Im Just A Girl Who Dreams Wit A Pen

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Backseat Serenade

Masterlist HERE!

Pairing: Country Star!Gojo x Ex-GF/MILF!Reader

Synopsis: When you return to your hometown to visit your aunt for the summer, you plan on finding a suitor and marrying into money the way your family has prophesied for you for years. You just don’t expect that suitor to be Gojo Satoru, cocky, popular country artist and heartthrob. And the man whose heart you broke years ago after he got you pregnant. You weren’t ready for his world then and you tell yourself that you’re not now. But when he offers you a friendly drink after his show, how can you refuse the starlit hottie? And how will you tell him that he’s the father of your child? 

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI); No Curse AU; Small Town Romance AU; Country Boy!Reader x Country to City Girl!Reader; Exes to Lovers; College Romance Trope; Accidental Pregnancy; T/W for Abortion Talk; Highkey Flirting; Sexual Tension; Love Confession; Public Sex; Outdoor Sex; Cunnilingus; Mommy Bod Worship; Sundress Season; Spanking; Tittyfuck; Deepthroat; Riding; Fucking From Bottom; Mating Press; Daddy Kink; Tongue Piercing; Dick Piercing; Switch!Gojo x Switch!Reader; Breeding Kink; Raw Creampie; Aftercare

Word Count: 13.4k

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you! 

Writer's Note: I finished this early lmaooo so here's my VERY FIRST INSTALLMENT FOR MY GOOD BELLE SERIES!!! I hope y'all enjoy reading!! <3 -love, Jazz

Credits: Gojo art above by 1004_shvn! Dividers by @chachachannah & @kodaswrld!

Read on AO3 HERE!

“Utahime, why the hell are we at a concert venue? You said we were goin’ out to dinner!” 

You sit next to your friend in the concert venue, somewhere close to the front on the ground level but not quite dead in front of the stage. You glare at the long-haired girl among the crowd of eager country fans in their cowboy hats and boots, mostly women and girls, from high school students to college girls to older ladies in their golden years. 

“We just did!” Utahime protests, barely looking away from teasing her long, black locks in her phone under her cowboy hat that she bought from the merch station. “A very hearty steak dinner if I can remember correctly. Those BuzzBallz are talkin’ to me.” 

The BuzzBallz she consumed in your Uber ride on the way to the concert that she didn’t tell you about when you thought you were going to see a movie. You should’ve known something was up since Utahime was wearing her sexy halter top, denim mini skirt, and told you to dress in your “MILFy best” for tonight’s festivities. 

You threw on your favorite wedges and sundress for the occasion, the kind with spaghetti straps and skater ruffles that compliment your curves given to you by your baby. Why didn’t you question Utahime then? “Oh, no, no,” you groan, pinching your sinuses. “My aunt is gonna kill me! She thinks we’re out havin’ a fancy, quiet dinner and a movie!” 

That was why you aunt had you take a break from her “lessons” about finding a suitable husband—lessons that included attending endless parties around your small town in the upper crust world of Southern society with your daughter in tow (for some anyway; for others, your aunt had her personal maid watch her). 

“And she can still think that!” Utahime argues, wrapping an arm around her neck. “If you look at it my way, this is a movie…just with a really hot country singer in his jeans flexin’ his cute butt and his big d–” 

“Utahime,” you firmly say, cutting her off. “Don’t even. My aunt would have your head if she found out how you were talkin’ to her niece.” Your friend laughs, waving off your warning. “Oh, please! That woman adores me!” 

And it’s true. Your aunt doesn’t like many people in this world, but she likes your longtime friend Utahime. She considers Utahime to be someone that was 100% there for you during your pre material pregnancy and the dark time afterwards fueled by postpartum depression and transiting from small town to city life. 

“Plus, this will getcha a chance to come out and have some fun, girl,” she giggles with a wink at you. “And find your pretty ass a suitor. Ya think your folks will appreciate any of the fine cowboys in this crowd?” 

“Please,” you chuckle and take a sip of your beer, feeling the alcohol’s affects; you had a BuzzBall in the car so you feel a slight throb and a comfortable flush. “My aunt is lookin’ for the highest payin’ bidder for me and mine. If he wants me then he’s gonna have to want my baby too.” 

Utahime applauds that, raising her beer high. “Oooh, so we cruisin’ for a brand new daddy for little Tara too! I’m on board!” 

Then you feel your phone vibrate in her crossbody, already knowing who it is. “Speakin’ of which…” You answer the phone, smiling. “Hey, Auntie!” you shout. “How’s–” 

“Y/N, where ever are the juice boxes you provided for Tara?” she immediately snaps, her Southern accent twinging her words. You have to hold the phone away from your ear because of how loud she is. “She keeps askin’ for me these God-forsaken apple juice packages!” 

You giggle at your daughter’s antics, knowing your aunt would have her hands full with the little 5-year old. “Check her Hello Kitty duffle in the guest room. It’s full of her snacks.” 

Your aunt scoffs, ever the haughty older Southern belle through and through, wearing her church hats and every piece of jewelry she owns. “You’re spoilin’ this child too much, you know. Soon, she’ll be as plump as a tomato and hard to control!” 

You roll your eyes at her lecture, knowing damn well your aunt insisted you bring Tara along for the trip to her estate for the summer. Your aunt spoils everything she loves, including her poodles. “I’ll keep that in mind, Auntie. Sorry.” 

There is a sudden whoop from the background and a beer bottle breaking, making you flinch. “What was that?” she asks. You feel your blood run cold and quickly, you look for an escape. “Nothin’, Auntie! Gotta go, love you and Tara-bear, bye bye!” Then you hang up and huff in relief. “That was close. I was in for an earful.” 

An earful about how being at a concert with a bunch of drunks and girls in daisy dukes isn’t “proper”. Your aunt is very old school—and rather internally misogynistic—, so she swears up and down that to be a sophisticated young woman in high society is the way to get men…at least the type of men she and your folks are trying to pair you with. 

Doctors, lawyers, politicians, councilmen, etc. You only went along with this trip not in the hopes of finding a respectable man to eventually marry but to come back home and get out of the city for the summer season. And to finally hush up your folks who keep asking you, “Y/N, when are you gonna find a daddy for Tara and get married?” Not that you told your aunt this though. 

“Well, she’ll be less rough with you once we getcha a new man.” Utahime wiggles her eyebrows at you while you just sigh, pinching your sinuses. “I don’t even know why I agreed to this, Utahime. I ain’t interested in no man but my family swears it’ll benefit me and Skylar.” 

“Then maybe you should trust ‘em,” Utahime suggests with a comforting smile. “City men are different from the ones here, honey. You know that!” When she turns away to take photos of the stage, you frown at her statement, thinking of one Southern man in particular. “Tell me about it,” you grumble. 

Luckily, she doesn’t hear you. “And if you don’t get a relationship or a shiny diamond ring, there’s always somethin’ else you can get out of a Southern man here.” She gives you an not-so-friendly smirk that’s so suggestive that it would make a nun blush. “Shut up, you slut,” you snort. “You’re so nasty.” 

“Lady, when’s the last time you got yourself some dick, girl?” she scoffs. “Seriously! You’re a fuckin’ MILF and no city guys were bustin’ your door in?” 

“A woman with a kid ain’t as hot as you think,” you laugh. “And besides, I wasn’t interested. I only came here to get out of the city and introduce my daughter to my hometown.” 

Utahime is that friend that swears that sex is the answer to everything, especially sex with no strings attached. Though she is a romantic like you, she participates in weekend hookups and swimming through dating apps for her latest catch of the night. 

You used to do the same, but after realizing how fucking weird men act around women with kids—either fetishizing them or ghosting them entirely—, you decided that you were better suited to be alone. However, you can’t deny the loneliness that creeps in late at night when Tara is fast asleep and it’s only you. 

No school, no PTA meetings, no trips to the ice cream parlor or the park to keep your 5-year old occupied during the summer. Just you and your tiger strips, full breasts, thick thighs, and an aching need for companionship and affection. 

“Well, just think about it,” Utahime says, tossing an arm around you. “And have some fun tonight! You deserve some time off from bein’ a mommy!” 

You smile, raising your beer to match hers. “Cheers,” you giggle, clinking your beer bottle with hers. You turn back to the stage, noticing that instruments have been set up and the staff is done testing the pyro, smoke machines, and the microphones. “Now where’s this heartthrob everybody’s here for? Who is he anyway?” 

Utahime looks excited to tell you. “You remember that kid from homeroom back in college?” she asks. “The one who left for California after we graduated?” 

But before you can answer her, the lights shut off and the entire venue explodes in frenzied cheering and excited screams that make you cover your ears where your gold hoop earrings dangle. Even Utahime is screaming, holding her phone up to record.

“Ladies and gents!” a disembodied female voice yells into the mic. “Introducin’ the one you’ve all been waitin’ so patiently for…the heartthrob with the ocean blues…the reason for ‘everythin’ is big in Texas’...Gojo Satoru!” 

Wait…Gojo Satoru? Your Gojo Satoru? The man whose heart you broke into two all those years ago before you left for the city? “Oh, no,” you gasp. Utahime looks over at you, concerned. “What’s wrong?” she asks. 

You can’t answer her. It feels like there is a ball in your throat that won’t go away no matter how much you swallow. It only gets worse when the man you’ve been thinking about for five years pops out of the stage in the most sinfully tight denim jeans and white tank top known to man, each muscle on full display. 

He wears a leather jacket with a black cowboy hat and matching boots with his outfit along with dangling dog tags that he used to wear back in college when you started secretly dating. He has ditched the glasses, now wearing contacts that make those intense, attractive blues pop, and he is so confident and self-assured whereas in college, he was just putting on a front.  

He was the small-town college boy who played guitar during his free time and had big dreams of being a singer. Dreams that you believed in. But when he started getting recognized after blowing up on YouTube and asked you to come with him to California when he got a record deal, you got scared. You backtracked. 

Especially after you found out you were pregnant with his baby after that night. The night he asked you to leave with him. The night you broke things off with him for good. The night your love was forever fractured and you promised to never tell him you were carrying his baby. 

Then you graduated college and headed for the city, he left for Cali, and you never saw him again…until now, five years later. Looking at him now, all those old memories and feelings you thought were long buried come rushing back. 

He smiles that white-toothed, dimpled smile that always gave you butterflies. His silvery-white hair and blue eyes startle you, especially since your Tara has inherited both. “What’s goin’ on, y’all?” he hollers into the mic. “Y’all come to party with lil’ ol’ me tonight?” The crowd erupts into frenzied screams and cheering. Gojo laughs, strutting up to the mic where his guitar is waiting for him. “Aww, thank you kindly! I’ll make sure it’s an extra special show for y’all ‘cause I’m back home!” 

He then straps the guitar to his slim waist as his band comes out onto the stage. He introduces them all: Shoko on the bass; Nanami on the secondary guitar; Geto on the drums. And as the strumming of guitars and the banging of the drums hit your eardrums, vibrating through your body, Gojo begins to sing. 

His voice is silky and sweet yet seductive, sweetened by his Southern accent that never left him despite Cali. It makes you tremble and your heart pound as you sit there, rigid, your beer in hand. The worst part is that you’re forced to sit and watch all of it. 

Well, you’re not forced, but you also can’t move due to the bodies pressed tight against you in the seats. You’re also too transfixed to look away. Gojo is truly a star, moving across the stage with his long legs; doing choreography and belting out all kinds of impressive vocals; strumming his guitar with those long fingers that used to touch your body. 

He is meant for this world, as you thought so long ago…and you’re not. 

Thirty minutes later, Gojo has changed into a simple black wife beater that sinfully hugs his muscles and faded jeans. He dabs his face drenched in sweat with a towel, all of his band and dancers gone backstage. “My goodness, y’all are makin’ me sweat!” he whistles. “I’m gonna have to strip a lil’ bit…y’all don’t mind, do ya?” 

He gives a cheeky smile to the crowd that squeals and screams for what’s coming next. Turning around, Gojo flexes his back muscles as he strips off his wife beater, showing off the back tattoos inked into his tan skin. You swear, you nearly choke on your beer. 

“God, he’s so hot!” Utahime groans, smiling at you. “Ain’t he hot? Now that’s a man you should make your new suitor, honey!” But you kind of already did that. He was hot even back in school, but now? The motherfucker is walking sex. California and fame did something to him.

You can barely breathe when he turns around, revealing the lipstick print on his right hip where his jeans are dangerously low on his V-line. He tosses his sweaty towel into the crowd where two middle-aged women begin to fuss over it. “No fightin’ now,” he chuckles. “We’re all grown folk here. We all family tonight, right, y’all?” 

He grins wider when the crowd erupts in agreement, cell phone lights flashing like stars at him. “Then allow me to make myself a lil’ more comfortable. We’re gonna slow it down a bit while my dancers get a break….but not me. I can go all night.” 

Oh, he most definitely could. ‘Stop it!’ you think to yourself. 

Gojo then drags the stool closer to the edge of the stage. If you weren’t sitting three aisles away from the stage, you’d be right in front of him. You swear, you go completely catatonic, unable to speak or breathe as he sits on his stool with his guitar, completely stripped down and intimate, the spotlight illuminating his handsome face. 

“This next song is about a very special someone,” he says silkily. “A lot of you may know this one, but not about its backstory. This is for someone that I used to be with many moons ago that left for a life without me in it.” 

Oh, no. You grip your beer and go to drink more for liquid courage, but you realize that you drank it all.

“It’s about bein’ in love with someone you shouldn’t be ‘cause they ain’t with you no more. It’s about forgivin’ that person for breakin’ your heart, but never truly…” And then his eyes lock on you. Somehow, as those ocean blues are grazing the audience, they land directly onto your face after so long of looking and not quite seeing you. Now, there is no hiding. 

Gojo’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of you and you know that he recognizes you immediately. “Forgettin’,” he finishes. “Holy shit.” 

The fans surrounding you immediately turn to either look at you or around you, wondering who the hell has got Gojo Satoru so starstruck. You can’t breathe or look away, too locked down by those pretty eyes that have haunted you for so long. 

“Is he lookin’ at you, Y/N?” Utahime gasps. You don’t answer; you can’t. Finally, the moment passes when Gojo blinks and clears his throat, smiling at the crowd. “U-Uh, sorry. Thought I saw somebody I knew…probably. Looks like my old teacher is in this crowd too!” 

He points into one of the upper seats where, sure enough, a man wearing a shirt with Gojo’s face plastered on it is screaming while his two daughters look entirely embarrassed. Gojo laughs as he recovers while you haven’t, still standing there dumbfounded. “Y’all sing the words if you know this one. This is ‘Once In A While’.” 

He begins to play and the song is slow, sappy, and sweet. The lyrics are poetic and beautiful yet sorrowful, his silky voice curling around each word. You stare, unable to look away, as he croons into the mic. “Girl, you okay?” Utahime asks, holding your hand. You turn to her, noticing her worry. “Yeah…this song is just really sad.” 

It’s a good lie because it’s also true. You manage to hold back your tears as Gojo continues to sing, looking so in his element and passionate as he sings. It tears at your heart and makes you want to bolt, but you stay, letting the song wash over you. 

Thankfully, the show is over thirty minutes later. Gojo and his dancers take a big bow as the stage erupts into streamers and confetti, everyone wearing pink cowboy boots. Gojo looks so sexy in pink, the fuchsia tank top and boots bringing something feral out of you.

“Y’all have a good night now! See ya soon!” He blows kisses and raises his beefy arms to wave as he is taken down from the stage, tossing a guitar pick at a random fan before he is finally gone. 

You and Utahime wait until a good portion of the seats have cleared out before you venture out into the stadium to get something to eat. You decide on something small and get in line for the fry stand, famous for serving fries with all kinds of toppings, cheeses, and sauces. While Utahime is still beaming about the show, you just want to head home and tuck your head under the covers for good.

“What a show!” she dreamily sighs. “And what a fuckin’ man. How’d you like it, honey?” She looks at you expectantly and her smile pains you. How can you tell her that the whole time, you were regretting your life choices staring into the ocean-blue eyes of your ex? “U-Um…it was–” 

“Omigod, Y/N?!” someone shouts from behind you. “Utahime! Girls, I can’t believe it’s really y’all!” You turn around, finding a slender, fit girl standing there in cut-off shorts, cowboy boots, and a snakeskin tank top. You recognize her dark green bob and instantly being screaming in excitement. “Oh, my goodness, Mai!” you squeal. “You’re one of the dancers?!” 

You wrap your around her tight, feeling her dancer muscles. Mai used to be a cheerleader back in college, so it makes sense that she’d become a backup dancer for a career choice. “Yes, ma’am! Been on the road with Satoru for months now; he hired me last year for his tour.” 

She gives Utahime a big squeeze too, your old friendship renewed after so much time and different paths. “So you girls are still livin’ here?” she asks, a hand on her hip. “Y/N, did you move back? Last time I heard, you moved to the city.” 

Utahime proudly answers that she’s still living in town, not being able to drop her gig at the children’s hospital. “I’m just here for the summer with the little one,” you explain and Mai melts at the mention of your daughter. “Oh, yeah, little Tara! I hope I can see her before you leave us again. Oh, before y’all leave, come meet the crew real quick!” 

Despite your better judgment, you follow Mai backstage away from the chaos of fans trying to leave the stadium and enter the world of the business of fame: stage staff, towel people, and the beautiful dancers and instrumentalists that Mai introduces you to. Though you’re happy to meet them, you’re also scared to run into Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. You find yourself looking down each corner and behind you as if he’s fucking Freddy Krueger ready to slash you in the back. 

“Hey, if you girls are down for some more fun, me and the crew are goin’ to the bar later for some drinks,” Mai says, rolling out the welcome wagon for some more fun with the famous people. She gives you a wink that she was famous for back in college, meaning that you’re in for some trouble tonight. 

“Bet, I’m down!” Utahime squeals, down for the chance for some drinks with the band. But you, however, are already planning to excuse yourself from the festivities in fear of running into your baby daddy. “Uh, actually, Mai, I think I should–” 

“Mai, you flirtin’ with my fans again?” Suddenly, a silky voice hits your eardrums as it explodes down the hall. All of you turn and suddenly, you’re staring into the handsome face of the one you were trying so hard to avoid tonight. 

Gojo is standing there in the flesh, no longer a memory or a dream conjured by a moment of horniness in the dead of night. He is in sweats and a tank top that hangs off of his muscular body, a towel wrapped around his neck. Seeing him is like a slap in the face and you can barely breathe. 

The singer looks momentarily starstruck at the sight of you, but then that cocky smirk comes sliding back onto his lips as he saunters up to you. Almost as if he’s been waiting for this moment to arrive. “Oh, my God!” Utahime gasps, grabbing your arm rather roughly. “He’s even hotter in person!” You don’t reply, too cottonmouth to do anything but stare when the country hottie finally stops in front of you. 

He casually smiles at you, those blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “Well, well...look who snuck backstage and decided to come crawlin' back to her favorite country boy. Guess city life wasn't  as pretty as me, was it, darlin'?"

And just like that, the regret you felt for breaking his heart earlier goes right out the fucking window. “Still cocky as always, Satoru,” you sigh. 

Mai looks between you both. “Hold up…y’all two know each other?” she asks, looking confused as all hell. “Am I missin’ somethin’?” Even Utahime looks clueless. You meet Gojo’s eyes and silently plead with him to not tell. To give you mercy. 

And he does. “We went to college together before I dropped out,” he explains. I’m an old friend of Y/N’s back when she lived here. He lies for you and that immediately makes you feel bad. So you come clean. After all, you’re adults, right? “We used to date,” you admit. “Then after I applied to Master’s school after college, I moved away to the city.” 

Utahime gapes at you, shocked. You try not to look at her, feeling guilt for never telling her this. “Wow, really?!” Mai gasps. “You never told me that, Gojo!” She nudges him hard in the ribs, making him grunt. 

“Didn’t know I had to,” he grumbles, playfully swatting Mai away like she’s a fly. "So y’all ladies enjoy the show?” He gives you that white-toothed smile again that seems to hook you the same way it used to. 

Utahime eagerly nods. “Absolutely! This one cried durin’ one of your songs.” She nudges you and you contemplate murdering her with your cowboy boot. Gojo places a hand on his heart, playfully poking his pink bottom lip out where his lip ring dangles. “Aw, damn, my bad. Wouldn’t wanna make a pretty lady cry…with my song anyhow.” 

You catch the glint in his eye at his little slip of a sexual innuendo but you ignore it…and the throb in your panties. This isn’t the time to be thirsting after your ex AND your secret baby daddy!

“I invited them to come with us for drinks,” Mai announces to the singer. "It’s not everyday you bump into some old friends.” 

Gojo’s eyes widen a bit, surprised at the prospect of you coming along for drinks…and then a satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Uh-oh. “No, it ain’t,” he agrees, his eyes sliding over to you and Utahime. “Y’all should! I’ll gladly get a car for you girls or you can hitch a ride on my tour bus.” 

Utahime starts to reply, obviously wanting a personal ride in his tour bus, but you stop her. “A ride is fine,” you defeatedly say. “Just one drink will be nice.” You emphasis the number mostly for yourself; alcohol brings nothing but trouble. And you have enough trouble running into Gojo. 

The singer nods, happy with your answer. “I’ll get y’all that car then…but I’m gonna need your number for that.” His satisfied, smug smile is so irritating that you want to smack him. Begrudgingly, you give him your number along with Utahime who is way more eager and even adds emojis when Gojo lets her. 

“Great! See you two tonight.” He gives you a small wink that only you catch before he saunters off, that firm yet bubble butt that could make male models cry swaying in his jeans. 

Mai bids you farewell before Utahime turns to you, arms crossed and a scowl on her face. “I know, I know, I’ve got a lot of explainin’ to do,” you sigh. 

