another tack: “There’s merit to considering now that Jaemin is out the picture, the only daughter as the rightful heir, given recent events. Legally she is a primary family member, and it would show a continuity that may mollify certain stakeholders.”
You feel the table spin for a fraction of a second. The suggestion is courteous, almost shockingly fair on paper, but it feels like a test you had no intention of passing.
“No,” you say immediately, before you can measure the consequences.
The word comes out quick and final. Heads turn.
Seungcheol looks at you; the corner of his mouth lifts like a question. “Are you sure, baby?” he asks quietly.
You take a breath that trembles with memory of your father’s eyes when he treated you like an ornament, of your own clumsy attempts at the office, and of how badly this life pinched at the edges of you. “Yes,” you answer. “He trained you, Cheol. My father trusted you. You have been his COO for years. He would want you to lead. This business… it’s not for me.” The admission is small but fierce.
You feel faintly like a child handing someone else a crown.
Seungcheol’s reply is quiet and confident. “I understand.” His hand squeezes yours before placing a kiss on the back of it.
Later, in the privacy of your chest, he will call this modesty. In the present, it simply feels like relief.
The board continued and discusses logistics; legal filings, press strategy, the expected fallout.
A vote is taken. A few members voice the obvious; “Seungcheol has proven himself; he should be interim CEO.” A couple murmur about governance and optics.
The decision was made quick, Choi Seungcheol, interim leader; he accepts the position with a humility that looks practiced and true; he speaks of stewardship, stability, and protecting the company’s legacy.
When the meeting needed and when other executives leave, their shoes hollowing away down the corridor, the room closes in smaller and softer. Seungcheol pulls you into his lap, your body instinctively folding against him, he then tugs a stray hair behind your ear with the devotion of someone blessing a small victory.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs, voice thick with something that could be gratitude or feigned humility. “Did I do well?”
You blink at the question, and he laughs softly, self-deprecating but proud. “You were perfect,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper.
He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, fingers braced at the back of your head. “Will I do good?” he asks, seeking the approval like a man who needs it to be true.
“Yes,” you reply without thinking.
Your voice is small and certain. You mean it, the way he has maneuvered the world for you, the way he has kept you close, has created a private sky in which he is the only power. You want to believe him worthy.
He is worthy.
Seungcheol smiles, then closes the distance in a practiced move, lips meeting yours. The kiss is swift and exact at first, it softens into slow, insistent, his mouth mapping yours with patient ownership. His hands caressed; one at the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your skull, guiding, steadying. You respond because you are exhausted and because his mouth promises a hush. The kiss deepens; his tongue is deliberate, exploring rather than racing, coaxing you into compliance.
When he pulls back, the air around you feels smaller and warmer. He rests his forehead against yours again.
“Everything will be alright, angel,” he says, voice low and certain. “It’s all falling into place.”
You make a small sound; half sigh, half hum, and sink into him, the sound of it a confirmation.
In his arms, with his word, the world narrows to two people and a plan that will not let anything touch you unless he allows it.
And soon, the trial finally came.
The trial comes like a storm you can’t avoid.
Weeks of preparation collapse into a single morning; suits, papers, microphones, cameras flashing outside the courthouse doors. Inside, the air hums with tension, lawyers setting up files, the low murmur of the audience, the scrape of chairs, the judge’s gavel calling order.
You sit stiffly, your hands folded tight in your lap, Seungcheol’s presence at your side a steady, quiet anchor.
The prosecution begins, voices calm but sharp.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is not one of speculation. The evidence will show that Mr. Jaemin, motivated by greed and resentment, not only abused his younger sister but also murdered his own father in a desperate bid for power.”
The defense counters quickly, their tone crisp, controlled.
“The prosecution will try to paint my client as a monster. But we intend to show he is a victim of circumstance, wrongfully accused, framed by a chain of coincidences and circumstantial evidence. We will show the lack of direct proof linking him to this heinous act.”
The words weave through the courtroom like smoke. You sit silently, each sentence adding weight to your chest.
When the judge calls your name, your stomach knots. You stand and walk to the witness stand, every step deliberate. The oath feels heavy on your tongue, but you speak it. And then you’re seated in the booth, hands trembling in your lap, eyes seeking out Seungcheol across the courtroom. He looks at you like always; steady, reassuring, his gaze warm enough to melt the fear.
The prosecutor starts.
“Miss, can you describe your relationship with your brother, Jaemin?”
Your throat tightens. But you speak.
“He is my brother but… he’s always been… angry with me. I never understood why. Ever since we were children, it felt like I was someone he resented the most.”
“And in recent years? Did that anger escalate?”
“Yes.” You hiccup slightly. “Recently, he’s been hitting me. Sometimes slapping me, choking me. He’d wait until no one was around. I tried to ignore it, but it only got worse.”
You steal a glance at Seungcheol. His eyes shine with something fierce, something like pride. The sight steadies you.
The prosecutor presses on.
“Do you recall an incident when your father discussed the company’s succession plan with you and your brother?”
Your lips part, and the lie forms smoothly now.
“Yes. My dad once proposed I take over after him. Jaemin knew that I have no interests in the business, yet… he didn’t take it well. He dragged me by the hair, screamed at me, called me unfit. He–he verbally abused me, over and over.”
A lie.
A murmur ripples through the courtroom. The defense lawyer rises quickly.
“Objection. Speculative and inflammatory.”
The judge bangs the gavel. “Overruled. The witness will continue.”
Your voice wavers but doesn’t break.
“He’s always been ambitious. He wanted the company more than anything. And when Father suggested me, he never forgave me for it.”
The prosecutor nods solemnly. “No further questions.”
The defense steps forward, eyes sharp.
“Miss, you expect us to believe your brother— a man respected in business circles, physically assaulted you for years and no one noticed? No staff, no relatives, no one?”
You swallow.
“He… he knew when to stop. He knew how to hide it. And I never said anything. I was afraid.”
The lawyer leans closer. “Afraid, or lying?”
Your chest seizes. Before you can form an answer, a chair scrapes violently. Jaemin shoots to his feet, his voice shattering through the chamber.
“Liar! You’re lying! Why are you lying?!”
Your body folds in on itself, a sob breaking loose as you cower in the booth. Tears stream down your face as the judge slams the gavel.
“Order in the court! Mr. Jaemin, you will sit down immediately or be held in contempt!”
Guards press him back into his chair, his chest heaving with rage.
You choke out words between sobs. “I—I didn’t want to say it. But it’s the truth. He’s hurt me for years.”
The jury watches with wide eyes. The prosecutor’s face is set in stone, calm and satisfied.
Witnesses are called one after another.
Former staff. Associates. Neighbors. They speak of muffled arguments, strange bruises, doors slammed shut, Jaemin’s temper and his jealousy.
Their testimonies weave seamlessly into the picture already painted.
You sit frozen in your seat, confusion threading through your mind. You never expected this; so many voices, so much support for lies you thought were only yours. But each time your doubt flickers, your gaze drifts sideways to Seungcheol. He doesn’t look at you… he’s watching the witnesses, calm, almost smug.
Evidence is paraded before the jury: the murder weapon with Jaemin’s fingerprints, financial documents tracing fraud directly to him, CCTV footage of him storming the estate.
The defense fights, but their arguments crumble against the weight of the case built brick by brick.
Finally, the judge calls the jury back. The courtroom stills as the foreman stands.
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Jaemin… guilty of murder in the first degree. Guilty of aggravated assault. Guilty of fraud.”
The gavel cracks once, final and echoing.
“You are hereby sentenced to life in prison.”
Chaos erupts.
Jaemin thrashes as guards seize his arms, his voice breaking with fury.
“No! You liars! You fucking liars! You’ll burn for this! Both of you! Fuck you!”