Your friend grabs your arm, pulling you to the nearest exit. “Damn right, missy,” she tuts. “The hell do you mean you used to date Gojo Satoru in college?! Why didn’t you tell me this?! And how didn’t the whole town know?!” 

This was gonna be a very long night. 

When you finally finish telling your friend your story, you feel like you should sell it to a Hollywood agent for a movie. 

Utahime sits in the ride share with you that Gojo ordered to transport you to the bar—a nice sports car with blasting AC, complementary water bottles, and comfy seats—, staring at you like you just finished telling her that you’re God. 

“Okay, wait,” she says. “So you’re tellin’ me that you and Gojo secretly dated back in college ‘cause you didn’t want your family findin’ out about him, he got you pregnant before he dropped out of school and went to Hollywood, so you lied about goin’ to school in the city just to get an abortion?” 

You nod, nervously toying with the loose thread on your sundress. “Yeah, that’s the gist of it.” Utahime huffs, shaking her head in awe. “Jeez, honey…and I thought I had men problems.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you say, feeling horribly guilty. “You know my aunt would’ve killed me if she found out I was datin’ in college and—“ 

“Girl, I don't care about that!” she scoffs. “But didn’t you tell me about that other thing? I would’ve gone to the city with you!” 

You feel your eyes bubble with tears, loving that your friend doesn’t blame or bash you for your decision. “I didn’t tell anyone. Only my family knew and my aunt paid top dollar to get me the procedure out of state. After that, I just made my life in the city.” 

Initially, you planned to get an abortion and your family decided out of state would be better since your small town liked to talk like high school girls in a locker room. But once you got a look at the little blip in your tummy, you changed your mind and kept the baby…but you never told Gojo. 

You hid your relationship with him back in college to avoid it getting back to your parents and wealthy aunt who paid to put you in the best school in your town. Originally, it was just a fling that turned into something more. You fell for Gojo and his talent. 

But overtime as his popularity got bigger and his world was becoming a little too big for you, you got scared. You jumped ship. You couldn’t think of a life with him in fear of him getting sick of small-town you and leaving you for a Hollywood bombshell. 

You thought that breaking things off was for the best—he could focus on his career and you could focus on your future…and your baby girl. But still, as years passed, the temptation to check online to see how he was doing stuck around. You wondered if he ever made it his dream come true; now, years later, you see that he absolutely has. 

“And you’re still okay with seein’ him again?” Utahime wonders aloud. “We can always turn around and get that hotel.” You smile, affectionately patting her hand. “Nah, I need the drink. Plus, I wouldn’t wanna ruin your fun with my sob story.” 

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Please! How often do you fuck a famous country singer and get knocked up with his kid? Your life is literally a country song, doll!” You knock your knee with hers and you two laugh among each other as the car suddenly comes to a stop. “Ladies, you’ve arrived,” the driver announces. 

And just like that, your heart falls into your ass. Utahime gives you a comforting smile as you get out of the car and stand in front of the glowing sign of the cowboy-themed dive bar. “And don’t worry; Gojo won’t know. Your secret is safe with me, always. Now let’s go getcha that drink!” 

She interlaces your fingers as you walk into the bar together, immediately bombarded with the sounds of loud country music, chatter, and the clinking of pool cues against the colorful balls as they roll along a pool table on your left. On your right is a mechanical bull and darts. In front of you is a bar where Gojo’s crew is situated, sitting on stools among the fake bull head mounted on the wall over a rack of booze bottles. 

“They’re here!” Mai shouts, the first to greet you and Utahime in her cowgirl outfit. She gives you both a hug, already buzzed from a couple shots. “Let’s get y’all some drinks!”

For the next ten minutes, you don’t see Gojo even though you search for him. You can’t seem to calm down despite the cool beer in your hand and the sweet company that he keeps. You chat with his bandmates about living in the city while Utahime is busy blushing around Shoko, the bassist, as she smokes her cigarette before he finally arrives, causing his crew to cheer and raise their glasses to him. 

“My bad, y’all,” he huffs, grinning that perfect grin. “Agent was in my ear about the next stop. Managed to get us two days off, so let’s get fucked up and enjoy ‘em!” But as he looks towards the bar, his eyes lock on you instantly, almost as if he was waiting for you. 

You swallow hard, gulping down more beer in an effort to drain your nerves as he takes a seat next to you on the stool. He is wearing a crisp white tee, jeans, boots, and dog tags that make you think of some sinful things. He smells of pine and spiced cinnamon, the tempting aroma driving you to insanity. 

After hailing down the bartender—who isn’t too busy since Gojo rented out the entire bar—for a drink, he slings one beefy arm over the bar and gazes at you. “So you actually showed up,” he scoffs. “Didn’t expect that since you seemed so horrified to see me.” 

You side-eye him, sipping your beer and tapping your fingers to the music on the bar. “I’d beg to differ,” you retort. “But then again, I wouldn’t be too happy ‘bout seein’ small town folk from my past either. You’re a big star now.” 

Gojo chuckles, the sound too sexy for words. “On the contrary, darlin’; I’m always happy to see some old friends. You girls want some shots?” You now notice that Utahime has come wandering over, tipsier than earlier. “Yes, please! And your bassist’s number too.” 

You gape at her while Gojo tosses his head back and laughs, the sound making your tummy flip. You know that you probably shouldn’t mix drinks, but you can’t resist the temptation of some liquid courage around your old boyfriend. You don’t know why you feel so jittery and jumpy around him. 

After Gojo gets a personal round of tequila shots with some lime slices on the side, he places them in front of you and Utahime. You go for a particular glass at the same time as Gojo, causing you to brush hands. Utahime doesn’t notice, too busy swaying to the music. Quickly, you tear your hand away from Gojo’s as if you’ve been burned, his soft skin and the veins running through his palm shocking you to your core. 

If Gojo is hurt, he doesn’t show it, instead picking up a different shot glass. “My bad,” he murmurs, his eyes gazing into yours. You avert your eyes, not wanting to see what’s in his. Then he raises his glass and clears his throat. “Cheers. To old and new friends.” 

Clink go your shots before you down them. You relish the delicious burn of the tequila before it instantly goes to your head, making it feel light while the rest of you feels heavy. You have to back up off of the booze for a moment to recuperate while Utahime wanders off to chat some more with Shoko. 

Leaving you alone with Gojo. It is awkward and odd, the tension thick like Southern heat. But also comfortable. You’re afraid of that. Gojo was always easy to talk to and things haven’t changed. He clears his throat, trying to start some conversation since you won’t. “So how’d ya wind up back here? Last time I heard, you were in the big city doin’ big girl things.” 

He gives you an easy smile that almost makes you crack. “I still am; I’m just here for the summer with my aunt.” 

He nods, downing his shot in one go. You watch his Adam’s Apple bob. Damn him. “Ah, the epitome of Southern etiquette. She always hated me.” You chuckle to yourself, nodding. “Mmm-hmm. Said you was trouble…and she wasn’t wrong.” 

Gojo raises a brow at you. “Whatchu mean?” You smirk knowingly at him. “Did you forget about all the skinny-dippin’ and ditchin’ class for joyrides?” you chuckle. The singer grins wide, his eyes sparkling from the memories. "Ya got me there, darlin’. Not to mention the ‘study sessions’ too.”  

You squeeze your thighs together at the mention of those hot, forbidden sessions where books were forgotten. 

Your aunt saw Gojo before you did—at a opening house for the college. “Stay away from a boy like that, dear,” she hissed to you. “Underneath that dimpled smile and sweet talk, he’s the Devil.” You just waved off her lecture, figuring that it was just crazy talk. 

But then word of your secret dates got back to her and while she didn’t tell your parents, she forbade you from ever going around Gojo again…of course, you didn’t listen. You just got smart. Hence the study sessions. 

“So how’s it feel bein’ back here after travelin’ the world on your tour?” you ask, curious.

Gojo pauses, thinking for a moment, and then exhales with happiness. "Like a breath of fresh air. I right outside our town now, so comin’ back home after jumpin’ from country to country is always a warm welcome.” 

You couldn’t agree more and sip some beer to drink to it. “What about you? What’s it like bein’ back in a small town compared to the big city?” 

The look he gives you is too warm. Too happy. Like he really is joyed to see you. “Warm. And cozy,” you answer. “My aunt swears that it’ll be a good place to find a husband.” Whoops. Maybe you shouldn’t have mixed your drinks after all.

Gojo gives you an incredulous look, scoffing with laughter. “She’s lookin’ for a husband for you?” he chuckles and whistles, shaking his head. “Good luck with that, honey. I find that the fellas are alike all around.” 

“Oh, so ya do now?” you scoff, cocking your head at him. “And how’s that? You an expert in men?” The booze has made you too mouthy. Too bold. But Gojo goes toe to toe with you and it’s undeniably hot. “I should be. You dated me, right? From my perspective, I did a pretty damn good job at it before ya left.” 

You feel a slight dip in your stomach at the mention of you leaving town, but you ignore it. “Watch it, cowboy. I’ll give ya props, but don’t get too cocky.” The singer just smirks at you, giving you a look dripping with a molten hot promise that makes you feel hotter than the tequila. “Have you met me, darlin’? That’s all I do.” 

Suddenly, your smile fades and you can’t tell if you’re just playing anymore. This is quickly edging towards some dangerous territory. So what do you do? You run. Like always. Like you did before. 

You get up and fix your dress as you head to the dance floor among Gojo’s crew, the warm lights washing over you. Gojo watches you, his eyes grazing your ass. You feel them and you hate that you like it. “Where ya goin’?” he wonders. You don’t look back as you saunter to the floor, the guitars and drums calling your name. “I wanna dance!” you call over your shoulder. “You gonna come along, cowboy?” 

You don’t know why you ask. You’re supposed to be trying to get away from him, not reel him in for more! But the beer and the tequila are talking for you, making you feel reckless and irresistible. With every electric strum of the guitar strings and beat of the drums in the country song blaring from the overhead speakers, your blood grows hot and you feel alive the more Gojo watches you.

You turn away from him as you begin to dance, swaying to the beat, your sundress swishing around your hips and thighs. The dance floor is packed, making the air feel sticky with sweat and alive with energy. You stand right in it, becoming lost in the tide. It feels good to dance alone but you know dancing with Gojo would feel even better, even if you don’t want to admit it.

Then you feel a touch on your wrist and turn with a smile, only to see that it’s not Gojo but one of the bartender who is off duty. “You need a partner, stranger?” he chuckles, giving you a sloppy grin that gives you the impression that he was sipping AND mixing on the job.

But before you can politely tell him no, your white-haired cowboy appears beside you, his sheer height making you feel protected enough. “Nah, she’s with me,” he says with a finality, but he wears s mile. “Better luck next time, bro.” 

The bartender lifts his hands in defense and moves onto the next girl. You turn to Gojo with your arms crossed over your low cleavage. “You speakin’ for me now?” 

The singer side-eyes the bartender, looking indifferent to his presence. “You don’t want that asshole. He was reekin’ of whiskey; woulda thrown up all over your pretty dress.” 

His blue eyes graze over your form in your sundress, making you feel naked. You hate that you relish it, shivering from his molten gaze, drunk off of the booze and you. Then he stretches his big hand out for you, a hopeful look in his eyes. “Dance with me?” he offers. 

You know you shouldn’t, but temptation wins. You take his hand and let him pull you into him, just like you used to. As you place one hand on his chest and the other on his shoulder, he places his big hands on your waist just like used to. Instantly, flashes of those dance slow dancing with him in your dorms come flooding back, nostalgic and troubling. 

You fit into him like a missing puzzle piece, feeling at home surrounded by everyone dancing in their boots thumping against the hardwood floor. Feeling like you’re the only two in the world. Your hand finds his dog tags, the metal cool against your fingertips, but you also feel his heartbeat thumping against them too. Thumping for you. 

“I missed this, y’know,” he whispers. “Dancin’ like this. Kinda makes us feel like the only two people here.” You don’t know why you look up. You shouldn’t because all you see in those eyes is affection that he shouldn’t have for you. “Satoru,” you murmur. “We shouldn’t…” 

And then you’re kissing. You don’t know who leans in first, but he doesn’t matter: he’s kissing you and you’re kissing him, slow and steady. No rushing. No push and pull. Just a slow, lingering seduction that draws you in with every drag of his soft lips and coolness of his lip ring against yours. He tastes and feels just as he did before, but better. 

You feel dizzy as he deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing lightly with yours where you taste his tongue ring. He never had one before and it arouses you. You find yourself pushing yourself into him, needing more, and he pushes right back, giving you a feel of the unmistakable outline of his thick, long c— 

Bzzzzzz! You gasp, pulling away when you feel your phone buzzing in your bag against your leg. “S-Sorry,” you stammer. Gojo stares at you, lips flush from kissing and eyes hooded as you answer the call, clearing your throat. “Hello?” 

“Mommy!” Tara yells into the phone, so loud that you have to take your phone off of your ear. “I can’t find Applejack!” You sigh, trying not to get mad at your daughter for interrupting a kiss that you shouldn’t have had. “Look in your duffle bag, baby girl. I packed it with your My Little Pony PJs.” 

Painfully, you stand there with Gojo, afraid to look at him, as you hear Tara scuffling around on the phone for her plushie. 

“Found it!” she squeals. “Auntie’s mad you’re not home yet.” You roll your eyes, not in the mood for your aunt to kill your buzz from miles away. “Tell Auntie that I’ll be home tomorrow. Love you, lovebug.” 

“Love you more, Mommy! Buh bye!” Finally, the call ends and you breathe a sigh of relief. You turn to Gojo, still not looking at him. “That was my…daughter,” you sigh when you can’t think of a good lie. 

“You got a kid?” he asks, sounding surprised and you feel your heart pummeling in your chest. “You ain’t tell me that.” Before you can stop yourself, you feel irrationally agitated and fumble with your bag, trying to shove your phone in it.

“I didn’t know I had to,” you snap. "We’re not together anymore, Satoru; it’s been five years since we…” You pause, feeling tears well up as the guilt piles on, making you feel like a pile of donkey shit. “I’m sorry. I-I have to go.” But as you turn to leave, Gojo grabs your hand, stopping you. “Wait, don’t go,” he pleads. “I’m sorry, I just–” 

“Let me go, Satoru,” you whimper as if you’re in pain. He releases you, looking positively wounded, like that night you told him you weren’t going to Cali with him and broke his heart. You ignore it. 

"Tell Utahime there was an emergency and I got an Uber.” Quickly, still fumbling with your bag, you storm off the dance floor and away from Gojo, struggling to hold back tears. “Wait, I’ll get you a car! Y/N, hold up!” 

But you’re racing for the exit, trying to make it outside before the tears start coming. You manage to make it out of the bar in the sticky summer night, the night alive with activity. But you don’t call an Uber. Instead, you go walking, needing to be away from everyone and everything for a while. 

You decide to curve around behind the bar where there is nothing but dirt roads, grass, and fireflies. Nothing but you. However, you also somehow find yourself standing in front of Gojo’s tour bus parked smack-dab on the grass. You stare up at his beautiful face on the side of the bus; that white-toothed grin; those pretty eyes. 

And then you begin to cry. You softly sob into your hands as fat, salty tears drip down your cheeks, ruining your mascara and shimmery eyeshadow that you spent an hour perfecting. You don’t feel beautiful or sexy or desirable. You feel like dirt. Trash. Nothing but scum under your sandals. 

Gone is the intoxicating feeling you initially felt from the alcohol. Now, you only feel tired and regretful. The memories hit you like a train: you, see twenty two-year old Gojo’s hopeful expression five years ago standing in your luxury dorm, his hands in yours after telling you about his record deal offer.

“You can come with me, darlin’!” he exclaimed. “We can go to California together! And once I sign this contract for my deal, our relationship will only—“ 

“Our relationship?” you scoffed, snatching your hands from his. “Satoru, we don’t have a relationship, remember? How do you expect me to tell my folks that I’ve been secretly datin’ you for months when I’m supposed to be focusin’ on my studies?” 

Gojo’s smile faded, now looking utterly confused. “We’d just tell ‘em…unless you don’t want to.” His eyes grew steely and you didn’t like it. “You don’t want ‘em to know about me,” he realized. “Even now.” 

“They can’t!” you snapped, frustration in your tone. “They forbade me from datin’ in college, Satoru, and this town talks! Plus, I can’t just up and leave my life here for a life in Cali. What if we broke up?” 

That hurt Gojo more than you realized; you could see it in those beautiful, blue eyes. But you ignored it, retreating emotionally, guarding your heart. “I just think we need to be realistic,” you mumbled, hugging yourself tight. “I just don’t think this is gonna work for us anymore.” 

The look Gojo gave you made you feel like a murderer; like you stabbed him right in the chest. “You’re breakin’ my heart, darlin’,” he whispered, his voice clogged with emotion. You didn’t say anything in fear of breaking down in tears. Instead, you stayed silent and watched him leave, taking all of your love for him with him.

“Y/N!” You suddenly hear someone shout, ripping you out of your memory. You turn, finding Gojo standing there as if conjured by your thoughts. He strides up to you in his boots, looking concerned. “What are you doin’? Come back inside.”

He goes to touch you, but you flinch away, waving him off. “No!” you whimper. “Please, Satoru, just leave me alone! You don’t want this!” 

Gojo looks wounded, but doesn’t push it. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, his pink lips a thin line. “You dropped this inside.” He then produces you with a photo of you and Tara that escaped your phone wallet.

Quickly, you snatch it back and slide it back into your bag. The silence is thick and tense; you’d need a chainsaw to cut it. “She’s beautiful,” Gojo softly says. “She looks just like you. Prettiest thing in the world.” 

He gives you a small, almost sardonic smile that pains you to your core. “I’m sure she looks like her daddy too.” The words make your stomach pit and your blood run cold. When you look at him, his gaze is intense and knowing. Without a doubt, he knows your secret now. “She mine?” he bluntly asks. 

You don’t answer, your heart pummeling so fast that you’re afraid you’ll have a heart attack. Gojo grows irritated at your silence, his jaw tensing. “Y/N, answer me.” Still, you can’t, and turn to walk off, unable to tell him the truth out of your mouth. 

But Gojo ain’t having it this time. “No,” he growls, grabbing your hand. “No more fuckin’ runnin’ from me. You did that before when you left me with a broken heart.” You try to wrench your hand out of his grip, pulling away from him. “Stop it, Satoru!” you weakly protest. “I don’t wanna talk about this!” 

Gojo releases you, but still gives you that sharp, hurt look. “So you were just gonna come back here and not tell me about my own baby?” he scoffs. 

You glare at him, furious with yourself more than him but still unable to swallow your pride. “How do you even know she’s yours? Plenty of guys have white hair and blue eyes, you dick!” Even when you think it, you know that it’s BS. 

“How old is she?” he growls. You harshly bite your lip, staring down at your painted toes. “Five,” you whisper. 

“Mmm-hmm,” he replies, crossing his beefy arms over his broad chest. “You left five years ago, so unless you had someone else around that time, I know that little girl is mine. I ain’t that dumb, darlin’.” 

You turn away, unable to focus on anything but the internal battle inside of you. One side screams at you to tell the truth while the other insists that you keep your heart and Tara’s heart on lock. But as you stare into Gojo’s ocean-blue irises and see the pain in them, you can’t help but feel guilt engulf you. “Tell me,” he begs. “Tell me the truth.” 

Finally, the tension breaks and you release. “Yes, okay?!” you snap. “Yes, she’s yours! I ain’t been with anyone else like that since you got me pregnant! Is that what you wanna hear?!” 

Gojo stands there for a moment. Silent. Taking it all in. Five years of never knowing. You never telling. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, looking oh-so sad. It breaks you. “I could’ve been there. I would’ve been there.” He sounds so sure, like he would’ve promised at twenty-two years old that he would’ve been a daddy. 

You scoff, rolling your wet eyes stained with running mascara. “Oh, please, Satoru! You had a life that was just startin’ and I wasn’t ready for it! You weren’t ready for a kid, so I made the decision for you…or I would’ve if I hadn’t kept her.” 

Gojo blinks at you, confused but still tender. He knows you’re trying to tell him something. “You confusin’ me, darlin’. I’m not good with cryptics.” 

You bite your lip, a lump in your throat and your body flush with humiliation. Why is this so damn hard? “I lied about goin’ to Master’s school,” you admit, staring at your toes. “I went to get an abortion, but then I changed my mind and kept the baby.” 

Silence swells between you, thick as the hot Southern night and so intense that it’s unbearable. You’re sure that Gojo will hate you even more now. “I know you’re mad about me, but I-I didn’t think I was ready for a baby! I was so young a-and–” 

“Baby, baby, slow down,” Gojo coos, taking your hands in his. This time, you don’t pull away. “I’m not mad about the abortion. Hell, not even about California. I’m upset that you left and didn’t think to tell me what was goin’ on. Fuck the fame–I wanted you and I wanted our daughter too. Nothin’ was more important to me than you.” 

His eyes are firm and passion, softened by his love for you still blooming after five years. You stand there, melting from the soft, safe love that you still don’t believe you deserve. “And there still ain’t,” he confesses, impassioned. “You were my first and only love. Nobody else came after you, but I was so convinced you had someone else in your life.” 

His words make you come apart and when he cups your wet cheek in his hand, you stop fighting. You stop running. You want to crash right into him and his love, and drown in it. “No one,” you softly confess. “It’s always been you too, Toru. It’s only Tara and me.” 

A hopeful smile stretches onto his dimpled cheeks. “So does that mean I've still got a chance with you? We can still try again?” His thumb runs over your bottom lip, making your arousal peak. “Satoru,” you whisper. “We shouldn’t–” 

“We can,” he murmurs, pulling you close against him. “Stop fightin’ this, darlin’. It’s just me.” Yes, just him. Just your love. The one you’ve been thinking of for years now. 