He kicks, he screams, his words tangled in curses as he’s dragged in chains across the floor. The courtroom watches, stunned, horrified.
Beside you, Seungcheol shifts. He leans in, presses a kiss against your forehead, unshaken and protective. His hand rests firm at the back of your neck.
Relief floods you, sharp and dizzying. But beneath it, winding through the cracks of your soul, is something else; dark, foreign, and strangely sweet.
As Jaemin is hauled away, spitting venom and thrashing against his restraints, you feel it rise in you.
A satisfaction. Sinister, heavy, intoxicating.
You sit very still, tears cooling on your cheeks, and watch your brother vanish through the doors, screaming, cursing, chained; knowing deep inside you that part of you doesn’t grieve his downfall at all.
The last final thing to end this whole story… is the funeral.
The funeral comes on a gray morning, the sky heavy with clouds that seem to hang low enough to suffocate. Black cars line the driveway of the cemetery chapel, their polished surfaces reflecting the pale light.
Inside, the room is full of friends, family, colleagues, every one of them dressed in dark mourning clothes, their faces painted with grief. The air smells of incense and wilting flowers, a blend so thick it clings to the back of your throat.
You stand there in the middle of it all, Seungcheol’s hand wrapped firmly around yours. His grip never falters, not once. Every person who approaches dips their head, voice low, the same refrain repeated again and again.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“He was a great man.”
“My condolences.”
The words blur together, a drone of pity you can no longer bear to hear. You nod politely, sometimes bow slightly, but inside you are exhausted. Tired of the sympathy. Tired of the murmured apologies. Tired of all of them looking at you as though you’re fragile glass ready to crack.
Seungcheol shields you with his presence, tall and steady at your side. His thumb strokes across the back of your hand absentmindedly, grounding you when the faces and voices start to blur too much. Not once does he let you go; not when you move from the entrance to the front pew, not when you sit, not when people file past you with their tears and rehearsed words. He is there, his warmth constant against your palm.
The ceremony stretches on, hymns echoing against the walls, the low hum of prayers filling the air. People cry; loud, soft, broken sobs echoing all around you. You watch as shoulders shake, as tissues are pressed to red eyes, as your father is remembered with reverence, his power, his influence, his supposed greatness.
But you… you don’t cry.
You can’t.
All you can do is think.
You think about the irony of it all.
How you grew up with everything; money, power, fame. A family name that carried weight wherever you went. You had the mansion, the cars, the legacy. You had your father, your brother, your mother.
Yet somehow, you always felt alone.
Your mother tried to fix that, for a while. She gave you warmth, the only real warmth you ever knew in that house. And then she was gone. Your father dismissed you, shoved you aside like you were little more than an afterthought. And your brother… despised you, hated you with a passion you never understood.
You had everything.
But you were always alone.
As the ceremony nears its end, you lean your head gently against Seungcheol’s shoulder. His suit is crisp, his cologne faint but grounding. The solid weight of him beneath your cheek anchors you more than anything else in this room.
And it hits you, so sharp and so cruelly ironic that now, with your whole family gone, you don’t feel alone at all.
Because you have him.
Seungcheol.
He holds your hand like it’s a lifeline, like he’ll never let go. He turns his head slightly, presses his lips against your hairline for the briefest second, and even in the silence of the chapel you hear him breathe with you, steady and calm.
More than enough. That’s what he is. More than enough to fill the empty spaces your family left behind. More than enough to make you believe you were never meant to stand with them but with him.
And as you sit there, in the last rows of mourning, surrounded by grief yet cocooned in his presence, the truth whispers itself to you in the cruelest clarity:
Now, with your father in the ground, your brother behind bars for life, and every tie to your blood severed, he had you completely; your hand in his, your head on his shoulder, your whole world folded neatly into his control.
x. HOWLING IN SILENCE
You didn’t regret it.
Not for a second.
Not when you looked back on it all, not when the echoes of people’s condolences still lingered, not when the weight of your father’s funeral still hung in the air.