And so you let his lips descend upon yours again, kissing you deeply and passionately. You drink in his cologne and how his chest feels against your fingers as you lock lips, softly moaning into each other’s mouths.

Gojo used to be a good kisser back in college, but now? He’s had practice and you can tell from the way he falls into rhythm with you, swooping your tongue up in a private dance that makes your panties wet. 

He presses himself against you, making you feel his hard bulge pressing against his jeans. He stutters out a groan as you grind down into him as his big hands slide under your sundress, possessively grabbing your ass. You whimper, hot sparks of pleasure swirling inside of you. 

“I missed you,” he moans against your lips. “Missed ya so goddamn much.” You feel his tongue, hot and pierced, slither down your neck to your breasts where his hands trail to grip and grope, massaging them through your thin sundress. “M-Missed you too!” you stammer. “God, Satoru, don’t tease!” 

The country star smirks at you, the act so familiar and oh-so sexy. “It’s been a while for ya, huh?” he teases. “Don’t you worry, darlin’; this cowboy can help with that. Just tell me ya want it.” 

You stare into his eyes, no longer afraid. No longer running. You need this. “I want it,” you mew, your legs turning to jelly the more you stand here with him. “Taste me, Satoru.”

Your ex is happy to oblige. He guides you over to the back of the tour bus, out of sight of the bar, the road, and other buildings, giving you some privacy. Gojo pins you against the tour bus and gives you a hot, sloppy kiss, his tongue swirling with yours. “You’re so perfect. How I missed this body…” 

His hands glide over your soft skin, his touch leaving trails of fire, as he playfully nibbles on your bottom lip. “These lips…” He pulls the lush lip before popping it back into place, grinning when you whimper. 

“These tits…” He peppers your tits in wet kisses, pulling down your spaghetti straps for better access but not taking them out to toy with your nipples. Not yet. He teases you, making you gush into your panties as he kneels down before you, his expression hungered. He trails your sundress up to reveal your soft inner thighs, slightly sticking together from the heat, and your panties. “That pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he growls. “Look how wet you are for me, baby, shit!” 

He can see it from the front—that wet spot growing in the pink lace fabric. He takes two fingers and glides them along your slit, making you gasp, before sticking them in his mouth to suck off your taste. 

You flush, biting your lip. “It’s been awhile.” Gojo raises a brow at your confession, hope twinkling in those ocean blues. “You ain’t been with anyone else?” 

You’re inclined to tell him what he wants to hear when he begins rubbing your clit with his thumb through your panties, sparks of pleasure shooting through you. “It’s been a slow summer,” you softly exhale. 

And it has—you haven’t had a man knock the cobwebs off your pussy all summer long because you had no interest in it. But now, all you can think about is Gojo knocking your screws loose and fucking your brains out to make up time. 

“Don’t worry, darlin’; no other man will compare once I’m done with you. Just keep it down…if ya can.” He gives you a smirk before he pulls your panties aside, exposing your glistening, puffy pussy lips to him and the summer air. 

You grit your teeth at him and his arrogance even as it turns you on. “You cocky little—oh, fuck!” You have to cover your mouth when Gojo finally gets his mouth on you, hot, wet, and juicy. He is perfect—just as he used to be, but better.

He is more precise and skillful yet still has that sloppy eagerness that makes your pussy wet with his spit because he keeps coating your slit in it, allowing for his tongue to slide between your swollen lips. He moans at your taste as if he can’t get enough of your honey.

Each moan sends vibrations throughout your cunt, making you shudder and quake against his mouth. You can’t help but whine and whimper over the magical feelings your country star ex and baby daddy gives you. 

His blue eyes lock with yours as he hooks your thigh over his shoulder, pulling his plush, pink lips away to speak to you. “Touch me, mama. Put those pretty hands on me.” You begin to caress his white locks of hair as he continues to lap at your pussy before hooking his tongue inside of you. 

Your eyes widen at the feeling, your mouth falling agape as a loud moan escapes you. “Oh, my God,” you gasp. “T-Toru, fuck! Right there!” 

Gojo smirks against your clit, nuzzling it with his nose. “Right here?” he teasingly asks. He does the same move again, the coolness of his tongue piercing melting against your molten pussy as you grind yourself into him. “That’s real good, mama. You sound so fuckin’ good f’me.” 

Zzzzzip. You suddenly hear the sound of him unzipping his jeans with one hand, but you have no chance to look down because you’re too busy squeezing your eyes shut from the sheer, intense pleasure the country heartthrob is giving you. 

Finally, Gojo pulls away to breathe, his lips glistening in your taste and eyes lust-blown for you. “Turn around. I wanna eat this pussy from the back.” The order coming from his silky voice makes you shudder in arousal. 

Quickly, you turn around and brace your hands against the tour bus, sticking your ass out for him. Gojo groans at the sight, hypnotized as he hikes your dress up to reveal your full, plump ass in your lace panties. 

SMACK! 

“Oh!” you gasp, taken aback by the sudden, pleasurable sting of his hand against your ass. Gojo chuckles, laying a kiss on your asscheek. “Sorry, mama, but you bought that on yourself. Guess our baby filled you out.” 

His hands glide down your full hips and over your tummy, softer and fluffier from the baby. You bite your lip, suddenly self conscious. “I-It’s somethin’ I’ve been workin’ on.” Pilates, cardio, dieting, you name it. Though you’ve lost weight since having your daughter, you still have the curves that being a mommy has awarded you. 

Gojo shows you how awarded he feels by gripping your ass lovingly and kissing it, making you hum in pleasure at the wet trail of kisses. “Don’t. You’re so fuckin’ hot like this. All these hips and that ass…” He hits your ass again, the sharp smack making your pussy throb. 

He then stands up and you hear a soft smack-smack-smack of something hard and hot against your pussy, teasing your clit. “Feel that, baby?” he silkily asks. You bite your lip, resisting the urge to push back into him and sink back onto his cock. “Uh-huh.” 

Gojo hums in pleasure, running the bulbous head of his dick against your swollen, wet lips where you feel something else. Something cold. A dick piercing. “I would do this for no one but you. You know that, right? Only you can make me this hard.” 

Finally, he kneels behind you and proceeds to eat your pussy off the bone, his tongue slipping, sliding, and swirling around your dripping hole. You have to clap a hand over your mouth to avoid screaming in pleasure and alerting people. 

He just so perfect. He turns you into an eager, needy slut, freeing her from the prison she’s been in for so long. “Oh, f-fuck, Toru, yes! More! I-I need more!”

Gojo smirks into your pussy, using his index finger to rub your clit in semi-circles. “So you want me to make ya cum your pretty brains out?” You nod, looking back at him behind you. His eyes glitter with mirth, his smirk molten lust. “I can do that. Make up for lost time.” 

And then there is no more talking from you as he hooks his pierced tongue up to caress your G-spot as he rubs your clit, the lewd, sloshing sounds of his tongue flicking in your soaked pussy drifting through the summer air. “Shit!” you moan. “Faster! Please, Toru!” 

You begin to ride his face, pushing your ass into his face as you begin to rock back on your heels, needing to cum. Desperate to cream all over his tongue. Finally, you feel that tug in your core and you reach back to grip his hair, much to his enjoyment. “Fuck, I’m gon’ cum, Daddy!” you moan. 

“Uh-huh!” Gojo moans into your pussy, repeating it like it’s a mantra as his tongue flicks get faster. His finger rubs a little harder, just enough for you to feel that pressure. And in one split second, like a string growing thin and bursting, you release. 

“Oh, shit, Toru, yes!” you gasp as you cream all over his tongue. You muffle your loud, pornographic moans and whines with your hand as you cum hard and intense, your head growing foggy from the euphoric feeling. 

Gojo greedily slurps every drip of your cum up, groaning at the taste. Like it’s the best thing in the world. After your moans turn into cute little whimpers and sobs, Gojo pulls away and stands, that big thang swinging between his thighs like a pendulum. 

You turn to him, giving him a goofy smile that can only happen after a good orgasm. “Thank you,” you sigh. You wrap your arms around him, kissing yourself off of his lips. “Don’t mention it, mama. It’s always been a pleasure.” 

His cock throbs between you, agreeing with that statement. You stare at it hungrily, needing it in your mouth. “Now it’s your turn~” 

But before you can kneel, he stops you, kissing your knuckles with a searing promise in his eyes that makes you melt. “Not out here, you little minx. I’m freaky but I’m also possessive. Let’s getcha inside so we can really make up for lost time, huh?” 

You giggle as he suddenly scoops you up off of your feet and carries you into his tour bus, locking it with a simple click of a button, before carrying you to the back of the bus to a comfy black couch to continue your “activity”. 

Minutes later, Gojo is buck ass naked and you’re on your knees titty fucking him, the soft, beautiful tig ol’ bitties slick with coconut oil. His big, thick dick pierced at the tip glistens between your tits, standing up at attention. "You are no one’s gonna find us?” you pant, looking at the bus doors. 

Gojo cups your chin and forces to look at him. All of him, right down to his washboard abs and V-line. “Positive. I locked the door. Now hush and keep rubbin’ that oil on you.” He reaches over for the little bottle and pours more onto your tits, making them slick and slippery. “You’re such a perv, Satoru,” you tsk, but you love it. 

You proceed to jack him off with those luscious breasts that seem to hypnotize Gojo, his lust-blown eyes flicking between his cock disappearing between them and your pretty face. “It’s good, Daddy?” you coo. 

You can tell from his handsome face screwing in pleasure, his muscles tense from the sensations. Your country star tilts his head back against the cushions, throat exposed and mouth open as he moans and pants for you. “Oh, my fuckin’ God, yes!” Gojo groans. “Look so good between ‘em. I belong there.” 

You can’t agree more watching his cock strain between your breasts, pulsating and throbbing against the soft globes slick with oil. “Yes,” you moan. “I’m all yours, Daddy. Go on, fuck them titties for me.” 

He does so, lifting his hips and letting out straight pornographic moans as he fucks your titties, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Fuck,” he groans, his blue eyes hooded and cheeks flushed. He’s never looked hotter and you’ve never been wetter.

Finally fed up, he pauses, staring dead at your mouth. “Put your mouth ‘round me,” he growls. “Lemme see them lips stretch.” You give him a lewd smile before wrapping your lips around his cock, tasting the coconut oil dripping off of his thick shaft. 

He moans loudly and sluttily at the feeling of your hot, wet mouth entwining him, sucking him off. “Oh, God, yes,” he groans, his eyes fluttering closed. You pump your head up and down, pushing him in and out of your throat, hollowing your cheeks for more suction. How you missed this! Especially how he sounds: so needy and desperate for you. 

Gojo laces his piano long fingers in your hair, gripping the locks as he guides your head down. “Fuck yes, ah!” he gasps. “Deeper, mama. Take me deep…yeah, just like that!” His moans become louder, not caring about anyone hearing, as your throat gags and flexes around him. 

He’s still so fucking big after all this time! You struggle to take him at first, but quickly, your throat adjusts and opens for him, allowing him deeeeep down the tight, wet tunnel. Gojo’s toes curl and his abs tense as you work his cock with your luscious, heavenly mouth, your spit dripping down his balls to stain the couch. 

Finally, you pull away and smile at him, pressing his wet cock to your cheek slightly streaked in mascara. “Wanna give me a nice souvenir?” you joke. The country star smirks, eyes glittering with lust. “Sure, but not in your throat. I wanna be inside you.” 

A delicious shiver runs through your body at the thought of this sexy ass man fucking you deep and cumming inside of you, fulfilling something inside of you that you thought was going to be long empty forever. You nod, smiling as you giddily bite your lip in anticipation for what is to happen. 

Gojo opens his arms for you, making your heart flip. “C’mere,” he coos. You crawl to him and he has you sit in his lap, his cock grinding against your asscheeks and slit, making you moan as his dick grows sticky and wet from you dripping onto it. Staring down into those blues, you see nothing but a growing heat just for you. “Ride me. I know you need this too.” 

Oh, like he wouldn’t believe. Your pussy has a damn heartbeat of its own with how aroused you are. You ache for him. 

So you can’t resist bracing yourself on his chest and raising yourself up to slide down his achingly hard, delicious dick. He securely holds your curvy hips, eyes flicking from your tits to your face like he doesn’t know what to stare at more. “Ready, mama?” he asks. “Come down when you’re—“ 

Before he can even finish, you’re sliding down that soaked pussy down onto his cockpit taking just the tip first. As soon as you do, you both share a gasp and your eyes widen like you just took a shot of the purest drug in your system. “Shit!” you both moan in unison. 

Gojo continues to hold you tight as you adjust and then surely begin to alternate between rocking your hips and slowly bouncing on his dick. Your moans are soft and slutty, just as his are. He watches you through slits of his eyes, teeth clenched and face flushed. “Just as I—ah, fuck, baby—thought. You still fit me like a fuckin’ glove.” 

As if in agreement, your pussy squeezes tight around him, happy with the praise. Your country singer lets out a groan fit for a porno and leans his head back against the cushion, mouth agape and eyes rolling back.

That sexy look on his face makes you bounce a bit faster, taking him deeper. Moans, gasps, and whines escape you, filling the tour bus along with the sound of your curvy ass smacking against his thighs. “O-Oh! Oh, fuck! God, Toru, you’re so fuckin’ big!” 

Gojo grins at this, training those eyes on you. “Just like old times, right, darlin’?” he softly chuckles, gripping you so possessively that you’re sure he’ll tattoo those fingerprints into your flesh. 

You shake your head, still gripping those pecs as you bounce up and down, making your full titties bounce with you. “No. Better. You fill me up so much.” And he does—you feel so full and stretched, every inch of him making you whimper and your pussy spasm. Gojo’s eyes grow darker and he begins to fuck you from the bottom, slowly. “Keep bouncin’ on me. Take what you need.” 

You do just that, fully hopping on that dick, making your titties bounce more freely and your ass recoil against his thighs. He lets you use him, his moans growing louder and sluttier, his voice mixing with yours to bounce off of the tour bus walls. “That’s it, darlin’! Ride me! Fuck, I love your fuckin’ pussy!” 

He starts to fuck you from the bottom again, this time much faster and rougher. He jackhammers his hips up into you, going so fast and gripping your ass so hard that you see stars as you bounce like a bunny on his dick.

“I-I love you, Toru!” you gasp. The words explode out of you like fireworks, unable to be contained or kept hidden the more you ride his fat cock.

As soon as they are out, you can't take them back—both of you know that. Gojo stares at you, shocked, his blue eyes wide. Then he splits into a big, white-toothed grin that makes butterflies swarm in your tummy. “Ya do?” he asks. 

You nod, unable to take it back…but you don’t want to. You want him to know that you love him and you always have. This is not just some hot fucking; this is making love too. At least to you, it is. “Yes. I never stopped. I’m so sorry that I—oh!” 

You can’t finish the rest of your heartfelt apology because Gojo is suddenly picking you up with ease, causing you to lace your limbs around him. You squeal when he scoops you up and carries you to the far back of his tour bus where his bed is and tosses you down onto it. No tour needed right now. 

He then proceeds to put you in mating press, putting his full body weight on you as he dangles your ankles from his broad shoulders and keeps your arms locked around his neck. “You must’ve said that just to get put into this fuckin’ bed,” he grunts, a feral look in his eye. “You’re fuckin’ with my head, darlin’. Drive me crazy!” 

He then proceeds to fuck you dumb in mating press, drilling his dick into your satiny, puffy pussy over and over again, fucking you to tears. The sounds that escape your lips are downright slutty and lewd, but you can't help it! His dick is just too good! “Oh, shit, shit, shit!” you babble. “God, Daddy, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me just like that!” 

He is so deep, filling the deepest part of you, his abs rubbing against your clit, sending parks of pleasure through your toes up to your head. His pretty face hands above you, a sight to behold. “Say you love me again. Say you want me.” His tone is laced with desperation, his cock pulsating inside of you. 

With a whimper, you reach up to cup his face, shivering when he leans into your touch. “I love you. I want you so bad, Toru! Need you with me and our daughter!” He smiles and kisses your palm, nuzzling his cheek into your fingertips. “I love you too, darlin’. I never ever stopped. Every fuckin’ love song I make is about you.” 

Your heart swells at his words as your pussy pulsates and throbs around his dick, oozing and gushing down your asscrack to stain his balls and bedspread.

But he doesn't care. He keeps fucking and fucking, pounding your cunt into the bed like it’s his job. And with the way he stares into your eyes, fucking the deepest parts of your soul, you can tell he means every word he utters to you through stuttering moans. 

“I’m gonna go wherever you go. You stay here, I’ll get you a farm. You go to the city, I’ll get us a fuckin’ penthouse. I don’t give a fuck if your folks are rich; I take care of mine.” He locks a hand around your throat and squeezes, just the way he used to, and you feel it—that tug on your core. 

“Toru,” you whine. “I’m gonna cum again!” With every thrust that knocks you up the bed, you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to your end. Gojo whimpers as you squeeze him, his thrusts becoming sloppier the wetter you get around him. “M-Me too, mama. I wanna give you this load so bad!” 

Yes. You want that more than anything. And it isn’t just the sex talking. “Do it! Gimme another kid, Daddy! Make me a mama again!” A switch flips in Gojo and he grins his hips faster, harder, pistoning into you with the fury of a thousand horny fires. “So my baby wants to be bred? You want your country star to fill ya up with his babies?” 

You nearly sob over how good he feels, gripping his muscular forearms for dear life as your orgasm grows near. “Yes, yes, yes! Cum in me, Daddy! Please get me pregnant!” With every slam of his hips against yours, going plap-pla-plap as he pounds himself into you, you know that you’re sure to get bred with another baby. 

Another baby belonging to your love. “Get pregnant f’me, baby,” he gasps. “C’mon, cum with me! Give it all to…oh, fuck!” He leans down to swallow your moans as you both get closer, sloppily kissing and sharing your pants as you both come crashing down. With a groan, Gojo empties himself inside of you, filling you to the brim with his cum. 

You feel it pouring out of you, shooting into you, hot, creamy, and sticky. It makes you gush and you cum all over his cock with a sob-like moan, pleasure crackling in your veins like firecrackers. His spunk fills a void in you that has long since been vacant and you smile, feeling an execrating amount of joy and euphoria that takes you higher than a drug ever can. 

You hold him tight as you cum, arching your back so far off the bed that you’re afraid it will break, still sloppily swirling your tongue with his. It is all so perfect. Heaven on earth. But after a few minutes of Gojo slowly fucking his cum up into you, he grows tired and sighs, pulling away from you. He whistles, staring down at you with a satisfied smirk. "You worked me out, baby girl,” he chuckles. 

And vice versa. You feel achy and winded already yet totally and supremely satisfied…and sticky. You can feel his cum dripping out of your pussy, soaking your puffy lips and inner thighs, slipping down to your ass crack. Gojo softly laughs, leaning down to give your slit a long lick to slurp up his cum, making you moan. “Damn, I made a real mess. Stay there.” 

You giggle as you stay laid out on your back, legs to the ceiling, cum dripping out of your pussy. Gojo shortly returns with a towel soaked in warm water and lavender-scented soap. He gently cleans you up and you hum in relaxation at the sensations.“Thank you. For the towel and the load too.” 

Gojo clicks his tongue at you, playfully smacking your ass with the towel. “Silly girl. No need to thank me. I’ve been dreamin’ of doin’ that for years now.” He presses a soft kiss to your tummy, making you flush. To think he has been dreaming of making love to you again makes your pussy throb again. 

But before you can go round two, you need to rest. After Gojo gets you a cool water bottle from the mini fridge, he snuggles with you under the covers. His big body fits so nicely with yours…almost like you were made for each other. Your fingers glide along his abs, pecs, and beefy arms while he traces shapes over your curves, his big feet playing footsie with yours. 

In the comfortable silence, something snags you and you can't help but ask him, “Did ya mean whatcha said? About livin’ with me and Tara?” Your heart pounds in your chest, anticipation his response. You’re afraid that it was just sex talk. 

But to your relief and joy, it wasn’t. “‘Course I did,” Gojo replies, kissing your cheek. “Sure, I’d have to work my way up to buildin’ trust with Tara, but y’all are my world. Nothin’ else matters if I don’t got my two girls in my life.” 

You split into a grin and turn around to face him, holding his face in your hands. “I’m gonna make ya so happy,” he whispers. “I promise. Your aunt is gonna be so glad you chose me, baby, I swear to y—“ 

You don’t give him a chance to finish before you’re kissing him, pouring every ounce of happiness and love you have into him. But before the kiss can move onto something else, you hear your phone ringing. “Damn,” Gojo groans, pouting, but he picks your bag up from the couch and hands it to you. 

You dig into your phone, checking the caller ID. “It’s Utahime,” you announce. You answer, preparing to explain yourself to your anxiety-induced friend. “Hey, girl, I’m not dead. I’m so sorry that I—“ 

“Fuck, Shoko!” she moans. “Oh, that’s so good!” You hear a feminine giggle in the background and a soft popping sound like someone tearing their lips away from a very soaked pussy.

“Yeah? You want it faster?” Shoko teases. Then Utahime is moaning her head off, so loud that Gojo can hear it too. At least you’re both getting what you want tonight. 

You both give each other a knowing look as you slowly hand up the call, struggling to not laugh. “Must’ve been a butt dial.” But when Gojo erupts into a fit of laughter, you join in, giggling hysterically. “She’s fuckin’ my bassist? I’m NEVER lettin’ her live this down!” he cackles, holding his stomach. 

After recovering from your laughing fit, Gojo suddenly reaches back behind him and retrieves a guitar. You giggle, figuring that, of course, as a country singer, he’d have a guitar ready on hand. “Speakin’ of guitars, let me give ya sneak peek of my new stuff.” He gives you an irresistible smile and a wink as he sits up cross-legged, still naked with the guitar in between his legs. 

You giddily grin at him, propping a hand up to hold your chin as you stare up at him from your side. “You’re gonna serenade me?” you tease, but you’re blushing all over at the idea of such a hot singer wanted by all serenading only you. 

He nods, playing a few strings with his guitar pick, steady and skillful. “Hell yeah; I’ll do this forever if you want me to.” You feel a delighted shiver run through you at that, figuring that tonight can’t get any better for you. “Send a lil’ video to Tara. She needs to know that her papa can sing.” 

You giggle and reach for your phone before Gojo begins to play, the sound of his silky voice combined with the sweet strumming of his guitar filling the tour bus. And just like that, you are proven wrong: tonight can get better for you. Sometimes, all it takes is a serenade. 

THE END.

Taglist: @mimicosmos8, @shrewdreader, @margo-lalam, @tiazvni, @heeknow

[cherrishkissed]

HAPPY JUNETEENTH TO MY BLACK WRITERS ONLYYY ᥫ᭡.

[jungkoode]

Catch the rabbit! | part 1

“Don’t let me catch you,” he says. “Or what?” she asks. He doesn’t answer. He simply looks at her with that smile. “One.”

↬ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:

Floor five. Eleven-something at night. Yunjin knew exactly why she was there before she even knocked.

She just didn't know he'd take her into the forest.

↝ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: smut

↝ 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: explicit (18+)

↝ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: taehyung x oc (female) | kkangpae!au (main story here)

↝ 𝒘𝒄: 20k

↝ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: knife play, fear play, blood play, clothing destruction (hoodie, bra, leggings, panties—the lavender hoodie did nothing wrong), primal play (he literally hunts her down through the forest and pins her to the ground) nudity, nipple play (extensive), breast play, oral (f. receiving, through clothing), semi-public sex (forest—technically a security dead zone but still outside), outdoor sex, sex on the floor, blade handling (uhh yeah he makes her grip the blade), possessive behavior, biting, marking, mildly very unhinged love language, wolf/bunny imagery (to be cringe is to be free i regret nothing i love the bunny petname and i will NOT apologize), blood as lubricant (yes really), palm cutting, blade-to-throat, piercing kink (he has opinions about giving her nipple piercings—with pink bows), pink kink (is that a thing? V definitely has it), dirty talk, praise kink, pale-skinned OC, small titties (A cup), penetration through (yes through, panties get destroyed) clothing, pain kink (he likes the friction and the sting), taehyung has a dick piercing (Albert) and he snags it against lace on purpose because he’s a sadomasochist, thrill kink (he literally needs a knife at his jugular to finish), cum inside, overstimulation, muffled sobs via bloody palm, adrenaline tears, body insecurity (brief, he corrects it with unhinged enthusiasm), implied snooping through medical records (casual), encyclopedic recitation of security systems (flirting?), birth control discussion (he noticed the implant under her skin), V being V (consider yourself warned lmaoooo), and Orion’s belt as a psychological coping mechanism (don’t ask).

↝ 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔: playlist | webtoon (tbp) | masterlist

cut in 2 parts because tumblr hates length. part 2 here.

❥ a/n: Oh boy. Ooooh boy—where do I even begin with this one. I KNEW—I knew—you all were going to thirst over Taehyung in this universe and not a single one of you has disappointed me. Not one. I feel so seen. So validated. So concerned for all of us, collectively. But genuinely—he’s such a layered character, I swear to God. The amount of backstory this man carries? The psychological wiring? The way everything he does has intent behind it even when it looks like he’s just being… whatever the hell that is? Yeah. No wonder you gremlins like him. I get it. I wrote him and even I’m like… oh. Oh that’s… hm. Okay. Which is exactly why I ended up writing this one-shot. I was so immersed while writing it that it genuinely felt like watching a movie in my head. Like I could see the lighting, the pacing, the expressions—everything. It’s one of those pieces where I kind of black out and then come back like ‘oh… so THAT’S what we did today.’ I really hope you guys feel that same intensity while reading it, because it was a ride to write.

Now—before you dive in, let me contextualize a few things just so we’re all on the same page.First of all: everything here is consensual. Yunjin is not being randomly thrown into this—she has been actively seeking Taehyung out for months. She has a crush, she knows what kind of man he is, and she steps into this fully aware of what she’s getting herself into. However—because of the nature of the dynamic (primal play, power imbalance, blood/knife play), there are moments that can read as dubcon. That tension is intentional, but if that’s not something you’re comfortable with, please take care of yourself and step back. Also—this is an OC piece, not x reader. So we are in third person limited POV instead of our usual second person. In the main story, Taehyung is canonically hooking up with Yunjin, and she has established features (pale skin, pink hair, etc.), so I couldn’t in good faith slap a reader-insert label on this. It wouldn’t be fair or inclusive. She’s her own character. And yes—she has small titties. I’m saying it now. If that breaks your immersion or isn’t your preference, that’s completely okay—this might not be the one for you. You’ll also notice a lot of bunny/wolf imagery throughout. That was a very deliberate choice. I love the dynamic, but the usual prey/predator terminology makes my soul leave my body, so this was my way of keeping the psychological tension without wanting to crawl out of my skin while writing it. And lastly—Taehyung is… very out of pocket here. Do not @ me about the things he says. I do not control him. I cannot control him. I am simply a vessel. But if you look closely—if you really pay attention—you’ll see that he’s not just being random for the sake of it. He’s playing a game. He is always several steps ahead, and his seemingly disconnected lines? They’re not random. They’re part of how he destabilizes, guides, and conditions the person in front of him.

So yeah. Have fun with that.

Go ahead and read, and while you do, try to figure out what the fuck is wrong with V.

The answer is everything.

Mwah. <3

The thing is, Yunjin knows exactly why she’s here.

She’d known since this afternoon when the text came through—𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝟻, 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝—no context, no explanation, just that. And she’d stared at her phone screen for approximately four seconds before her face did the thing.

The thing where her cheeks go warm and her mouth tucks in at the corners trying not to smile.

She’d failed at not smiling.

So here she is. Floor five, eleven-something at night, her pink hair in a loose braid because she’d redone it twice and decided she didn’t care, in the pale lavender hoodie she tells herself she chose for comfort and not because it’s soft to the touch.

She raises her hand to knock and pauses for exactly one second—just one—to breathe.

Okay. Normal. This is completely normal.

She knocks.

The door opens faster than she expects, which—okay, that’s something to tuck away and examine later because since when does V not keep people waiting?—and then the thought dissolves because he’s just there, and she’s been around him enough times now that one would think her brain would have developed some kind of tolerance. Some kind of buffer.

…It hasn’t.

V leans against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that shouldn’t be attractive on a person but very much is, head tilting slightly when he sees her.

He’s got this way of looking at people like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation. Cunning, and smart, and somehow, making you feel infinitely and forever inferior.

Yunjin hates it.

She also, embarrassingly, loves it.

“You came,” he says.

“You texted,” she points out, like that’s a very reasonable explanation for why she’s standing outside his room at midnight, which it is, actually, and she’s choosing not to analyze it further.

The corner of his mouth does something akin to a smile, but not quite.

It’s the suggestion of one, keeping it on a leash.

“I text a lot of people.”

“Do they all show up?”

“Hm. Yes.”

She makes sure her face doesn’t do any weird expressions, which takes more effort than it should, and she’s very aware of the thorns that loom over him and she’s never quite figured out how to describe.

“Are you going to let me in,” she says, “or is the haunting ambiance exclusive to the hallway?”

He steps aside.

Cinnamon engulfs the room immediately. That scent that is the equivalent of the thorned thing that always envelops him, old and grounding and still, eerily, dangerous.

She can’t not notice the lamp in the corner, low and amber, and then, the fact that the window is cracked just slightly, letting in the cold of the forest outside.

The ambient quiet of trees in late-night wind whispers through.

The castle has that effect, sometimes.

One forgets that just beyond the walls there’s miles of nothing and dark.

“Drink?” He’s already moving toward the windowsill where a bottle sits half-abandoned.

“What is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” she says honestly.

He glances back at her with something that isn’t quite amusement, and also, kind of is.

“Whiskey.”

She wrinkles her nose.

He sees it. The not-quite-smile deepens a fraction.

“No, thank you,” she says, very politely.

“Right.”

He pours himself one anyway, unhurried, and she watches him because she can’t really help it.

Even when he doesn’t plan it, he’s hot.

The way he moves is studied without seeming to try, thought-out, like he has opinions about the exact speed at which a person should do things.

She respects it immensely.

He turns and leans back against the windowsill, glass in hand, looking at her in a way ghat makes her feel simultaneously seen and like she’s being very gently taken apart, layer by layer, just to see what’s in there.

“You redid your hair,” he says.

She blinks. “I always have my hair like this.”

“You had it down at dinner.”

The fact that he noticed doesn’t escape her.

She’d known, vaguely, that he had noticed—she’d caught him looking, twice, across the cafeteria, and she had immediately looked away the first time and then very much not looked away the second time.

But hearing him say it out loud does something to the temperature in the room.

“Braid’s more practical,” she says.

“Mm.” He sips his whiskey. Doesn’t look away. “For what?”

It’s frustrating, the effortless tilted thing he does with a sentence, where the words are technically innocent and yet the effect is absolutely not.

Yunjin tips her chin up just slightly.

She’s been in the Seduction Division for six months.

She’s learned a thing or two about not handing a person exactly what they’re fishing for.

“In general,” she says pleasantly. “I’m a practical person.”

“You came here at midnight in a lavender hoodie.”

“It’s very warm.”

“And practical.”

“Extremely.”

He sets his glass down on the windowsill. Just that—just sets it down, a small gesture, and the room gets quieter for it.

He looks at her steadily. She looks back.

The thorned thing presses closer. She feels it in her collarbones, in the soft space below her throat, not unpleasant—the opposite, which is kind of the problem.

“Yunjin,” he says.

She likes the way he says her name.

She wishes she didn’t.

He says it like each syllable is a small decision, like he chose this particular arrangement of sounds deliberately.

«Yun-jin.»

Something thoughtful in it.

Something that makes her feel weirdly, unfortunately known.

“V,” she says.

He tilts his head at her.

What flickers through his expression, quick and unreadable—pleased, maybe, in a way he hadn’t expected to be, she can’t parse it.

“You’re careful,” he says.

“I try to be.”

“Most people aren’t.” A pause. He picks his glass up again, rolls it once between his palms. “It’s boring when they’re not.”

“I’d hate to be boring.”

“You’re not.” His eyes stay on her, steady. “That’s why you’re here.”

Yunjin is trained. She knows what it looks like when someone’s angling for something, knows how to hold a conversation at arm’s length while appearing completely open. She knows all of this.

She’s finding it deeply unhelpful right now.

V sets the glass down with a soft clink and nods toward the window.

She can feel the forest air drifting through the window in slow pulses—pine and dark earth, the particular quiet of trees at midnight that sounds like breathing.

“Have you been out there yet,” he says, but it’s not really a question.

She follows his gaze.

Past the glass, past the perimeter, the treeline is a dark wall at the edge of the grounds—the kind of dark that isn’t empty but occupied.

“At night?”

“That’s the only time it matters.”

She looks back at him.

He’s already watching her, that birdlike attention, head tilted just slightly.

“What happens out there?” she asks. “At night.”

The corner of his lip lifts upwards in a way that looks like he’s tasting the words.

“Depends on who you go with.”

He pushes off the windowsill and crosses to the door—the same leisure gait, hands loose at his sides—and glances back when he reaches it, hand on the frame.

“Come on, bunny.”

She stares.

“…Bunny?”

He looks at her hair. Back to her face.

The look is self-explanatory in the most aggravating possible way.

“V—”

“You can wait here if you want.” He shrugs, easy, like it’s optional. “I’ll come back.”

She grabs her keycard.

The forest is cold in a way that’s not really dramatic.

It’s not cinematic either, honestly. There’s no wind or howl one could expect from a place like this.

But the temperature does drop the moment the treeline closes behind her like the castle warmth was never a guarantee to begin with.

Yunjin pulls the hem of her hoodie down over her palms while V walks ahead.

His hands hang loose at his sides, and between the fingers of his right hand, she can see it:

A butterfly knife, moving, constant, the handles rotating through his grip in a motion so practiced it looks involuntary.

The blade flashes once when a seam of moonlight finds it through the canopy.

Click.

Rotate.

Click.

Yunjin watches it. Then watches him. Then watches the knife again.

“You’ve never come out here,” he says.

“At night? No.”

“Why not?”

She steps over a root.

“Because it’s dark and full of trees and I’m not—” she pauses. “I don’t have a reason to.”

“You have one now.”

He stops walking.

She almost walks into him.

He turns around slowly, unrushed as everything else, and looks at her.

The knife stills in his hand for the first time since they left the building.

“Tell me something,” he says.

She waits.

“What do bunnies do,” he says, “when a wolf is near?”

The cold gets more specific.

Yunjin blinks. Processes this. Looks at him.

He looks back, entirely serene.

“What?” she says.

“Bunnies.”

He’s patient about it, genuinely, infuriatingly patient, like the sentence makes complete sense and she just needs a moment.

The knife starts moving again.

Click.

“When they feel a wolf close by. What do they do?”

“They run,” she hears herself say.

“Mm.” The corner of his mouth does the thing. “They run.”

The silence after that is not empty—it has texture, has the forest shifting somewhere overhead.

“Interesting instinct,” V says, tilting his head. “Prey animals.”

He says it like he finds it fascinating.

“All that speed, all that—” the knife rotates, “—potential, and what do they do with it?”

He looks at her, and the look is warmer than the rest of him.

“They run.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Yunjin asks.

“It’s already somewhere,” he says simply. “You’re just catching up.”

The knife stops again.

He looks at her the way he’d looked at her in the cafeteria—twice, across the room—except there’s no cafeteria here, no distance, no crowd to dissolve it into background noise.

It’s just this.

Just him and the dark and that cinnamon scent threading through the cold pine air, sweet and low and dangerous.

“You’re soft,” he says.

It doesn’t sound like an insult.

It sounds like being assessed.

His eyes move from her face to her braid, and back.

“Soft, pink, won’t drink whiskey—” he takes one step toward her and she holds her ground, barely, “—shows up in a lavender hoodie at midnight.”

Another step.

“Do you know what wolves do,” he says, “when something soft wanders into their territory?”

Her heart rate is, at this point, embarrassing.

“Depends on the wolf,” she manages.

His lip twitches, leashed, then the smile opens slightly.

“Don’t let me catch you,” he says.

She stares at him.

She cycles through interpretations and throws them all out.

“Or what?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer.

He simply looks at her with that smile.

“One.”

Oh. He’s serious—

“Two.”

She runs.

There’s no deliberation. No composure. No six months of Seduction Division training that presents itself as useful in this particular moment.

One second she’s standing her ground and the next something ancient and entirely unreasonable in the back of her brain has looked at V smiling like that with a blade in his hand and simply—decided.

Her feet make the choice. She ratifies it.

The forest is terrible for running. The ground is soft in the wrong places, uneven, roots hiding under pine needle beds that her feet find at angles she can’t predict. Her braid whips against her back. Her breath comes cold and she ducks a low branch without fully breaking stride and has truly no idea where she’s going, which is fine, that’s a problem she’ll solve while moving—

Behind her: nothing. Complete, terrible quiet.

No footsteps. No branches.

Just the ambient breathed-out hush of the forest, which, in a way, makes it worse, because she can’t calibrate against silence, can’t track what she can’t hear, and she slows just enough to check over her shoulder—

Dark. Trees. Nothing.

She faces forward again and nearly runs directly into him.

V stands two feet ahead of her, leaning against a tree with one shoulder, the knife doing its slow idle rotation like nothing has happened, like he’s been here the whole time, like the forest delivered him while she was looking the wrong way.

He’s not breathing hard. He’s looking at her with that bright attentive quality, and his eyes dim when he sees her face—pleased, genuinely pleased, quiet and warm and entirely at odds with the rest of him.

Yunjin stops. Chest heaving. Staring.

“Hi, bunny,” he says.

She stares at him for three full seconds.

Her heartbeat is catastrophic.

“That was quick,” she says, slightly breathless.

He considers her.

“You were never going to outrun me,” he says, not unkindly, just factually.

His eyes drop—brief, quick—to the visible flutter of her pulse at her throat, and back up.

The smile hasn’t left, it’s just settled into a quieter register.

It has patience in it.

“Wolves,” he says, soft, “always catch the rabbit.”

The knife folds closed with a quiet snick.

He pushes off the tree.

Yunjin’s plan, in hindsight, has several critical flaws.

The first being that she is running from the Chief of Stealth Assassinations in a forest he likely knows by heart.

The second is that she is wearing a hoodie specifically chosen for comfort, not aerodynamics.

The third is that she actually thinks she has a chance.

She pushes off the tree trunk before V can finish folding his knife, scrambling backward with a distinct lack of grace.

Pine needles slip under her sneakers.

She nearly trips over a root, rights herself with a frantic pinwheel of arms, and then she is running.

Again.

The forest swallows her instantly.

It’s darker now, or maybe her eyes just haven't adjusted from the brief moment of moonlight. Branches whip at her face, little stinging reminders of her poor life choices, and the air burns cold in her lungs.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But somethin about the way V had looked at her gives her stomach a rush of excitement—like she was something delicious he’d found on his plate.

Behind her, a sound.

Not a footstep. Not the snap of a twig.

A chuckle.

Low, dark, and amused.

The sound comes from everywhere at once.

Yunjin runs faster.

Her breath comes in jagged gasps now, white puffs in the dark air.

Two minutes? Three? It feels like an hour.

Her legs burn, but panic is starting to tap politely on her shoulder.

She skids around a massive oak tree and presses herself flat against the bark, trying to vanish.

Quiet, she orders herself. Be quiet.

She holds her breath until her chest aches.

Silence.

The forest settles around her. The wind sighs through the canopy, a lonely, hollow sound. A nocturnal bird calls out, startling her so badly her heart stutters.

She needs to think. She’s in Seduction. She reads people. She needs to read the forest.

She closes her eyes, tilting her head.

Yank.

Her head snaps back, a sudden pull that drags a gasp from her throat.

Her braid. Someone has her braid.

"Found you," a voice murmurs, right against the shell of her ear.

V.

Of course it’s V.

He doesn’t let go. He reels her in, winding the length of her braid around his hand like a leash, pulling until her back hits a chest that feels solid as a wall.

"Fast," he hums, the vibration of it traveling straight through her spine. "Surprisingly fast. For something so soft."

Yunjin is trembling.

She tells herself it’s the cold. She tells herself it’s the adrenaline.

She knows, with a sinking, swooping feeling in her stomach, that it is neither of those things.

"I—" Her voice squeaks. She clears her throat. "I have good cardio."

"Mm."

He shifts, and she feels it—the unmistakable pressure of him against her lower back.

Oh.

"Too bad," he whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below her ear, sending shivers racing down her arms. "Your hunter is me."

His free hand comes up to her throat. His fingers are long, cool against her flushed skin. He tilts her head back further, exposing the line of her throat to the moonlight, to him.

"V," she breathes.

"Shh."

He tugs on her braid again, tight enough to make her gasp, and the sound seems to please him.

"You like to run," he observes, almost bored. "Instinct?"

"Yes," she admits breathlessly.

"Bad instinct."

He spins her around.

The world tilts.

One moment she’s upright, pinned against him; the next, she’s being maneuvered, not gently, down onto the bed of pine needles.

He follows her down, a heavy, warm weight that settles framing her thighs before she can even think to close them.

He pins her wrists above her head with one hand. Effortless. Like she’s made of paper.

Yunjin stares up at him.

He looks… wrecked.

Beautifully, terrifyingly wrecked.

His hair is messed up from the run, falling into his eyes. And his eyes—they’re blown wide, dark pupils swallowing the hazel, focused on her with a terrifying intensity.

He looks unhinged.

He looks like he wants to bite something.

He looks like he wants to bite her.

"V," she whispers again.

He ignores her. He brings his other hand up—the one not pinning her wrists—and she sees the glint of metal.

The butterfly knife.

He flicks it open with a flick of his wrist. Click-clack. The sound is loud in the quiet forest.

He traces the line of her jaw with the flat of the blade. She shivers, her breath hitching.

"You’re shaking," he notes, watching the blade slide down her neck.

"I’m cold."

"Are you."

He smiles. It’s not a nice smile.

"You smell," he says, leaning down until his nose brushes the sensitive skin just below her jaw, inhaling deeply, "like cotton candy."

He drags the scent in like a drug.

"Makes a wolf," he murmurs against her skin, his voice dropping an octave, "want to eat the rabbit."

Yunjin feels her face flame. Her entire body feels hot, tight, strung out.

"Do you know what happens," he asks quietly, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, "when a wolf catches a rabbit?"

"You—" Yunjin swallows hard. "You said that already."

"I said wolves always catch the rabbit."

He moves the knife. The blade rests in the hollow of her throat now, right where her pulse is hammering a frantic, betraying rhythm against the steel.

"I didn’t say," he murmurs, "what happens after."

"Tell me," she hears herself say.

V’s eyes change.

The darkness in them seems to expand, swallowing the last of the light.

But there’s heat there, too.

A terrifying, consuming heat.

"They play with it," he says.

He shifts his grip on her wrists, tightening just enough to remind her she’s caught.

"They like to see," he continues, his voice low and contemplative, "how fast its heart can beat before it gives out."

He taps the knife against her collarbone. Tap. Tap.

"Is your heart going to give out, bunny?"

"I don't know," she whispers honestly.

It feels like it might.

"Good."

He leans in closer, his lips hovering inches from hers.

She can smell the cinnamon on him, rich and spicy, mixing with the scent of pine and dirt and him.

"Tell me," he says, his voice dropping. "Did you run because you were scared? Or because you wanted me to chase you?"

Yunjin stares at him. Her wrists ache where he’s holding them. The pine needles are digging into her back. There is a knife at her throat.

And she has never, in her entire life, been this turned on.