No… there was not a trace of remorse inside you.
You remembered it clearly, like the first flicker of a match catching fire.
The very first time you saw Seungcheol wasn’t in your father’s office as he later thought. It was years before, in New York, during spring break. You had slipped into that party like any other restless daughter of privilege, but the second your eyes found him across the crowded room, everything stilled. He didn’t see you, too busy laughing low at something his friends whispered in his ear but you saw him.
The way the soft amber light of the chandeliers slid across his jawline. The way his posture screamed control, shoulders squared, head slightly dipped in quiet dominance. The way women leaned closer when he spoke, like moths to flame, and the way men straightened their backs when he passed, instinctively aware of the gravity he carried.
You admired the quiet strength in his movements, the elegance wrapped around authority. In that instant, something in you locked into place.
You researched him afterwards. It wasn’t hard; nothing was hard when you had money and connections. And when you found out that he worked for your father, when you realized this man, this magnetic force, was tethered to your world, that’s when it began.
The obsession.
You played the long game. You didn’t act, not yet. You let years pass, because if this was going to work, it had to be perfect. It had to be inevitable.
When the moment finally came, it was under the guise of something so mundane it was laughable.
Your brother had asked you to bring his things to the office.
But you remembered your father at dinner the night before, casually mentioning that Seungcheol would be in for a meeting. So you hid Jaemin’s laptop. His phone. You made sure he’d have no choice but to send you.
You dressed with precision that morning; your very best, the kind of outfit that whispered innocence but clung enough to ensure attention. And when you walked into that office, carrying your brother’s things, you felt it.
His eyes.
The heavy drag of his gaze over your frame.
That was the moment you knew everything was falling into place.
From there, you crafted your role with care. A clumsy slip here, an accidental bump there. You made sure he would have no choice but to protect you. And he did. Every time. His hand steadying your elbow, his voice gently scolding, “Be careful. You’ll hurt yourself, sweetheart.”
The soft glare he’d send to whoever you bumped into, as though he was already imagining peeling their skin from bone for daring to be in your way. You basked in it. In his doting, in his attention, in the way his presence bent toward yours like a shield.
You left your window cracked open on purpose. You dressed in soft, satin nightgowns meant for his eyes alone. You savored the thought of him standing outside, gaze trailing over you in the dark, climbing in when the temptation became too much.
And when your father confronted you, his voice booming as he forbade you from seeing Seungcheol again, you weren’t bothered. His words slid off you like rain.
Still, you cried.
Cried deliberately, knowing Seungcheol was just outside waiting for his meeting, your sobs bleeding into the air so that he’d hear. You crafted your need for him carefully, your words always turned toward reassurance, planting in him the unshakable image of you as something fragile, in need of protection.
Then there was Anna and Chloe.
You had been foolish enough to tell them about Seungcheol, expecting friendship, perhaps envy disguised as teasing. Instead, their eyes glazed with lust, their giggles sharp with hunger.
“He’s hot,” Chloe had whispered, her lip caught between her teeth.
“God, imagine if he looked at us the way he looks at you,” Anna added, laughter bubbling between them.
Your blood boiled.
“You’re disgusting,” you spat, your voice cold.
“Relax,” Chloe snickered, “we’re just saying… maybe we’d have a chance too.”
“You? A chance?” you sneered. “With him? Don’t make me fucking laugh. You’d be lucky if he even glanced at you.”
“At least we don’t throw ourselves around like some desperate little girl,” Anna bit back, eyes narrowing.
The fight escalated.
Words flew sharp as glass, names hurled until silence cut them apart.
When you told Seungcheol later, you didn’t reveal the truth. You didn’t tell him how they’d lusted after him, how the thought alone made you see red. You only told him they had been angry; angry because he was older, because he worked for your father and it was inappropriate.
You kept the mask intact, the perfect picture of naïveté.
But you knew what to do.
You knew exactly what to do.