"I don't know," she confesses.

"Liar,” he decides for her. "You saw me, and you thought, 'Oh, look. A monster. I wonder if he bites.'"

He drags the flat of the knife down her chest, over the lavender hoodie, stopping right between her breasts.

"Well," he whispers. "I do."

Then the blade tilts.

Just a little. Just enough that the edge kisses the fabric.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

She goes very still.

The sound of cotton giving way is shockingly quiet.

He doesn’t rush. He draws the knife down the center of her chest in a glide, and the hoodie parts along the line like it wanted to.

The air hits her skin in a thin, chilly strip, from collarbone to below her sternum, and goosebumps race outwards from the path.

She makes a sound. Embarrassing. Half gasp, half whine.

He hears it.

She can tell he hears it because his mouth curves, slow and pleased, eyes staying on the cut he’s making. He’s careful with pressure, she realizes dimly—close enough to scare the absolute life out of her, but not enough to touch skin.

Not even once.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Of course he does.

The hoodie falls open.

Underneath, pale pink lace.

Yunjin wants to disappear into the ground.

“Oh,” V says softly.

That’s it. Just oh, like he’s just unwrapped something he’d been quietly hoping for and doesn’t want to spook.

Heat blasts through her face so fast she actually feels dizzy.

She squeezes her eyes shut on reflex. That kind of just makes it worse, because now she can’t see him, but she can feel everything—the way his gaze drags down over her exposed bra, the way the forest air licks over her newly bare skin, the way her nipples tighten because of course they do, traitors.

“Look at that,” he hums. “Pink.”

She makes a dying noise in the back of her throat.

“Don’t—” She clears her throat. Her voice comes out thin. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” He finally looks up at her face, lazy curiosity in his eyes.

She wants to cover herself, instinctively, but her wrists are still pinned above her head, held in one of his hands like it costs him nothing—and it probably does.

“V,” she mumbles, trying very hard not to look down at herself again and failing instantly.

The bra looks so much more obvious out here, like she’s lit for inspection—the soft lace, the tiny little bow in the center that had seemed cute in her room and now feels… accusatory.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“You wore pink lace to my room,” he says, matter-of-fact, merely reciting mission intel. “At midnight.”

Her stomach swoops.

He shifts his weight a little, the knife resting now against the edge of the hoodie where it’s fallen away.

“You followed me into the forest.”

His tone stays light, almost conversational, but his eyes don’t move from her chest.

“I think we both know what that means.”

“It’s just—” she tries weakly. “It’s just underwear.”

His mouth kicks up.

“Mm. Just underwear,” he echoes. “Bunny, you color-coordinate your lingerie for your superior and then pretend it’s an accident.”

Superior.

Right. He’s not just some guy, he’s V, Chief of Stealth Assassinations, Council member, terrifying knife man, and she is—what. A Seduction ensign with too many feelings and a bad case of cotton-candy aesthetic.

Her cheeks burn hotter.

“I—it was laundry day,” she lies. Badly.

The knife moves again.

Lower, this time.

He drags the flat of it down to the band of her leggings at her hips, tracing the seam with idle interest. The pressure is just enough to make the elastic dip, not enough to cut.

Her abdomen jumps under the contact.

“Laundry day, hm?” he repeats, sounding deeply unconvinced and also a little entertained.

He tugs at the waistband with the tip of the blade, watching the fabric give. She can feel every tiny shift; the cold metal, the way it threatens to slip lower, the way her skin flinches and then tries not to.

“V—”

“Shh, bunny.” His voice goes soft, almost soothing. “I’m being careful.”

He is.

That might be the most insane part of this.

His hand is steady, fingers loose on the handle, and when he finally angles the edge in and slices, it’s clean.

Her leggings part with another soft rip, the sound so intimate it makes her toes curl inside her sneakers.

The air hits her hips.

He pulls the cut open lazily with the knife, exposing more skin, more lace.

More pink.

He stops.

“There,” he sounds satisfied.

She wants the earth to open up and swallow her down to the molten core.

Matching. She’d put on the matching set.

Because she’s an idiot. Because some traitorous part of her had thought, ’if he sees, it’ll be nice if it all… coordinates.’

Pink bra. Pink panties. Pink hair. Pink face.

She is going to combust.

“Yun,” he says, and this time her name sounds almost like a laugh. “You’re killing me.”

She risks a look at his face, because apparently she hasn’t suffered enough.

He looks… delighted.

Not in a soft way. In that weird V way—eyes bright, smile a little too pointy, like the world just presented him with his new favorite toy and he’s already thinking of every terrible thing he can do to it.

His gaze drags back up, slow and unmistakable, knife tapping lightly against her hip bone, from the damp little scrap of lace between her thighs to the bra straining over her breathing.

“You’re all pink, bunny.”

Her breath stutters.

He sounds obsessed.

“It’s not—” She swallows. Her throat feels too tight. “It’s just… a set.”

That earns her a low, pleased hum.

“I love a matching set,” he says, almost to himself. “Attention to detail.”

He lets the knife rest at the waistband of her panties for a beat, just enough to make her whole body go jelly again, and then—because he’s cruel—he doesn’t cut.

He drags the flat of it back up instead.

Across the little triangle of lace, up over the bare skin of her stomach where the hoodie’s been split, back to her chest.

He notices the way her frame shakes at every inch mapped upwards.

His smile slips toward a lazier tug, smoke curling at the edges. Then tilts the knife so the tip hooks into the tiny bow between her cups.

Yunjin stops breathing.

He could cut it.

He doesn’t.

He nudges the bow gently aside, nudging the knot so it sits just off-center, and then angles the edge to catch on the stitching below it.

“You like this one,” he says, eyes flicking up to her face again. “The little bow.”

She blinks rapidly, trying to keep her eyes on his and not on the steel resting in her cleavage.

“It’s… cute,” she manages.

“Cute,” he repeats, as if testing the word on his tongue. “We’ll keep it, then.”

Of course. Of course the man who carves people open for a living has opinions on preserving aesthetics.

He draws a slow, careful line down with the knife, splitting the bra neatly beneath the bow.

Her breath turns into a high, silent hitch as the tension gives; the bra loosens around her, the cups falling away from the center to either side.

The straps dig into her shoulders for one suspended second and then the whole front of it just… spills open.

Her breasts are bared to the cold air and his gaze in the same instant.

Her nipples are already tight, flushed the deep, humiliating same color.

“Jesus,” she whispers, because she’s has decided that’s the word to go with.

V’s eyes go heavy-lidded.

He lets the ruined lace fall away from the knife, drops the blade to rest idly against the side of her ribcage, and just looks.

The sound he makes isn’t loud. It’s more like a low, satisfied exhale, punched out of him without his permission.

“Pretty,” he says.

Her whole body lights up at the word.

There shouldn’t be this much power packed into two syllables.

He lowers his head a fraction, enough that his breath ghosts over her skin, warm against the chill, and her back arches before she can stop it.

His eyes flick up at the movement, catching the way her chest offers itself, and his mouth does that slow, dangerous curve again.

“Look at them,” he murmurs, almost fond. “All pink too.”

He reaches out with his free hand finally, the one not pinning her wrists, and his fingers curve just under the swell of one breast—not squeezing, not really touching her nipple yet, just cupping, like he’s gauging weight.

She bites down on a sound.

“The rabbit doesn’t need a reason to groom,” he muses, thumb sweeping just close enough to the taut peak that she almost sobs. “It just… keeps itself neat. Clean. Ready.”

Ready.

Indeed, ready.

She shaved. She moisturized. She’d looked at herself in the mirror before heading to floor five and thought, ’Okay. Presentable.’

Her stomach swoops so hard she actually shifts on the pine needles.

His eyes catch it.

“Yun,” he says softly. “You’re adorable.”

That doesn’t help.

Not even a little.

He finally lets his thumb drag over her nipple.

It’s barely pressure. A skim.

Enough to send a bolt of sensation straight down between her thighs, enough to make her hips twitch against his weight.

She hears herself suck in a breath through her teeth.

His pupils blow a little wider.

“I should put bows on those,” he says.

She blinks.

“…What?”

He tilts his head, like the statement is self-evident. Like she’s the one not following.

“Little bows.” He gestures vaguely at her chest with the butterfly knife. “There.”

His gaze moves to her nipples, appraising.

“Little presents.”

She stares at him.

“V,” she says, carefully. “You—”

“You’d look like a gift,” he continues, settling this for himself. Reasoning it through out loud like she’s not there, and also like she’s entirely the subject of conversation. “Wrapped and addressed.”

A pause.

He seems to be imagining it.

The image, apparently, meets some internal standard.

“Yes,” he decides.

She doesn’t know what to do with that.

She legitimately does not know what to do with that.

“V,” she whispers, because it’s the only thing that seems to come out correctly.

“Mmm?”

He gives the nipple a tiny, barely-there pinch between thumb and forefinger.

A soft, broken sound slips past her lips before she can catch it.

The hand holding her wrists tightens minutely. Approval, she realizes, in some fucked-up corner of her brain.

“So much pink,” he says, seemingly proud.

Her heartbeat tries to escape through the point where the blade rests.

“Wonder if you’re pink too,” he muses, voice dropping lower, “under all this lace.”

Yunjin swallows, throat working against the press of fear and arousal that’s become one tangled, buzzing thing.

And she, in truth, doesn’t know what to do with anything—not her body, not her face.

All she knows is that she’s laid out under V in the middle of a dark forest, her hoodie split, her bra ruined, her matching underwear on full display, and he is looking at her like a wolf who’s finally got his rabbit pinned.

And god help her, she thinks she’s never wanted anything so badly in her life.

She suddenly registers the absence of cold before she registers why, still buzzing from where the flat of the blade had traced her skin.

She refocuses her eyes to see V holding it loosely, casually, the handle resting between two fingers like a cigarette—like it’s nothing, like it’s an afterthought—and then his wrist flicks.

One rotation. Two.

The butterfly knife spins through his fingers in a lazy figure eight, handles clicking open-shut-open in a rhythm that sounds almost musical.

Moonlight catches the edge each time it turns, little strobe-flashes in the dark.

And then he throws it.

Yunjin’s entire body seizes.

The knife comes down fast—fast—blade-first, the silver arc of it aimed directly at her hands where they’re pinned above her head, and every cell screams ’no’ at once.

Her eyes slam shut.

Her wrists jerk against his grip.

She makes a sound—high, involuntary, ripped from somewhere below thought—

Thunk.

The blade bites into the earth.

She feels the vibration through the ground. Through her skull, her shoulders, the whole length of her arms.

The handle hums faintly where it’s buried, and when she cracks one eye open—trembling, heart somewhere in her sinuses—she sees it.

The knife. Planted in the soil between V’s index and middle finger. Between the knuckles of the hand that’s still pinning her wrists to the forest floor. The blade embedded in the dirt, close enough that she can feel the residual warmth of the steel against the side of her pinky.

Not a scratch.

Not a single scratch.

Her breath comes out in a shaky, wet rush. Her vision is blurred—she blinks and realizes, mortifyingly, that her eyes are stinging with unshed tears.

Adrenaline tears. Fear tears. The kind that don’t ask permission.

V watches her face with open, lazy interest.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “I never miss.”

She wants to say something. Anything. Something cutting, something that proves she’s not a full-body tremble in a ruined hoodie right now.

But her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth and her heart beats at a speed that would send her to J-Hope’s office right away.

So what comes out instead is a thin, cracked: “You—”

“I know.” He says it warmly. Almost fond.

Now that the knife is tucked away, he has one hand free.

Oh.

Oh, she’s in trouble.

He flexes the freed hand once. Slow. His fingers stretch and curl, working out the stiffness of the grip, and his gaze drops from her face to her chest.

Her breasts are still bare to the night air, small and round, the nipples pulled tight from the cold, flushed that same traitorous color as everything else about her.

She feels horribly, excruciatingly exposed.

And were it for the cold, it’d be fine.

But it’s not becuse of the weather—it’s because of the way he looks at her chest with explicit, rigorous attention—the same way he’d looked at the knife when it was spinning.

His fingertip—just the pad of his index finger, just the tip—touches the center of her sternum. Not her breast. The flat plane between them, where her heart is hammering a riot against her ribs.

“Small,” he says.

And it lands exactly the way she’d been afraid it would.

Her face burns.

She turns her head to the side, chin tucking instinctively, and her eyes find the dark canopy above because that’s easier than this.

Easier than lying here with her nothing-tits out while the Chief of Stealth Assassinations offers a one-word review.

Small.

Yeah. She knows. She’s aware, thanks.

“Don’t do that.”

His voice is quiet. His finger hasn’t moved from her sternum.

She swallows. Doesn’t look at him.

“Yunjin.”

Something in the way he says it—that careful, syllable-by-syllable quality, like each sound is a choice—makes her turn back.

He’s watching her with his head tilted. His expression hasn’t changed. That same bright, alien attention, focused entirely on her.

“Small things,” he says, “are more sensitive.”

She blinks.

“Did you know that?”

His finger traces a slow, considering path from her sternum to the swell of her left breast. Just the outer curve. Barely a touch.

“Smaller surface area. Same nerve supply. Higher concentration. More density.”

He says it the way someone would recite a fun fact at a dinner party.

“Means every—” his fingertip drifts inward, tracing the curve tighter, spiraling closer to the center, “—single—” closer, “—touch—”

He reaches her areola.

Yunjin’s back arches off the ground so fast it’s involuntary.

A gasp rips out of her, and her hands twist above her head where his other hand is still pinning them, fingers scrabbling uselessly at nothing.

V pauses. Watches the arch of her spine settle back down.

“—registers more,” he finishes softly.

She’s panting. She can hear herself panting.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s one fingertip on the edge of her areola and she’s panting like she’s been running again.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

His finger circles. Just once. A slow, featherlight loop around the puckered skin of her areola, tracing the border between smooth and textured, and the sensation is so specific, so concentrated, that her toes curl inside her sneakers.

“All this pink,” he says, gaze fixed on the path his finger is drawing. “Like candy.”

He presses the pad of his thumb flat against her nipple.

Just contact—full, flat, warm.

Full, flat, warm contact after the teasing almost-touches, and the sensation floods through her chest, immediate and bright.

Her nipple is so tight it aches, and the warmth of his thumb against it sends electric pulses straight down through her stomach, through her pelvis, between her legs.

She makes a sound she’ll be mortified about for the rest of her natural life. Thin and needy and high in the back of her throat—begging, even though she hasn’t said a word.

V’s eyes darken a fraction, pupils expanding, swallowing hazel, and his lips part just slightly.

He likes it.

He likes the sound.

“Again,” he says. Not a request.

He rolls his thumb. Just a small, tight circle, pressing her nipple down and dragging it to the side, letting it spring back.

The friction—his thumb pad against the sensitive peak—makes her whimper.

Actually whimper.

Mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, the sound pulled from somewhere she can't name.

“Good,” he breathes.

His head lowers.

She feels his breath first. Warm against her cold skin, ghosting over the breast he hasn’t touched yet—the right one, the neglected one, its nipple tight and aching and straining toward nothing.

Her chest heaves with each inhale, and she knows he can see it, the way she’s practically offering herself—

His mouth closes over her right nipple.

Warm. Wet.

The sudden heat of his mouth after the biting cold of the forest air is so intense that her vision whites at the edges.

His lips seal around the stiff peak and his tongue—oh god, his tongue—presses flat against the tip, broad and hot and slick.

“Ah—” Her voice cracks. Her hips shift on the pine needles. “V—”

He hums against her, vibration traveling straight through her nipple, through her breast, down into her ribcage where it rattles around like a trapped bird.

His tongue moves—a slow, wet drag, tasting her with intent.

Her fingers twist above her head. The hand pinning her wrists hasn’t loosened. The knife handle is still right there, she can feel it against the side of her hand, the textured grip warm from being inside his palm—

Wait.

Her little finger brushes metal.

The knife.

It’s right there. Right next to her trapped hands, blade buried in the dirt, handle jutting up.

If she just—shifted her fingers—curled them a fraction—

V sucks in.

Her thoughts scatter.

He draws her nipple further into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull, hollowing his cheeks around the small peak, and the sensation is so intense and sweet it makes her thighs clench against his hips.

His tongue flicks against the captured tip, quick and wet, and she hears herself gasp—but her hand—

Her fingers curl around the handle of the butterfly knife.

The textured steel sits against her palm like it belongs to someone else’s story entirely, someone braver, someone who doesn’t wear matching lingerie sets to their superior’s room—

V goes still.

His mouth stays on her breast, lips still sealed around her nipple, but the movement of his tongue stops.

She can feel the shift in his attention even before he lifts his head—a quality change, thorns tightening around her like a vine noticing new movement.

He pulls off her nipple with a soft, wet sound.

Looks up.

His eyes find her hand on the knife handle.

Something hungry moves through his expression.

He looks like…

Like he’d been waiting for this part.

“Oh,” he says.

Yunjin’s fingers tighten on the handle reflexively. Her knuckles go white.

She’s not even sure what she’s doing—she didn’t plan this, her hand just—it moved, it found the knife, and now she’s holding a weapon while pinned under the Chief of Stealth Assassinations in the middle Kkangpae’s forest, and this is either the bravest or dumbest thing she’s ever done—definitely the dumbest.

V’s gaze moves from her hand to her face; and his mouth is wet—she can see it, the slick shine of his own saliva on his lower lip, the faint glistening on the corner of his mouth from where he’d been sucking her nipple.

He looks enthralled.

“Go ahead,” he says.

His hand releases her wrists. Just—lets go. Opens his fingers and pulls his hand away, casual as setting down a glass, and suddenly her arms are free. Both of them. No resistance, no weight holding her down.

Just the knife in her hand and him above her and the forest breathing around them.

Yunjin’s brain stutters.

“Try it,” he adds, like an encouragement.

She stares at him. Her wrists ache faintly where he’d been gripping them—the blood rushing back makes her fingers tingle around the handle.

The blade is still buried in the dirt. She’d have to pull it free. She’d have to actually—

His fingers fold over her knuckles, warm and sure, and he tugs the knife from the earth like it weighs nothing.

The blade comes free with a soft, gritty scrape, soil crumbling from the steel, and then it’s just—in her hands.

A real knife. His knife.

The one he’d used to cut her hoodie, her bra, her leggings.

She’s holding it and her arms are shaking so badly the blade jitters in the dark.

V doesn’t take it back.

Instead, his hand grips her shoulder—firm, sudden—and yanks her upright.

And suddenly she’s sitting up, disoriented, the split halves of her hoodie falling off her shoulders while he remains kneeling in front of her with his thighs bracketing hers.

He adjusts her grip. Both her hands around the handle now, fingers layered, his hands guiding hers with the patience of someone correcting a student’s form.

Then he places the tip of the blade against his own chest.

Over his heart.

“V—” Her voice comes out strangled.

The tip of the knife rests against the dark fabric of his shirt, right over the left side of his chest, and she can feel—through the handle, through the steel, through whatever insane connection exists between a blade and the body it touches—his heartbeat.

Steady. Calm. Completely, offensively calm.

“There,” he says, presumably satisfied with the placement. “That’s right.”

She’s shaking so hard the knife tip trembles against him. Her vision is blurring again—those stupid adrenaline tears—and her breath is coming in shallow, hiccupping bursts.

He’s making her hold a knife to his heart.

He’s making her.

part 2 here.

↝ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @sugak00kie134340 @cravingforbangtan @namgimini @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt

© jungkoode 2026

[jungkoode]

Catch the rabbit! | part 2

“Don’t let me catch you,” he says. “Or what?” she asks. He doesn’t answer. He simply looks at her with that smile. “One.”

↬ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬:

Floor five. Eleven-something at night. Yunjin knew exactly why she was there before she even knocked.

She just didn't know he'd take her into the forest.

↝ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: smut

↝ 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: explicit (18+)

↝ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: taehyung x oc (female) | kkangpae!au (main story here)

↝ 𝒘𝒄: 20k

↝ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: knife play, fear play, blood play, clothing destruction (hoodie, bra, leggings, panties—the lavender hoodie did nothing wrong), primal play (he literally hunts her down through the forest and pins her to the ground) nudity, nipple play (extensive), breast play, oral (f. receiving, through clothing), semi-public sex (forest—technically a security dead zone but still outside), outdoor sex, sex on the floor, blade handling (uhh yeah he makes her grip the blade), possessive behavior, biting, marking, mildly very unhinged love language, wolf/bunny imagery (to be cringe is to be free i regret nothing i love the bunny petname and i will NOT apologize), blood as lubricant (yes really), palm cutting, blade-to-throat, piercing kink (he has opinions about giving her nipple piercings—with pink bows), pink kink (is that a thing? V definitely has it), dirty talk, praise kink, pale-skinned OC, small titties (A cup), penetration through (yes through, panties get destroyed) clothing, pain kink (he likes the friction and the sting), taehyung has a dick piercing (Albert) and he snags it against lace on purpose because he’s a sadomasochist, thrill kink (he literally needs a knife at his jugular to finish), cum inside, overstimulation, muffled sobs via bloody palm, adrenaline tears, body insecurity (brief, he corrects it with unhinged enthusiasm), implied snooping through medical records (casual), encyclopedic recitation of security systems (flirting?), birth control discussion (he noticed the implant under her skin), V being V (consider yourself warned lmaoooo), and Orion’s belt as a psychological coping mechanism (don’t ask).

↝ 𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔: playlist | webtoon (tbp) | masterlist

cut in 2 parts because tumblr hates length. part 1 here.

“I c—” She swallows. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

“V, I can’t—”

He pushes forward, and his chest presses into the blade, just a fraction—just enough that she feels the resistance, feels the tip bite into fabric, feels the knife start to go somewhere—and every alarm in her body fires at once.

Yunjin wrenches backward.

Her hands yank the knife away from him so fast the momentum almost tips her over, her arms pulling the blade toward her own body in her desperate retreat from the idea of piercing someone, of steel going through shirt and skin and muscle—

The knife ends up clutched against her chest, point up, her whole body curved around it protectively.

Not protecting herself from the weapon.

Protecting him from her.

V watches this happen with an expression of quiet, absolute satisfaction.

And then he chuckles.

The sound rolls through his chest and out into the cold air between them, and it sounds—god, it sounds genuinely charmed. This soft, private laughter of someone who ran an experiment and got exactly the result they wanted.

He’d known.

He’d known she wouldn’t do it.

That’s why he pushed forward—because he knew she’d pull back.

Because the equation was already solved in his head before he even placed the blade.

Because V doesn’t gamble. He calculates.

“Good bunny,” he murmurs.

Her chest cracks open and floods warm.

She hates it.

She hates that those two words in that voice make her feel—make her feel—

Happy.

Which is insane.

She’s holding a knife in a forest with a man who kills people and she feels happy because he called her a good bunny.

She really needs to schedule an appointment with J-Hope’s second.

V reaches for her. Slow this time.

His hands cup her shoulders—gently, so gently it doesn’t match anything else about this, doesn’t match the knife or the chase or the counting—and he eases her back down onto the ground.

Pine needles prick through the thin cotton of her ruined hoodie. The cold seeps into her shoulders.

He follows her down, settling his weight over her again, and his hand finds her wrists and gathers them back together above her head.

The knife stays in her grip for one more second before he takes it from her. She lets it go without resistance, fingers uncurling like petals, and it’s the easiest surrender she’s ever made.

The knife spins.

She catches it in her periphery—a flash of silver movement at the edge of her vision, his right hand a blur of practiced rotation, the blade folding and unfolding in that hypnotic figure eight she’s seen a hundred times and still can’t track.

The handles click.

The steel flashes.

And then his hand comes down.

Fast.

The blade slams into the earth right beside her neck.

THUNK.

Yunjin flinches so violently her whole body leaves the ground for a second. A high, choked sound punches from her throat—and it’s not a scream but the shape of one that got caught behind her teeth. Her head snaps to the side and she feels it: the knife buried to the hilt in the soil, the handle still vibrating faintly, the blade maybe two inches from the tendon in her neck.

Her pulse hammers against the ground.

V holds the position for a beat. Just long enough for her to feel the proximity—the almost of it, the near-miss singing in her nerve endings like a plucked string.

Then simply leaves the knife there. Planted in the earth beside her throat like a headstone for her composure.

“Now,” he says, as if they’d just paused for a commercial break. “Where was I.”

Jesus Christ.

His freed hand finds her left breast—the one his mouth hasn’t touched yet—and he cups it fully this time. His palm is warm, broad enough to cover the whole small swell of her, and he just—holds it.

Then he simply pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Not hard, but enough to hold it—to trap the stiff peak and roll it slowly, tugging it up from her chest, stretching the skin gently before letting it spring back.

Her back bows. A moan slips out—an actual throaty moan that rings in the trees—and her face goes nuclear.

V’s eyes go half-lidded. That pleased, sleepy look settles over his face.

“See?” he murmurs. “Sensitive.”

He lowers his mouth to the one he hasn’t tasted yet.

This time he doesn’t start gentle. His lips close around her left nipple and he sucks—immediate, firm, hollowing his cheeks against her small breast. His tongue presses flat against the peak inside his mouth and drags, and the wet heat combined with the suction pulls something from so deep in her chest that her hands clench into fists above her head.

“Nnh—”

She can’t form words. Her hips shift against the ground and her legs are shaking where his thighs bracket them.

“V—that’s—ah—”

He alternates in his sucking, first flicking the tip of his tongue against the trapped nipple—quick, flicks that send jolts straight to her clit. Then sucking again, slow and deep, drawing the nipple further into his mouth than seems possible, as if he’s trying to take the whole breast in.

His hand works the other side. Rolling and tugging the right nipple between his fingers, pinching it lightly just to feel her flinch, then soothing it with a slow rub of his thumb.

He pulls off with a wet sound.

Studies her nipple. It’s swollen now, glistening with his saliva, flushed a deeper shade than before—almost red, angry-looking, slick and shining in the moonlight.

“Pretty,” he says. Then, tilting his head: “Prettier wet.”

She makes a noise that is, generously, a whimper.

He switches. Mouth to the right nipple now, hand to the left, and the sensation of cool night air hitting saliva-slick skin makes her gasp briefly. Goosebumps erupt across her chest. The abandoned nipple tightens painfully, exposed, and then his fingers find it—still slick—and tug.

Immediately, he draws a slow circle around the areola before closing in on the nipple, spiraling tighter and tighter until the tip of his tongue flicks across the very peak.

Then he bites.

Just the edges of his teeth closing around the stiff nub, the pressure strange after all that softness, and Yunjin’s whole body jolts.

V hums against her skin. His teeth release the nipple and his tongue soothes over it in flat strokes.

“Piercings” he says, mouth still brushing against her breast.

Her brain stutters to a halt. “W—what?”

He lifts his head enough to look at her nipple. Considers it. His thumb and forefinger catch the wet peak and hold it up, stretching it slightly, examining it from the side.

“A needle,” he says. “Through here.”

His other hand releases her wrists—briefly, just long enough to tap the opposite nipple with one finger before returning to pin her.

"And here. Matched set.”

She stares at him with her mouth open.

“Small gauge,” he continues, warming to the subject. “Something delicate. Gold, maybe—“ He pauses. Reconsiders. “No. Rose gold. To match.”

He’s redesigning her like a moodboard.

“Pink bows,” he adds, and his voice goes soft on the words—almost dreamy. “Threaded through each ring. Little satin ones. The same shade as—” His gaze flicks to her hair. “—these.”

Yunjin cannot believe this is happening to her.

She cannot believe she is lying on a forest floor with her tits out while the most dangerous man in Kkangpae describes his ideal nipple piercing aesthetic with the enthusiasm of someone planning a Pinterest wedding.

“You’d heal fast,” he muses, thumb circling her areola absently. “Small breasts heal faster. Less tissue strain.”

“How do you know that—”

“And then they’d be even more sensitive.”

His eyes brighten fractionally, like this possibility truly excites him.

“Right now, you can barely handle my mouth. After the piercings?”

He dips his head and drags the flat of his tongue across her nipple in one gentle stroke.

Her spine arches on reflex, a broken ’ah’ falling from her lips.

“You’d cry.”

He says it like it’s the whole point.

“Every touch. Every brush of fabric.” He kisses the wet nipple between words—soft. “A breeze. Water in the shower.” His tongue flicks out, quick, and she jerks. “You’d feel everything.”

She is going to lose her mind.

He lowers his mouth again, and this time there’s intent behind it—not idle exploration but dedication.

He sucks her nipple into his mouth and works it with his tongue, rolling it, pressing it against the roof of his mouth, and his hand kneads the other breast in rhythm, thumb brushing the peak in time with each pull of his lips.

The sensation builds in layers—heat and pressure, the ache of overstimulation starting to glow at the edges—and she’s squirming now, unable to stay still, shifting restlessly against the ground.

She grinds up.

One involuntary, desperate roll of her pelvis against him, seeking friction it hasn’t been offered, pressing up into the weight of him between her legs—

She feels him.

Hard. Thick through his pants, pressed against the dampness between her thighs.

The contact is brief—a fraction of a second—but the shape of him is unmistakable.

Yunjin freezes.

V’s mouth goes still on her breast.

He lifts his head.

Slowly.

His eyes find hers.

His tongue traces his lower lip—a quick, absent gesture, collecting the slick of his own saliva—and his expression makes every organ in her body rearrange.

He doesn’t look surprised. He looks like something just clicked into place. Like a lock engaging. Like a wolf who’d been playing with its food just felt movement and remembered ‘oh, right, hungry.’

Yunjin’s stomach drops.

“That—” Her voice comes out reedy, cracked. “I didn’t—that was—I didn’t mean to—”

“Careful.”

One word. Quiet.

It’s not the smile from before—not the amused one, not the fond one, not the pleased-with-his-experiment one.

Thhis one has teeth.

The thorned-rose feeling wraps around her ribcage and squeezes.

Her stomach turns inside out.

Her clit throbs so hard she can feel her own pulse between her legs, a sick, swooping rush of butterflies and dread knotted together so tightly she can’t tell which is which.

He holds her gaze. His smile completes itself—wide, eerie, the kind of smile that belongs on a presence that hunts in the dark.

“You do that again,” he says, voice dropping low enough to feel in her spine, “and I’ll start eating you from the bottom up instead, bunny.”

The forest is very, very quiet.

Yunjin doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Her clit throbs again.

Don’t move. She must not move.

Her hips twitch.

And V’s smile—impossibly—gets wider.

But he doesn’t move right away.

That’s the worst part.

He just stays there—hovering over her, his weight balanced on his knees, that terrible smile still seated on his face—and he lets the moment breathe. Lets her feel the full scope of what she just did.

The involuntary twitch.

The grind.

The way her hips had moved toward him like bound by magneticism, completely beyond the jurisdiction of her brain.

He waits until her face has gone through every shade of pink available on the human spectrum.

Then he reaches for the knife.

The blade slides out of the soil with a soft, gritty hiss.

He holds it loosely, tipping it once in the moonlight to inspect the edge, and his gaze returns to her.

“Give me your hands,” he says.

Her stomach plummets. “What—”

“Hands.”

He releases her wrists.

The sudden absence of pressure is disorienting—she’s been pinned so long that freedom feels wrong, feels like a trick—and her arms ache as blood floods back into her fingers.

She brings them down slowly, stiffly, and he catches them. Both of her hands. He gathers them together as if wrapping a gift, folding her fingers around the blade of the knife.

She yelps.

Though, before she can protest, he lifts her hands above her head and presses them back against the ground.

“Hold this,” he says.

She stares up at her own hands. “V—”

“Don’t move.” His voice drops a register.

The playfulness thins, thorned quality rising to the surface like it that had been swimming just below the waterline.

He leans in, way too close for comfort.

So close she can feel the cinnamon touching her skin, smell the whiskey from his breath and something metallic and animal underneath all of it.

“That blade,” he murmurs, and his finger comes up to tap once, lightly, against the flat of the steel, “is very sharp.”

Tap.

“And your hands—” His gaze flicks upwards. “—are shaking.”

They are.

She can feel the tremor traveling from her shoulders through her biceps into her wrists into her fingers into the handle into the blade.

A fine, constant vibration, like a tuning fork someone struck twenty minutes ago and forgot about.

“If you move,” V says, and his voice is quiet now, stripped of the warmth, stripped of the playfulness, just the clean bare architecture of a statement, “that edge will open your skin. Your palms. Your fingers.”

She swallows hard enough to hear it.

“And that would make a mess.” He pulls back a fraction. Considers her. “Wouldn’t want that.”

His smile comes back. Smaller this time. Private. Surgical.

“So. Stay still for me.”

He leans back.

Her hands stay where they are. Above her head, wrapped around the blade, shaking.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t dare move.

The steel hums against her palms with every tremor and she can feel how thin the line is between holding and cutting, between this and red.

V’s gaze travels from her hands—good, still—to her face—flushed, wet-eyed, lips parted—to her bare chest—nipples swollen and slick from his mouth, glistening rosy in the low light—to the waistband of her leggings.

The leggings he’d already sliced into. The fabric gapes at the hip where he’d cut earlier, torn enough to expose a stripe of what’s beneath, but the rest is still mostly intact. Mostly in the way. Mostly between him and whatever’s under the cotton candy wrapping.

He fixes this.

Both hands grip the tear he’d made and pull.

The sound of fabric ripping fills the clearing—louder than the knife had been, longer, a sustained rrrip that makes Yunjin flinch and then immediately freeze because—knife, knife, don’t move—and the leggings split wide along the seam.

He tears them open from hip to mid-thigh on one side, then the other, peeling the ruined cotton back like he’s unwrappiing something that needs careful handling.

The cold hits her inner thighs first. Then her hips. Then—

The matching panties. The ones she’d put on two hours ago in her room, the ones that had seemed like such an innocent, private decision at the time, the ones that are now on full display in a moonlit forest for a man who literally collects deathly souvenirs and has already mentally designed her nipple piercings.

Worse: they’re wet.

She can feel it. Has been able to feel it for a while, actually—the slick heat between her legs, the way the thin lace clings to her, damp and warm and obvious.

She’d been ignoring it. Refusing to acknowledge the very specific evidence of what his mouth on her tits and his knife against her skin had been doing to her for the last however-many minutes.

V sees it.

His hands go still on the torn fabric. His gaze lowers and stays.

He doesn’t say a word.

The silence is somehow louder than everything that came before.

Yunjin squeezes her eyes shut.

Her fingers tighten around the knife—carefully, carefully, the edge is right there—and her face burns so hot she’s amazed the pine needles underneath her aren’t catching fire.

She wants to close her legs. She wants to disappear. She wants—

“Oh, bunny,” V says softly. “Look at you.”

She does not look. She keeps her eyes sealed shut and her jaw clenched and her hands very, very still above her head, because if she looks down and sees what he’s seeing she will actually, literally, die.

His thumb presses against her. Through the lace. Right over her clit—or close enough that the difference is irrelevant—a firm, warm point of pressure against the soaked fabric.

And that—that brings out a full-body twitch out of her that makes the blade jitter above her hands.

“Still,” he reminds her. Calm. Almost kind.

Still. Right. The knife.

The very sharp knife she’s holding above her own hands.

The knife that will open her skin if she—

His thumb moves, a slow, grinding circle. Pressing against her clit, dragging the fabric across the sensitive skin in a tight rotation.

“Nnh—”

She’s panting. Immediately panting. One touch and she’s panting.

“V—that’s—ah—”

“Shh.”

Another circle. Slower.

He watches his thumb work with intent, and his head tilts slightly, as if paying attention to something she can’t quite figure out.

His other hand comes to rest on her hip—just resting—and his thumb grinds down again, harder this time.

Her hips buck.

He pushes them back down.

“Still,” he says again, and there’s a thread of amusement now. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

She forces her arms to lock. Forces her fingers to grip without squeezing. Forces her brain to split between sensation and survival, the two-track split Seduction Division drilled into her, theoretically, in situations approximately nothing like this.

His thumb circles again.

The lace is so wet now that it’s translucent—she can feel it, feel how the fabric has gone sheer against her, sticking to her folds, outlining everything underneath with zero ambiguity.

Each pass of his thumb drags the soaked material across her clit in a friction that’s maddening—too much texture and not enough pressure, close but not close.

“Mesmerizing,” he mutters, almost absently. “Pink on pink. You’re really all—just one color.”

Her thighs are trembling apart, loose and useless where his body settles.

Then he does something unexpected.

He takes his hand off her hip and presses her thighs together. Just—pushes them closed tighter.!His palm flat against the outside of her left thigh, guiding it inward until her legs seal shut, trapping his thumb against her clit through the lace.

The compression is immediate—her thighs pressing warm and tight around his hand, the fabric of her panties pulled taut against her from the new angle, the pressure on her clit doubling because now she’s squeezing around it.

“Hold,” he says.

And his thumb grinds.

The friction is—god, it’s insane.

Her own thighs clamp the pressure in, squeezing and rubbing and creating a sensation of heat and slick and texture that makes her vision swim.

Her hips try to buck and fail because her legs are pressed together, because his hand is holding them there, because there’s nowhere for the sensation to go except through her, building in her pelvis with nowhere to escape.

“Good,” V breathes. “Good, that’s—”

He sounds fascinated, as if watching something bloom in time-lapse.

Her arms shake above her head. The knife jitters. She can feel the edge kissing above her fingers, feel how close it is, how paper-thin the distance between holding and bleeding, and the awareness of it—the danger—sends a sick, hot pulse straight to her clit.

Like she can’t tell the difference between fear and arousal anymore.

Like the two wires crossed somewhere deep in her brainstem and now they’re soldered together, one signal, one response: more.

“V—” Her voice fractures. “I can’t—I’m gonna—the knife—”

“You’re doing so well.”

God. That doesn’t help.

That makes it worse.

The soft, approving tone, the patience, the way he says it like she’s exceeding his expectations at something important—it hits her between the ribs and between her legs simultaneously.

He withdraws his thumb.

She almost sobs.

Almost—because the breath is halfway out and the sound is halfway formed and then his palms flatten against her knees and pushes them down, and the cold forest air rushes against the wet heat between her legs and she hears herself keen.

“Shh.”

He smiles.

“Stay,” he murmurs, and releases her knees.

They stay. She keeps them down.

He shifts. Lowers himself onto his elbows, his body sinking down until his face is level with her navel—and then lower, lower—and Yunjin’s breath stops.

His mouth touches her stomach. Below her navel. The soft, vulnerable plane of skin where her abs aren’t defined enough to be abs, where her body is just body—soft and warm and human.

His lips press there first. A closed-mouth kiss. Testing the temperature. Tasting.

Then his tongue comes out.

A slow, flat drag from her navel downward. Warm and wet against her cool skin, the contrast making goosebumps explode in every direction.

He licks a deliberate line south, following the fine trail below her belly button, his nose brushing her skin as he goes, and she can feel him inhaling. Breathing her in. Cotton candy and fear-sweat and something underneath both that’s a bit muskier—the scent of how wet she is, rising from between her thighs.

“Mm,” he hums against her lower belly.

The vibration makes her abs clench.

He traces the edge of her panties with his tongue. The waistband sits low on her hips, and he follows it—left to right, slow, the tip of his tongue dipping just barely under the elastic before retreating. Tasting the line where fabric meets skin.

Where pink meets pink.

Her arms are shaking. The knife trembles. She locks her elbows harder and breathes through her teeth.

He nuzzles against the lace.

Just—presses his nose into the front of her panties and breathes, deep and slow, like he’s smelling a flower.

The fabric is thin enough and damp enough that she can feel the heat of his exhale through it, can feel the shape of his nose against her mound, and her hips roll toward his face before she can stop them.

He pulls back. Looks up at her through his lashes with an expression that’s almost curious.

“Be patient,” he says.

She doesn’t have patience.

She has a knife and a heartbeat and a clit that’s throbbing so hard she can feel it in her teeth and he wants patience.

He readjusts.

His hands grip her thighs and push them open, resettling her open legs around his shoulders.

His body slides lower between them until he’s lying on his stomach on the cold forest floor, elbows planted, face inches from the wet lace.

And then he just—looks.

The soaked fabric leaves nothing to the imagination.

Her folds are visible through it, swollen and parted, the mesh clinging to every contour in a way that’s more obscene than nudity. Her clit strains against the thin barrier, a flushed, tight knot pressing at the fabric from underneath. The cotton gusset is a shade darker than the edges—darker because it’s soaked, saturated, and she can feel how much because the cold air makes the wetness feel more obvious somehow, more damning.

“All this,” he says quietly, “from just the top.”

Her face might actually be on fire. She can’t tell anymore. Fire and embarrassment feel the same at this point.

He lowers his mouth.

The first touch is soft. Just his lips, closed, pressing directly over her clit. A kiss. Gentle.

She feels the warmth of his mouth through the damp fabric, the shape of his lips against her swollen clit, and the contact is so specific after all the teasing that tears prick her eyes.

Then he opens his mouth.

His tongue presses flat through the lace—broad, hot, wet against wet, and the texture of the fabric caught between his tongue and her pussy adds a gritty, delirious friction.

“Oh—” Yunjin’s voice shatters into something unrecognizable.

Her thighs clamp around his head reflexively and then force themselves open again because he told her to stay and she’s staying.

“Oh—god—V—”

He licks upward.

One long, dragging stroke from the bottom of her slit to the top, tongue pressing the embroidery into her folds, collecting the taste of her through the thin barrier. His lips close around the peak of her clit at the top and he sucks—gently—and her entire lower body lifts off the ground.

The knife wobbles dangerously above her hands.

She forces her arms down. Locks them.

Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t—

V’s tongue starts working. Not idle licks—focused ones. He’s mapped her through the fabric, found the shape of her clit beneath the lace, and now his tongue-tip circles it teasingly.

Around, around, press, release, around again.

He hums softly against her.

The sound vibrates through the lace, through her folds, through her clit, into her spine, and it has this low and satisfied cadence that makes her think he’s eating something he’s been thinking about for hours on end.

She can feel his jaw working, feel the movement of his tongue through the soaked fabric, feel how his breath comes hot and uneven against her inner thigh when he turns his head to adjust the angle.

“You—” she manages, barely, voice cracking on the syllable.

Her hands are screaming with the effort of holding still. Every nerve in her body is trying to curl inward, trying to clench, trying to grab something.

“You’re—nnh—through—through my—”

He seals his mouth over her pussy through the panties and sucks, pulling the fabric and her folds together into his mouth, tongue working the bundle of her clit.

Her head presses into the dirt. Her knees shake where they’re pinned open around his shoulders.

And above her head, her hands tremble around the knife—holding it, barely, the blade catching moonlight each time she shakes.

Still. She’s still. She hasn’t moved.

V’s tongue drags down, below her clit, nosing through the fabric to press against her entrance. It gives under the pressure of his tongue, dipping into her just barely.

Then, he licks back up—slowly, agonizingly slowly—tasting the full length of her through the ruined panties.

He pulls back just enough to breathe.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, and the word ghosts warm over her slick, aching pussy. “Like the rest of you.”

Her fingers tighten around the knife, but she does not move.

His mouth returns to her clit—lips sealed, tongue working in those patient little circles through the soaked lace—and then his hand moves.

She feels it on her inner thigh first. The drag of his fingertips, light, traveling upward from where her leg is trembling against his shoulder. Not rushing. Touring. His knuckles graze the crease where her thigh meets her hip, and she thinks okay, okay—but then his fingers drift inward, toward the center of her, and the thought dissolves into vapor.

His middle finger finds her entrance through the panties.