A few nights later, with Anna and Chloe preparing for their trip to Paris, you picked up your phone. The line clicked, and a familiar, smooth voice answered.
“Hey, princess, what can I help you with?”
You smiled at the sound. “Hannie… can you get rid of some pests for me, pretty please?”
A chuckle, low and amused. “Risky words, pretty girl.”
“Risky job,” you teased back.
He hummed, a note of curiosity in his tone. “Tell me.”
You laid it out for him; who, where, when. Calm, casual, almost playful.
“You know,” he said after a pause, his voice warm with mischief, “I shouldn’t. But I owe you. And honestly, hearing that sweet voice beg? How could I say no?”
“I’ll wire you a million dollars.”
He laughed, soft and wicked. “Is cyanide okay, pretty girl?”
“Just make sure you don’t get caught.”
“Do you remember who you’re talking to?”
“Not Batman, that’s for sure.”
“Hey—” But you hung up before he could finish, your lips curving as the dial tone hummed.
When the news broke a few days later, it was almost beautiful. Anna and Chloe. Dead. Cyanide poisoning. No witnesses. No evidence. No leads. No trail. Nothing.
Clean. Silent. Perfect.
You were impressed… so much so that you sent Jeonghan another million.
And still, you didn’t regret it.
Not at all.
You arranged the final acts with the same slow, careful fingers.
You knew your brother’s temper. You knew the small humiliations that would make him snap. You let the building gossip do the rest; the looks, the little conspiracies. You left your messages where he could see them. You let your smiles happen when he passed. You made sure he overheard. You set the stage and kept your back to the audience, watching the trap tighten.
And he snapped, just like you expected.
Jaemin came at you like a storm, face red, voice tearing the air. The words are carved in your memory; his spit, his fury, the raw hatred you’d lived with and weaponized.
“You think you can fool anyone with this little act?!” Jaemin roared, spittle flying from his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re nothing but a stain on this family, always were, always will be! You spoiled fucking brat!”
You felt his hands on your throat tighten, the fingers like clamps. You felt the heat in your ears and the sudden, electric clarity. This was the moment you had rehearsed in the quiet of your mind. This was the culmination of years of small maneuvers. The choke, the insult, the public display of his rage, you had orchestrated a live confession and left the rest to the cameras and the men you’d lined up.
You struggled, gasping in his hold. The edges of pain sharpened everything, and something inside you tilted into a grin that is sinister and bright. You let a soft, small chuckle out of you, the sound the world would later read as hysteria but which, in that breath, tasted like power.
“You’re right,” you said, quiet and close, so that only he could hear at first. “Once you and Father are out of the picture, Seungcheol will take over. And I…” you lifted your chin, let the contempt curl perfect and icy, “I’ll be the spoiled fucking brat for the rest of my life. I won’t get my pretty little manicured nails dirty, God no. Seungcheol will do everything for me. To him, I’m nothing more than a helpless little creature.” You let the words fall like stones, whispering them into his face, the intimacy of the whisper making the insult sting harder.
Jaemin’s face went white with disbelief and then darker with rage. He could not imagine a daughter of their house speaking like that in front of him, confessing coldly to the machinery of their ruin.
You continued, savoring the confusion in his eyes as if it were a flavor.
“You should know by now, Jae… I always get what I want.” You said it with certainty.
Then Jaemin’s hand released you only to crack across your cheek, the slap echoing like a gunshot, sending you crumpling to the ground. You stayed down, your head bowed, gasping, fighting to catch your breath.
It was perfect.
You knew exactly when to let the wordless theatrics end so the crescendo could begin. He had given you the violent proof you needed. The bruise would show. The audience would see the chaos. The trap closed nicely around the man who had underestimated you for so long.
Seungcheol arrived like he had always promised he would; his entrance was perfect. The office door banged open and then everything moved in a blur of sound and force.
“You motherfucker!” Seungcheol roared, standing over Jaemin, his voice raw with rage. “You dare lay your filthy hands on her?!”