Not pressing in. Not yet. Just resting there—the pad of his finger settled where it clings to her opening.

She can feel how the fabric dips slightly under the pressure, molding into her.

His tongue flicks her clit. His finger traces a slow circle around her entrance.

She sobs.

A wrenched, involuntary sound from somewhere behind her sternum.

“Nnh—V—please—”

He hums against her, finger circling, tracing the rim of her entrance in that slow, maddening orbit, and his tongue keeps working, and—

He pulls his mouth away.

The sound she makes is humiliating.

A thin, high, desperate thing that she would absolutely deny making later under any circumstance.

The cold air rushes against her clit where his mouth had been—wet, exposed, throbbing—and she jerks.

V lifts his head from between her thighs, lower lip glistening. Looks at her face. Then at his fingers, still resting against her entrance.

“Bunny,” he says, conversational. “You’re drenched.”

She wants to disintegrate.

His finger presses—just slightly—against the lace over her entrance, and the fabric gives. Sinks inward.

The wet cotton molds into her opening around his fingertip without actually letting him inside, and the tease of it—almost-in, not-quite-in, the stretch that isn’t a stretch—makes her thighs spasm.

“Bet I could fuck you through the lace,” he muses.

His tone. God, his tone.

It sounds like this is a logistics problem to him, and nothing more. An engineering question, if you will—and not his finger pressing the mesh into her pussy while she shakes apart on a forest floor holding a knife above her own head.

He pushes slightly harder. The fabric dips deeper, his fingertip dragging the fabric into her entrance.

“Ah—” Her voice breaks. “That’s—you can’t just—”

He can. Apparently. He does.

His mouth returns to her clit, lips sealing over it through the lace, tongue pressing flat and grinding, and his finger works the fabric into her entrance in shallow, rhythmic pushes.

Not penetrating her properly—just working the wet cotton in and out, stretching her opening around, and the sensation is unlike anything she has a framework for.

It’s too much and not enough at once.

It’s the idea of being fucked while being denied the actual thing, and her body doesn’t know whether to chase or retreat, so it does both—her hips rolling in frantic little circles, her thighs clamping against his ears, her arms locked rigid above her head as the blade trembles.

He does this for—she doesn’t know. A minute. Three.

Long enough that her breathing goes ragged and thin, long enough that the coil in her pelvis tightens to something unbearable, long enough that she’s making these continuous, broken little noises—“ah, ah, nnh, please, ah”—that she can’t control and can’t stop.

Then he sits up, plucks the knife from her grip.

Her fingers don’t resist. They’ve been clenched so long they barely respond at all, cramped and aching, and the blade slides free from her loosened fist like it was never hers to begin with.

The relief of not holding it hits her like a wave.

Her arms drop to her sides, heavy, tingling, and she flexes her fingers and winces at the stiffness.

V flips the knife shut with a casual click-clack and tucks it somewhere behind him—she hears it thud softly into the earth, planted handle-up, placed with the absent precision of someone who has a relationship with every surface within arm’s reach.

Then he grips her thighs.

His hands close around the backs of her knees and he lifts—scooping her lower body up and toward him, dragging her across the pine needles until her thighs bracket his hips.

Her ruined hoodie bunches up under her shoulders. Her legs settle on either side of his kneeling frame, thighs draped open over his thighs, and she’s—

She’s spread around him. Looking up at him from below. Hoodie split, bra destroyed, leggings torn, panties soaked through, and he’s kneeling between her open legs like this is a position he’s designed the evening around.

(It is. She knows it is. Every single step of this has been choreographed.)

His hand goes to his belt.

Yunjin’s brain comes back online.

“V—” She pushes up onto her elbows, eyes wide. “We’re—we’re outside.”

He glances at her.

The belt buckle clinks.

“We’re in the forest,” she clarifies, like maybe he’s forgotten this critical environmental detail. “Someone could—there are—V, the castle has—”

“No cameras in this quadrant,” he says.

His tone is calm. Informational. Manual-flat.

“AD’s surveillance grid covers the perimeter in a two-hundred-meter radius from the castle walls. Forty-six fixed-lens cameras on the north face alone—twelve with infrared, eight with motion tracking, the rest standard resolution. But the treeline past the eastern access road—” He unthreads the belt from its loop with a soft hiss of leather. “—sits in a dead zone. Intentional. AD left it as an exfiltration corridor for stealth ops. No fixed lenses, no PTZ rotation, no laser tripwires.”

He unbuttons his pants.

“The nearest motion sensor is three hundred meters northeast.”

He unzips.

“It’s a dual-tech passive infrared and microwave unit—sensitive to body heat and mass displacement. At this distance—” He pauses, considering. “—we would need to be approximately four meters closer and moving at walking speed for it to trigger.

Yunjin is staring at him with her mouth open.

“Ground-level vibration sensors along the southern access road, but those are calibrated for vehicular weight—anything under ninety kilograms won’t register. The patrol rotation for the eastern quadrant runs on a forty-five-minute cycle. Last pass was—” He tips his head back slightly, thinking. “—twenty-two minutes ago. Gives us twenty-three. More than enough.”

He says ’more than enough’ the way other people say ’pass the salt.’

“There’s a thermal imaging drone that sweeps the full perimeter every two hours, but AD programs it on a predictable west-to-east arc. It passed the eastern treeline at eleven-fourteen. Next pass is one-fourteen.” Another pause. “It’s twelve-oh-seven.”

He knows the time. He knows the time without checking.

She’s lying here with her tits out and her panties soaked and he’s reciting AD’s entire security architecture from memory like a man reading a train timetable.

“The biometric scanners are door-mounted only—irrelevant out here, really. Pressure pads are concentrated at entry points, not forest floor.”

He tilts his head at her.

“The ventilation ducts that double as listening posts have a range of approximately fifty meters from the castle wall. We are—” He glances at the treeline behind them, calculating. “—roughly seventy-three meters out.”

Yunjin opens her mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

“How do you know all of that.”

The smile that crosses his face is small and private and deeply, profoundly unsettling.

“I read.”

He says it like the explanation is sufficient. Like ‘I read’ covers the entirety of having memorized the castle’s security grid down to sensor calibration thresholds and drone flight timing.

(It probably does, for him. He probably does just read things and then they’re in his brain forever, filed and indexed and cross-referenced, because he’s V, because his mind works like a filing cabinet that someone set on fire and the fire made it smarter.)

“Also,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “AD talks in his sleep.”

She doesn’t know if he’s joking. His face gives nothing away.

He pushes his waistband down.

Yunjin looks at the sky.

It’s—oh.

Oh, it’s beautiful.

The canopy thins here, where the trees are older and taller and their branches spread wide enough to leave gaps. Through those gaps, stars. Thousands of them, more than she’s ever seen, more than the city ever allows. The Milky Way is a pale, milky smear across the black, and there’s no light pollution out here, nothing to compete with—just the deep, velvet dark and the impossible scatter of light, and it’s stunning.

It really is.

It’s the kind of sky only seen in movies about rural escapes and coming-of-age romances like the dramas she likes, not in the middle of being undressed by the Chief of Stealth Assassinations while her panties drip onto the forest floor.

She stares at it and thinks that it is the most beautiful ceiling she’s ever had while being terrified for her life.

She hears him palm himself.

The sound is soft—skin on skin, the faint shifting of fabric—and she feels the movement in the way his weight shifts between her thighs, the way the muscles in his legs tense against the outsides of hers.

She can picture it without seeing it—his hand wrapped around himself, stroking once, slow, and the image alone sends a hot flush rolling from her chest to her hairline.

She keeps looking at the stars.

Orion’s belt is right there. Three bright dots in a perfect line.

She focuses on them with the intensity of someone trying to solve an equation.

“Yunjin.”

She counts the stars in Orion. One, two, three. The belt. The sword hangs below.

She remembers that from a documentary. A nice, safe documentary that she watched on her laptop in her room wearing actual clothes.

“Yunjin,” he says again.

“Mm.”

She does not look down. She does not.

V hums.

“You can look,” he says, softly, gently, even.

She feels like a tiny animal being coaxed to eat from his palm.

Exactly like when he ushered the words ’don’t let me catch you’.

The same one that preceded every terrible thing that happened next.

“I don’t—” She swallows. “I’m fine. I’m—the stars are—they’re nice—”

“Bunny.”

One word. Patient.

“You’ve been curious since I unzipped.”

Her face ignites. Nuclear. Sub-surface volcanic.

She squeezes her eyes shut and thinks that this is how she dies—in the forest, with glinting stars, while a beautiful psychopath narrates her own arousal back to her.

“I have not,” she says, weakly.

“Your breathing changed.”

Oh god.

“And your pupils dilated.”

“You can’t—you can’t see my pupils, my eyes are—”

“Were. Past tense. Before you decided the constellation Orion needed your urgent attention.”

He noticed. He noticed her staring at Orion. He identified the specific constellation she was using as a escape hatch.

What kind of person—

“Look,” he says. Simple. Quiet.

She looks.

Down.

She does it fast, like ripping off a bandage, her eyes dropping from the stars to his face to his chest to his—

Oh.

Her eyes spasm.

He’s—he’s holding himself. One hand wrapped around the base, angled toward her, and he’s hard, flushed, dark with blood, the head swollen and slick with pre-cum—and that’s already a lot, that’s already more than she was prepared for—but what stops her train of thought entirely is the glint of metal.

At the tip.

A small, curved barbell.

The steel catches the moonlight—the same moonlight that was illuminating the stars she’d been hiding in a second ago—and the ball sits just below the head of his cock, emerging from the underside and curving up through the slit.

A piercing.

V has a piercing.

On his dick.

Yunjin looks up at the sky so fast she nearly gives herself whiplash.

Stars. Stars stars stars. Orion is still there. Thank god. Orion hasn’t moved. Orion doesn’t have a dick piercing. Orion is safe.

Her face is so hot she could cook something on it. An egg. A whole breakfast. She could sustain a small campfire exclusively through the thermal output of her cheeks right now.

She hears him exhale. Not quite a laugh. The ghost of one, breathed out through his nose, and she can feel him watching her face do eleven things at once.

“V,” she says. Her voice has gone soprano. “You have a—”

“Mm.”

“On your—”

“Yes.”

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes.

Orion throbs in her retinas—three dots, burned in.

When did this become her life? When did she become a person who lies in forests looking at pierced penises? What series of choices led to this exact moment?

She’d like to audit them. She’d like a flow chart.

He shifts forward on his knees, free hand finding her hip—anchoring, warm—and then she feels it.

The head of his cock pressing against her panties. Just resting there. At first. The hard ridge of him settling against the soaked lace, and the contact—even through the barrier—sends a bolt of sensation from her clit straight up her spine.

He drags himself along her slit. Slow. Up and down, the length of him gliding against the drenched lace, and the piercing catches on the fabric with every stroke—a tiny, hitching drag of steel against cotton that adds this punctuation to the smooth glide.

She moans. Full, open-mouthed, loud enough that it echoes briefly in the clearing.

Her hands fly from her eyes to the ground beside her, fingers digging into pine needles, and her hips roll up to meet him involuntarily.

V watches her with that dark, focused attention.

He strokes along her again. The piercing catches against her clit through the mesh and her whole body jerks—an electric pulse that makes her thighs clamp around his hips and a fractured ”ah” fall from her lips.

“Sensitive here, too,” he mutters, as if he were taking inventory on things he’d like to keep in mind.

She’s going to combust.

She is going to spontaneously combust and they’ll find a scorch mark on the forest floor and a pair of ruined panties and no one will know what happened.

He pulls back slightly. His hand leaves himself and reaches for—his pocket? No, the fabric pooled at his thighs. He pats absently at his back pocket, then the front one, and pauses.

“Mm.” He looks at her. “I don’t have a condom.”

She blinks up at him.

“Though I suppose that’s whatever,” he continues, the sentence finishing itself at its own pace, “given the Nexplanon.”

The world stops.

“The—” Yunjin’s mouth works. “—the what?”

He reaches for her left arm, the one that’s just lying there, and his hand closes around her wrist and turns it, rotating until the soft inner surface faces up.

The pale, thin skin of her inner bicep catches the moonlight.

His thumb finds a spot. Three inches above the crease of her elbow.

He presses.

Under his thumb, a small, thin rod rises against her skin. A ridge. Barely visible, barely palpable, the subdermal implant that she’d had inserted six months ago, the one she’d easily forgotten was there half the time because it sits flush under the skin and she can only feel it if she presses—

If she presses exactly like he’s pressing.

“How—” Her voice is somewhere between a whisper and a screech. “How do you know about that?”

He lets go of her arm. It drops.

“I review personnel files when I’m bored,” he says, as if this is a perfectly normal hobby. “Medical records are attached. AD’s encryption on the health database is good, but—” The corner of his mouth twitches. “—I’m a Chief. Special access. Perks of the job.”

He reviewed the medical files. He checked the medical files and read her contraception records. While bored.

“Also.” He tilts his head. “Flower requisitions birth control for every woman in Seduction. Standing order. Has for years. Smart woman.” A beat. “You came in six months ago. The implant was logged at your intake physical.”

He says it in a way that sounds almost like respect. Not for Yunjin—for Flower. For the system. For the chain of care that Chaewon built into her division like infrastructure, making sure every woman under her watch was protected whether they asked for it or not.

Yunjin stares at him.

Her arm still tingles where he’d pressed.

He’s—he noticed. He noticed a three-centimeter rod under her skin that she herself forgets about.

He read her file. He read everyone’s files.

He knows her medical history and AD’s encryption protocols and Flower’s requisition habits and the contraceptive policies of a division that isn’t even his, and he’s holding all of it in his head right now while kneeling between her legs in a forest at midnight.

She doesn’t know if she’s terrified or turned on or both.

(Both. It’s both. It’s always both with him.)

“You—” she starts.

He lines himself up.

Her breath catches.

He notches himself at her entrance—through the panties, against the thinness that’s the only thing between them—and pushes.

Not slowly.

Not carefully.

He pushes, and the head of his cock strains against the lace, stretching the fabric into her opening, and the thin cotton resists for one second—one taut, trembling second—

The curved barbell hooks into the weave of the embroidery like it was designed for this, the steel ball snagging on the threads, and V doesn’t slow down. He pushes through.

The fabric tears—a specific rip that she feels more than hears, the panties splitting from the inside out as the piercing rips through the lace, the cotton parting around the steel and the cock behind it, threads snapping in rapid succession as he forces his way in.

The sting of torn fabric dragging against her entrance, the abrupt stretch of him entering her through a hole he’s making as he goes, the piercing pulling threads into her alongside his cock—it’s bright and specific and her mouth opens on a gasp that has no sound.

V’s breath hitches.

For the first time all night.

His exhale comes stuttered, punched out of him, and his jaw tightens and his eyes go dark and his fingers dig into her hips hard enough to leave marks.

“Oh,” he breathes. “That’s—”

He pushes deeper, makes her feel the threads giving way around his cock, the fabric shredding in a line from her entrance upward as his girth stretches the small rip wider.

Mixed with the stretch and the fullness of him there’s this gritty, raw friction of torn cotton dragging against her inner walls alongside his cock—texture where there should be only slick, and that…

That tells her he likes it.

Because his face does this thing—this intake of breath and eyes fluttering half-closed, lips half-parted.

V is pushing through it all like someone leaning into a bruise, savoring the ache of destroying something beautiful.

And finally, the lace gives one last soft rip as he bottoms out.

He’s inside her. Fully, completely, his hips pressed flush against hers, his cock buried to the hilt, and she can feel—everything.

The heat of him. The stretch. The warmed hard pressure of the piercing seated deep inside her, the steel ball pressing against a spot on her front wall that makes her vision blur.

V holds still.

He’s breathing through his teeth. A thin, controlled sound.

His eyes are open and fixed on her face with an intensity that makes vines wrap around her ribcage and pull, tight enough that her lungs feel small.

“There,” he says, voice rougher than before. Rougher than she’s heard it all night. “That’s—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

His hips shift—a tiny movement, barely perceptible—and the piercing drags against her front wall, and Yunjin hears herself make a sound that doesn’t belong to any language she speaks.

Above them, Orion watches.

The stars don’t blink.

He shifts just a fraction—a slow, experimental roll of his hips—and the drag is different, it pulls the fabric with him.

V's jaw tightens.

He rocks his hips again, and this time the piercing snags on a thread, pulls it taut, and the tiny point of resistance before it gives makes him exhale—harsh, punched out, a sound she's never heard from him before.

It’s almost like he needs it.

This isn't about pleasure in the normal sense. This is about the edge of it. The catch. The sting. The friction that sits right on the line between sensation and pain and he's leaning into the pain side like it's a warmth he's been cold without.

He pulls back slowly, dragging himself halfway out, and she can feel threads pulling against her walls.

He pushes back in. His eyes flutter.

"More," he murmurs.

It doesn't sound like he's talking to her.

His hand reaches behind him, fingers finding the grip of the knife without looking, the way one would find a light switch in your own bedroom.

He pulls it from the soil with a soft scrape and brings it forward. Flicks it open with his thumb. Click-clack.

Between one moment and the other, he’s holding the knife out, handle toward her.

Yunjin stares at it.

"Take it," V says.

She takes it, fingers closing around the warm handle, and he doesn’t wait a second to hold up his left hand, palm toward her. Long fingers splayed, the skin pale in the low light, the lines of his palm visible—life line, heart line, all the stupid fortune-teller lines she used to trace in middle school.

"Here," he says, and taps the center of his palm with his other hand's index finger, right in the meat of it, the fleshy mound below his fingers.

Her stomach drops.

"V—"

"A cut." His voice is even. Instructional. "Shallow. Diagonal."

She looks at the knife. Looks at his palm. Looks at his face.

He can't be serious. He can't—but his expression hasn't changed.

That same steady, bird-bright attention, no flinch, no waver, just the absolute certainty of a man who has decided what's going to happen next and is simply waiting for things to rearrange at his will.

"I can't—" Her hand is shaking. The blade jitters. "V, I can't cut you—"

"You can."

"I can't, that's—that's insane, you're asking me to—"

"Yunjin."

He says her name and the forest gets quieter.

"It's a surface cut. Two centimeters." He holds his palm steady, presenting it like a canvas. "I'll guide you."

Her eyes are burning. Not from the cold. From the everything—from the fact that she's full of him and holding his knife and he's asking her to draw blood like it's nothing, like this is a normal thing that happens between people, like the leap from pink lingerie to palm lacerations is a completely reasonable progression of events.

In his head, it probably is.

His other hand comes up—slow, gentle—and wraps around her knife hand. Over her fingers. Steadying.

The tremor in her grip dampens under the pressure of his palm, and he guides the blade toward his outstretched hand with patient, measured control.

"Breathe," he says.

She breathes.

The tip of the knife touches his palm.

He presses. She doesn't. He does it—tilts his own palm forward into the blade, using her hand as the mechanism, and the steel parts skin the way it parts everything else. Easily. Quietly.

A thin, dark line opens across the center of his palm, welling red almost immediately.

V doesn't flinch.

He doesn't even blink.

The blood rises in a slow, even seam—dark in the moonlight, almost black, thick and warm. It pools in the cup of his palm, following the lines there, filling the creases.

A drop spills over the edge and lands on her bare stomach.

Hot. Shockingly hot.

She flinches at the temperature—living hot, blood-hot, hotter than she expected—and a sound comes out of her that she can't categorize.

V takes the knife from her hand. Sets it in the earth beside her head—thunk, blade down, handle up—and lifts his bleeding palm.

She watches, frozen, as he wraps his slick red hand around himself.

He has to pull out to do it. The withdrawal is slow—she feels every inch leave her, the piercing dragging against her walls, the shreds clinging and releasing—and then he's out and his hand is there, gripping his cock, blood mixing with her arousal as he strokes himself once, twice, coating the shaft in dark, slippery red.

The sight is—

She doesn't know what it is.

It's awful. It's the most visceral, stomach-turning, beautiful thing she's ever seen and she hates herself for that last word but it's the one her mind keeps supplying.

His hand, dark with his own blood, wrapped around his cock, the steel of his piercing glinting wet through the red, and his face—

His face is open. Unguarded.

The expression she's watched him maintain all night has cracked along a seam she didn't know existed, and underneath it there's just—want. Raw, undiluted.

Like roses blooming.

He pushes back in.

The glide now hits different, becomes slicker, warmer. It’s like the blood eases the friction the embroidery keeps creating, and adds a new quality to the movement—thick, organic, essentially alive.

And it makes V’s head tip backwards, moans.

An actual, audible moan—low and cracked and wrecked, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.

Her walls clench around him on reflex and her hands fly to his forearms and she holds on because she has to hold on to something.

His teeth catch his lower lip. She watches him bite down—hard enough to leave marks, hard enough that the flesh whitens under pressure—and his hips snap forward.

"Fuck—" The word falls out of him broken and shapeless. "That's—fuck—"

He's losing it.

She can see it happening in real time—the usual demeanor of his, three-steps-ahead at all times, shredding the way her panties had shredded, the wolf underneath finally showing through.

His hips roll again, grinding deep, and his breath stutters.

"Fuck, that's—so much—" He swallows. His throat works visibly. "—better."

He lowers himself.

Both forearms come down on either side of her head, bracing, caging her in, and his face is right there suddenly—inches from hers, close enough that she can see the individual variations in his irises, the faint sheen of sweat on his temples, the way his pupils have swallowed everything until his eyes are more black than brown.

His hair falls forward, brushing her cheeks.

He starts moving, real thrusts now. Not the experimental rocking from before—driving into her, hips snapping with a rhythm that's not controlled in the slightest.

"Nnh—"

Her back arches off the ground.

Her hands grip his forearms, fingernails digging in.

"V—oh god—V—"

"Look at you," he breathes.

His voice has dropped low enough to vibrate against her skin, murmur and a confession all at once, spoken right against the corner of her mouth where his lips brush with every thrust.