You watched as Seungcheol pivoted into something sharply animal. He struck Jaemin with the brutal focus of someone whose restraint was deliberately chosen and now broken. The room filled with the sounds of fists and flesh.
You felt one small part of yourself tremble with a guilty glee because you had written this script and now your brother lived it. You had to look down once, to stop a laugh from slipping out loud. It was almost obscene how perfectly your plan had folded into the fury of the man you’d curated.
When you looked up again, you couldn’t help but admire Seungcheol. He was all angles and power: the set of his neck, the way his breath fogged across his clenched jaw, the angry puffs that made him look like a god. The sight of his back, his fists, his controlled violence; each movement confirmed what you had known the moment you first noticed him at that party.
He was a predator. He would do the part you had written for him and he did it with relish.
When it was over… for a mercenary definition of over; Seungcheol pulled away and strode to you, and you opened to the trap you had laid. You let the waterworks come. You let the tremor, the small broken voice. It worked exactly as he needed it to.
Your lips quivered, tears streaming raw and generous. You looked up at him and said the line you’d rehearsed in the dark, the one you knew would snap the thread around his heart.
“He hurt me, Cheollie… he hurt me.” And you sobbed, the sound soft and immediate.
You deserved an award, you thought then, a private laugh hidden under the sob.
The performance had been pitch-perfect. Each beat was a note you had composed and he had played to an eager audience. You watched his face change in a way that felt like a vindication of long work. He melted into fury and then into tenderness, the exact swing you’d always planned for him to make.
That night, in Seungcheol’s arms, you felt the moment bloom into its full meaning… he finally snapped. He had the motive now and the will. All the loose ends you had not wanted to touch yourself were suddenly being handled by hands that were precisely the kind you’d wanted—the hands of the wolf.
Because you had not only found his tenderness; you had found his history.
When you first looked into his life, it was not a tidy biography of good grades and steady promotion. You had dug; you paid for more than a few discreet searches, a few favors slipped across oceans, a few phone calls that ended with a laugh and an “I’ll fix it.”
You found corners of Seungcheol’s past that the company dossier did not show him sharing at holiday parties. You found men who whispered names, runs and networks that breathed illegal currency, veiled organizations that ran like veins beneath polite business.
You learned that Seungcheol’s empire had darker tributaries. You laughed quietly at the notion he was only the obedient COO; he had commanded shadows long before you had set your sights on him. He had money with stains. He had reach. He had friends in certain circles, the kind who could make trouble disappear or make it appear exactly where you wanted.
You did not have to get your hands dirty. You were never stupid enough for that. You arranged, you provoked, you telegraphed weakness and flung bait. Seungcheol, hungry and proud in the alpha way men like him were, took the chase. He took the role you handed him: defender, avenger, tyrant unto the enemy. You watched him step into violence with the quiet thrill of a conductor watching an orchestra play the single piece you had scored.
Seungcheol gave you everything, spoiled you, loved you, placed himself between you and every real danger and in return, he unwittingly removed your final obstacles. He executed with the merciless efficiency you had always admired.
Men are predators by design, you had learned.
They hunger for the hunt, the chase, the proof of conquest. You are the kind of woman who taught them to chase, you played the game you had learned to play since childhood; small, desirable, fragile. You flattered their control, fed their need to save and command, breathed surrender in the right moments.
Predators cannot help themselves when you lead them along a path that promises both prey and purpose.
They claim, they protect, they prey.
And when the prey is clever enough, when she knows how to make the hunter feel powerful in the moment he is being used, she becomes the quiet architect of his fall.
You taught Seungcheol to protect you, to take bloody action, to believe the story of your rescue was his doing. You gave him the script and the applause. You let him think the power was his.
Letting the wolf take the lead was the slowest, most satisfying part of all.
He would do the dirty work because he could not resist the role you presented… the man who finally took control, who finally defended what was his.
And while he pumped fists and dealt punishment and later arranged for details you never had to touch, you lay on his chest and allowed yourself a rare, controlled smile. It was secure and quiet. You had made him the weapon and the wielder without dirtying the tips of your nails.
The last truth settled like a soft snow: a predator can be taught to swallow the prey whole if the prey knows the right way to smile. You had played the lamb long enough to earn the wolf’s full hunger. You fed his need to protect while he fed yours to be protected. It was the oldest bargain and the most modern trick, entice the hunter with vulnerability, whisper of need, then point him at the things you want removed.
When the day closed and you pretended to sleep, you listened as his phone buzzed. A single call, clipped and precise, the final note of your arrangement. You breathed in the dark and felt very small and very large at once.
Seungcheol fulfilled the part he’d willingly accepted; you had orchestrated the rest.
You did not regret it. You never would.
You had always known how to make the predator love the idea of his prey and in that love, Choi Seungcheol became the instrument of your will.
You were the quiet wolf in lamb’s clothing, and in the end, the predator was poisoned by the very prey he thought he owned.
The wolf ate, and did not know he had eaten the hand that fed him.
xi. EPILOGUE
The wolf was never the danger.
It was always the prey; the pretty little creature with wide eyes and trembling hands, who smiled just enough, who cried just right, who whispered weakness like a promise.
Men live to hunt, to protect, to conquer. And what is a hunter without something soft to cradle, without a reason to bare his teeth?
So the predator chased, devoured, bled for her. He thought it was his story, his kill, his choice. He thought he had won.
But the lamb only ever wore white because blood shows better on silk.
And when the night was done, and the bodies lay where they should, she smoothed her dress, wiped her tears, and smiled because the wolf never realized he’d been led by the leash all along.
mdni banner: @cafekitsune
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(n.) a place where you feel safe and at home, where you are your most authentic self; a place from which your strength is drawn.
everyone has needs. and everyone deserves to have those needs fulfilled. alphas have ruts. omegas have heats. do they not deserve partners? should they suffer in pain through their cycles because of biology? Alpha and Omega Services were created for this very reason, to help those who need it. you signed up to be a Service Omega months ago, and you’re happy with this life, helping your clients get through their ruts to the best of your capability.
but something is missing.
when a team of professional volleyball players request a Service Omega to help them through game season, you agree to the job, hoping the change in pace might help you break this strange emptiness. but the feeling only deepens, grows, along with a whole bunch of other emotions you are not ready to handle.
content warnings: omega!reader, fem!reader, this is set entirely in omegaverse so read at your own risk! exploration of secondary gender and pack dynamics, ruts, heats, knots and scenting. angst, fluff and smut. insecurity, the feeling of being lonely, abandoned, hurt, being ‘othered’. jealousy, some hostility. unprotected sex, nsfw, mentions of breeding, mating, knotting, omega subspace, multiple orgasms. there’s love between all subgenders. all members of seventeen are featured: alpha - seungcheol, jeonghan, junhui, soonyoung, wonwoo, seokmin, mingyu, hansol. beta - joshua, chan. omega - jihoon, minghao, seungkwan.
𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗
☆ prologue (wc: 1.4k)
☆ chapter 1 - (wc: 7.2k)
☆ chapter 2 - (wc: 8.9k)
☆ chapter 3 - (wc: 8.3k)
☆ chapter 4 - (wc: 9k)
☆ chapter 5 - (wc: 8.4k)
☆ chapter 6 - (wc: 9k)
☆ chapter 7 - (wc: 8.6k)
☆ chapter 8 - (wc: 9k)
☆ epilogue - 14/11/25
a/n: okay, this has been a long time coming! i’ve been working on this series for a while now, and im very proud of the story I have lined up. ot13 omegaverse is already an interesting concept but my haikyuu loving ass decided to through volleyball in there LMFAO and this might just be my magnum opus ㅠ but full disclaimer there isn’t really that much volleyball in it. ANYWAY I hope everyone likes it.