"Taking me all the way to the root—"

His hips roll deep. She feels his pelvis grind against her clit and a moan rips out of her before she can think about catching it.

"—and fluttering. Can you feel that? The way you grip every time I—"

He thrusts. Hard.

She cries out.

"—there. Right there. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave. God, god—"

She’s panting, open-mouthed, fingers carving half-moons into the muscle of his forearms.

His blood is still slick between them—she can feel it, warm and wet, mixing with her arousal, making each thrust a glide so obscene the sound of it fills the clearing.

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. 

Rythmic and relentless and made dirtier simply by the wet slap of his hips meeting hers.

"V—oh—nnh—"

"You've been so good, bunny."

The words land somewhere behind her sternum and bloom.

"Letting yourself get caught."

His mouth brushes her temple. His breath comes warm and ragged against her hairline.

"Letting me chase you down and pin you to the floor."

Another thrust.

"And here you are. Spread open in the forest, and you're taking everything—everything I give you—"

He pulls back enough to see her face.

What he finds there makes his eyes go dark.

"—and you're glowing from it," he finishes.

Her throat burns. Her eyes build something behind her eyelids and she knows for a fact it isn’t tears, not yet.

It’s hotter than that.

Because the praise isn't just hitting her subconscious anymore. It's traveling. Down through her chest, through her stomach, pooling hot and urgent between her legs where his cock is dragging in and out of her in blood-slicked strokes, and each word makes the pool deeper.

"Pretty thing," V murmurs. "Pretty pink thing."

She whimpers. It slips out before she can stop it—thin, high, desperate—and she feels her face burn with the sound of it.

Because it's embarrassing, the noise she just made.

It’s a sound that belongs to someone who's lost every shred of composure they ever had and she has, she's lost all of it, it's gone—

He notices.

Of course he notices. His eyes focus—quick, immediate—and his next thrust comes slower, deeper, more intentional. Like he's testing a hypothesis. Like something just clicked into place behind those dark, bird-bright eyes.

"You like that," he observes.

Not a question. The corner of his mouth curls.

"The praise."

She shakes her head. Reflex. Denial.

Because admitting it would be—she doesn't even know what it would be, just that her face is on fire and her clit is throbbing and her walls are clenching around him at the word and that's information she doesn't want to have about herself, that's—

"No?" He tips his head. Watches her. "Hmm."

He thrusts again. Deep, grinding, the piercing pressing hard against her front wall, and then—right at the peak of the stroke, right when her back is arching and her lips are parting and her body is answering a question her mouth is trying to deny—

"How about beautiful?"

She gasps—sharp, fractured, her whole body going rigid—and a gush of slick heat floods the space between them, her arousal doubling in a wet, embarrassing rush that she can feel coating his cock.

V's lips part.

"Oh," he says softly. "Oh, that's—"

He looks down between them. She follows his gaze because she can't help it—because her body has stopped taking instructions from her brain—and sees it.

The absolute, outer worldly mess between her legs.

God, there’s blood. There’s so much fucking blood and it’s not from her, obviously. But it’s mixed with the fluids of her own arousal and it creates something that’s neither—something dark and shining and warm and deliriously wet.

"Look at that," V breathes. "Look what happens when I—"

He rolls his hips while he watches.

"—when I tell you how good you're being." His gaze lifts from where they're joined to her face. "When I tell you how well you take it. How pretty you look stretched around me, all flushed—"

His thumb traces her cheekbone, smearing blood.

His eyes follow the path of it.

"All pink."

His hand drifts down, thumb brushes a swollen, spit-slick nipple and she jerks.

"Here."

He rolls the nipple between his fingers.

She whimpers.

"Here."

His gaze drops between them, to where his cock disappears into her.

"And here. Where it counts."

She makes a sound, broken and raw and high-pitched that comes from the floor of her lungs and doesn't ask permission on its way out.

"Your whole body answers, bunny."

He sounds fascinated. Absolutely, clinically fascinated, like he's watching a specimen do something unexpected under a microscope.

"Every time I praise you, every time I tell you you're—" He thrusts. "Good—" Another. "—pretty—" Another, deeper, harder. "—beautiful—you get wetter. You get tighter. These pretty walls start—"

He groans. Low, rough—the word dissolving into a sound as she does exactly what he's describing, clenching around him in a reflexive squeeze that drags a visible shudder through his shoulders.

"—that," he finishes, breathless. "That. Right there. You like it."

She can’t speak. She can’t form words because a beautiful psychopath figured out that she—that praise—that the words ’good’ and ’pretty’ and ’beautiful’ from his mouth are doing things to her that she doesn’t have the words to even begin explaining—

“I d-don’t—ah—know—"

"You don't know," he says.

He says it with what might be wonder, might be delight. As if he's just been handed a gift he didn't expect and is turning it over in his hands, examining every angle.

"You don't even know what you need." His mouth curves. "You just need someone to tell you you're—"

He thrusts deep.

"—doing well, hmm?"

A sob rips from her throat. An actual, audible sob—worse than pain, loaded with every nerve in her body.

"Ah—nnh—V—please—"

She doesn't know what she's asking for. More. Less. Harder.

The word ’good’ again, one more time, just one more—

"Please what?"

His voice is close. Breath warm against her cheek.

His hips maintain that devastating rhythm—deep, grinding, the piercing pressing against that spot like he's built a blueprint.

"I—"

She can't answer. She can't answer because she doesn't know—because the cadence of his voice saying ’pretty’ and ’good’ and ’beautiful’ in that low, evaluative tone that makes her chest ache.

"Hmm."

He watches her try to form a word and fail.

He lowers his mouth to her ear. His next thrust is purposefully angled to drag the piercing in one long, grinding pull along her front wall—and against the shell of her ear, barely louder than a breath:

"You're the prettiest thing I've had under me in this forest, Yunjin. You know that? Pink and soft and soaking and you don't even know why—you just know it feels good when I tell you you're—"

He bites her earlobe. Light. Just the edge of his teeth.

"—good."

She can feel herself dripping—her arousal flooding out around his cock with each thrust, coating the inside of her thighs.

"Look at this mess," he breathes, his voice going rough at the edges now. "All from words. All from being told you're—"

He thrusts hard.

"—everything I want right now."

Her hands fly to his back. Nails digging in.

She's gasping—open-mouthed, wet-eyed, completely gone—and his lips trail from her ear to her cheek, to the tear tracks, and he presses his mouth against the salt.

"There," he murmurs. "Pretty when you cry, too. Everything matches."

His tongue traces a tear track. She shudders.

"The pink, the tears, you falling apart—all the same pretty color."

His hand comes down over her mouth.

The left one. The bleeding one.

Copper floods her senses like a wall. Smell first—metallic, organic, so thick she can taste it on her tongue before the wetness even reaches her lips. Then the heat. His blood is warm against her mouth, seeping between his fingers, smearing across her chin and her cheeks.

She can taste it. Salt and iron and a flavor that tastes the way his aura feels.

Thorned. Sweet. Dangerous.

The sound she makes against his palm is not a scream.

It's bigger than a scream.

It's every emotion she's felt tonight compressed and detonating against his bloody fingers—fear and arousal and disbelief and the shocking, awful tenderness of being called ’good’ by someone who kills people for a living while his blood smears her face and his cock hits that spot and the stars watch over his shoulder—

She's sobbing.

Full, heaving sobs that push against his palm in wet, muffled bursts, and she's crying—tears spilling hot from the corners of her eyes, streaking through the drying blood on her cheeks, dripping into her hair.

She doesn't know the difference anymore. The tears are coming from the same place as the moans, from the same overloaded circuit, the same fuse that blew the second he counted to two and she ran.

It's too much. It's all too much.

The piercing dragging inside her, the blood on her mouth, the weight of him pinning her to the earth, the thorns crushing her lungs, the fact that she can still see Orion through the gap in the canopy—three stars in a row, steady, indifferent, witnessing—

And she likes it.

God, she likes it.

That's the part that makes her sob harder—the horrified delight of discovering that this is what she wants.

The blood, the fear, the blade stuck in the ground six inches from her ear, and his voice telling her she's good.

She's wet from it.

She's getting off on being called cute things while a man bleeds onto her face.

Yunjin from six months ago would not even be able to fathom it.

Pastel colors itty-bitty-titty-committee Yunjin who can't drink whiskey and blushes when someone looks at her too long and wears matching lingerie sets. Fucking a Chief. Getting railed by the most dangerous man in Kkangpae under Orion's belt with his blood on her face and his cock inside her and she—

She aimed for the stars and the stars aimed back.

And oh, she's close.

She's really close.

"Shh," V breathes against her forehead. His hips drive forward—deep, grinding, the piercing pressing. "You've done everything I asked, haven't you? Held the knife. Held still. Let me catch you, pin you, cut your lingerie—"

A sob pushes against his palm. Hot. Wet. Muffled.

"—and you liked it." Not accusatory. Wondering. "Didn't you. Every part. The chase. The blade. The way it feels when I tell you you're—"

He rolls his hips in a slow, devastating grind, and whispers the word like it's a key and her body is the lock:

"—a good bunny."

She detonates.

The orgasm takes her—seizes her by the spine and pulls.

Her vision whites out. Her walls clamp down on his cock so hard she feels the piercing dig into her front wall from the pressure alone. Her spine arches. Her thighs seize around his hips. The sound she makes against his bloody palm is animal—shattered, sobbing, wrecked—a thing with no language in it.

She feels everythin in maximum, excruciating detail.

V keeps moving through it. Shallow, rolling thrusts that draw out each contraction, his breathing ragged against her forehead.

But his rhythm stays searching.

She feels it as her aftershocks settle. The way his thrusts deepen, angle, adjust—testing, shifting, looking for a frequency that isn't coming.

His jaw is tight. His forearms tremble. She can feel his cock throbbing inside her, feel how hard he is, the blood-hot pulse of him pressed against her sensitive walls—but the peak isn't there.

Like a flame that keeps catching and won't hold.

His hand lifts from her mouth.

Air rushes in—cold, pine-sharp—and she gasps, tasting copper on her tongue.

His bloody handprint stays tacky on her skin.

He's still moving. Deep, grinding rolls. But his face—

His face isn't right.

The expression that's settled there, she hasn't seen from him all night.

Frustration.

His eyes are dark, unfocused, turned somewhere inward. She watches his brow furrow with what looks like annoyance—like his body is defying him, like the orgasm is right there and some door between him and it won't open.

Blood. Pain. The lace. Her pleasure. Her tears. All of it good.

None of it enough.

"Your life," he breathes, "or mine?"

Yunjin blinks up at him.

She's—not here. Not really. Her brain is somewhere in the upper atmosphere with Orion, still twitching from the aftershocks of an orgasm that rewired her from the inside out, and the words ’your life or mine’ are just shapes. Mouth shapes. They don't assemble into meaning while her pussy is still fluttering around his cock and there's blood on her face—

"Wh—" She swallows. Her voice is destroyed—hoarse, wet, cracking. "What?"

He keeps moving. Slow, grinding. His cock drags against walls that are so sensitive now every stroke makes her flinch and whimper.

"Choose."

The word comes through his teeth. His hips roll.

"Your life." A thrust. Deep enough that her vision sparks. "Or mine."

She stares at him. Tears on her cheeks. Blood on her mouth. Post-orgasm tremors still running through her thighs in little aftershock shudders.

"I don't—" She gasps as he grinds up. "—I don't understand, I—"

"Mine, then," he says.

Softly. Simply. The way someone picks a restaurant.

He takes her hand, gathers her shaking, bloody fingers and wraps them around both handles of the butterfly knife. His hand covers hers. Steadies.

And he brings the steel down to his own neck.

The point of the knife rests against the side of his throat. Just below his jaw, left side, right where his pulse beats visible under the thin skin—a greenish channel, steady, pushing blood through the very throat she's now holding a blade against.

He adjusts her grip. Angles the tip in.

"There," he breathes, and his hips start again—slow, deep, rolling thrusts that draw a gasp from her with each push. "Right—there."

She's shaking. Every part of her. Post-orgasm tremors and adrenaline and the crystalline, ringing terror of holding a puncturing object against a throat while the person it belongs to pushes into it.

"V—" Her voice is barely there. "V, I can't—if I—"

"You won't."

Quiet. Certain. Fact, not reassurance. He has run this equation the way he ran the one with his palm and the blade over his heart.

The answer is the same.

His hips snap forward and her hand trembles against his throat.

"Steady," he whispers.

He leans into the blade.

She feels the resistance give—barely, barely—the tip breaking through one paper-thin layer of skin.

A single bead of blood wells up around the steel. Dark, bright, catching moonlight.

It sits at the tip for a suspended second and then rolls—slow—down the side of his neck. A thin red rivulet tracing the tendon, following the column of his throat.

V's eyes close.

And then they open.

Wide. Bright. The pupils blown so dark they've consumed the hazel entirely, but what's behind them isn't the half-lidded pleasure from before. She watches his face change.

The frustration dissolves. Swept out like a tide. And what floods in behind it—what rushes up to fill every line and hollow of his expression—is relief.

Vast, shuddering, whole-body relief, like a lock finally giving, like a door being blown off its hinges.

His mouth falls open. A sound comes out—low, guttural, animal—

And then he grins.

Not a smile. Not the curated not-quite-smile from the hallway or the leashed amusement from the chase.

A grin. Wide and eerie and showing too many teeth.

It resembles something feral, something that hunts in the dark, something that just caught the scent it's been tracking all night and is running toward it full tilt.

He grins with blood running down his neck and a knife at his throat and his cock buried to the hilt inside her and the sight is the most terrifying alluring thing Yunjin has ever seen.

His hips drive forward. Hard.

"Fuck—" The word comes out on a breath that sounds like a laugh. "—yeah—"

He snaps his hips again. And again. His rhythm goes from measured to frantic in the space of a heartbeat.

She feels the shift in her bones—the force of each thrust shoving her up the forest floor, her back scraping against pine needles, her body jolting with the impact.

"Fuck—yeah—that's—" He's panting between each word, breath hitching, and the sound that cuts through his panting is—

A chuckle.

Dark. Breathless. Barely a sound at all—more like air being punched through a grin—but it's there, and it has no humor in it. None.

It's the sound of someone who's found the thing they were looking for and the finding is better than the searching and the pain is better than the pleasure and the blood is running warm down his neck and he's laughing about it.

"Harder."

He presses her hand against the blade.

His hips snap with a force that makes the wet slap of their bodies crack through like a gunshot.

"Press—harder—"

Her fingers tighten. The blade bites deeper. Another bead of blood wells—the line thickening to a glossy thread—and V's head tips back and the sound he makes is guttural, wrecked, dragged from below his lungs.

His hips piston.

Fast. Faster than he's gone all night. Just speed and depth and force, his body driving into hers with an urgency that's feral.

He bites his lip. She can see it—his teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to blanch the flesh, hard enough that it looks like it hurts, and above the bitten lip his hair is in his eyes and he doesn't push it back.

He doesn't do anything but fuck her—hard, fast, hips slamming with a rhythm that's coming apart at the seams.

"Fuck—" A thrust. "—fuck—" Another. "—yeah—"

He looks—

He looks happy.

That's the part that makes her stomach turn inside out. Not the blood or the knife or the brutality of his hips—the happiness. The pure, uncut, unperformed joy on his face. Like this is the only context in which his body knows how to feel it. Like the locked door didn't just open—it opened onto what he'd forgotten existed.

And he's standing in the doorway grinning like someone gifted him one of his favorite collectibles while blood pours down his throat.

"V—" she gasps, and her voice is wrecked, pitched high with overwhelm. "V, you're—you're bleeding—"

"Mm-hmm—"

He doesn't slow down. The grin splits wider. His hips slam forward so hard her teeth click together.

"I know—fuck—I know—isn't it—"

He laughs. A real laugh, this time—breathless, cracked, shaking through his chest and into hers—and his eyes find hers and they're shining.

"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters. His hips lose their pattern—snapping erratic, urgent, chasing it now with everything he has. "—yeah—right there—that's—fuck—"

She can feel him getting close.

Can feel it in the way his cock swells inside her, the way his thrusts go shallow and fast and desperate, the way the veins in his forearms bulge where they brace beside her head.

His teeth release his lip—it's red, bitten raw, glistening—and his mouth falls open on a pant that turns into a groan that turns into a sound she will remember for the rest of her life.

"Press," he manages. "More—"

She does.

Her fingers tighten and the blade presses in, another fraction—another fraction—and the line on his throat widens. Goes glossy.

The blood runs faster now, tracing a branching path down his neck toward his collarbone.

She can feel his pulse hammering beneath the steel—fast, fast, the fastest it's been all night.

Then, finally, hips slam forward and freeze. Buried to the hilt.

His mouth opens. No sound at first. Just the shape of it—jaw slack, lips parted, eyes screwed shut, grin gone now.

Then a groan rises. From the floor of his lungs. Low, shuddering, broken.

And she feels the first spurt of heat flood her.

Hot. Blazing hot. Filling her in a thick, pulsing wave, his cock throbbing against her walls with the release.

His hips jerk. Once more. Twice. The final spurts, weaker now, a fading pulse, and his cock twitches inside her as the last of it empties.

His breath comes in harsh, fractured bursts against her face. Panting. Almost keening. A sound that doesn't match anything she's heard from him tonight—not the curated patience, not the clinical observations, not even the broken fucks or the deranged chuckling.

Then his body settles. The tension drains in a slow cascade—arms first, then shoulders, then his jaw unclenching.

His hips stay flush against hers, cock softening inside her. The cum sits warm and heavy between them. Some of it has started to leak—she can feel it, a slow trickle seeping around him, sliding thick down between her thighs.

His blood is cooling on her knuckles. On her face. On her mouth.

His hand finds hers on the knife. Still at his throat. Still trembling.

He eases it away. Gently. His fingers unwrap hers from the handle one by one—patient, careful. The same hands that pinned her wrists and split her hoodie and pressed her thighs open for his mouth.

He takes the blade with a tenderness that doesn't match anything else about tonight.

Folds it shut. Click-clack.

Sets it in the earth beside them. One final thunk.

He stays where he is. Inside her. Forearms caging her head. Blood trickling from his throat in a lazy line that's already slowing—the body doing what bodies do. Closing up. Sealing over. Beginning the quiet work of repair.

His eyes find hers through the haze. Blown wide. Dark. The hazel entirely consumed.

For a long moment there's nothing. Just the forest coming back online around them.

Wind in the canopy. Something small in the undergrowth. The distant, mechanical hum of the castle beyond the treeline. Alive and indifferent.

She can feel his heartbeat through his chest. Against her bare, bitten breasts—against the nipples he'd wanted to pierce and adorn with little satin bows. Thudding. Slowing. Finding its way back to that infuriating, impossible calm.

"Good bunny," he whispers.

The words vibrate against her mouth. Warm. Close.

The praise hits her one last time and the glow behind her ribs overflows. Faint. Ember-quiet.

And maybe she should put it out.

But she doesn't.

Above, through the thinning canopy, Orion hangs.

Three dots in a line, patient and unchanged.

The stars watch the wolf rest his head in the hollow of the rabbit’s throat and don’t blink.

part 1 here.

↝ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @kookie96 @coletaehyung @unbibiased @sexyevilkitten @maralodiaal @my0hmary @butterymin @quhrtz @lachlaniah @jhopeloverrr @medicinemybish @jjkszn @makulimlim @onyxthornseer @amajikisupremacy @omgstahpp-blog @drwonderbread @angelhyuka @mikrokookiex @ot7girl4l @mar-lo-pap @rossy1080 @fancypeacepersona @ggukjugoo @jadestonedaeho7 @a-kookie-with-my-tae @ironyatitsfinest @impossiblecopoaffire @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @annyeongbitch7 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta @ilikekpop-c @yuyu0y11 @amarawayne @sugak00kie134340 @cravingforbangtan @namgimini @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt

© jungkoode 2026

[bigandlong]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[jae-felidae]

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

[maisonmilli]

They Put Your Pleasure First

fem!reader × BTS OT7

nsfw 18+ only soft dom vibes, body worship, consent is sexy, they’re obsessed with making you cum before they even think about themselves.

song rec while reading: Earned It – The Weeknd (put it on loop, dim the lights, thank me later ❤️)

Kim Namjoon Namjoon is all about observation and perfection. The second the bedroom door clicks shut he’s pulling you against his chest, big hands sliding under your shirt like he’s memorizing every curve. “Tell me how you want me tonight, baby,” he murmurs in that deep voice that makes your knees weak. He’ll drop to his knees without hesitation, spreading your thighs wide and eating you like he’s studying your body for a thesis slow, deliberate licks, two thick fingers curling just right while his eyes stay locked on yours. He doesn’t stop until you’ve come at least twice, thighs shaking around his head, and only then does he let you pull him up, voice hoarse as he whispers, “Good girl… now let me feel you.”

Kim Seokjin Jin is playful but possessive as hell when it comes to your pleasure. He’ll pin you to the mattress with that handsome grin, kissing down your body while cracking soft jokes just to hear your breathy laugh turn into a moan. “My princess deserves to be spoiled, hm?” He takes his sweet time with his mouth tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers teasing until you’re gripping his hair and begging. He loves the way you sound when you fall apart, so he’ll keep going, overstimulating you just enough to make your eyes roll back. Only after you’ve soaked his chin and are panting his name like a prayer does he finally slide inside you, groaning, “Fuck… you’re so pretty when you cum for me.”

Min Yoongi Yoongi is quiet intensity personified. He doesn’t need to say much he just lays you down gently, lips brushing your inner thighs while his dark eyes watch every twitch of your body. “Relax for me,” he rasps, voice gravelly from sleep or studio hours. His tongue is lazy but devastatingly precise, sucking your clit like he has all night (because he does). He’ll add fingers slowly, scissoring and curling until you’re arching off the bed, and he keeps that same unhurried pace even when you’re crying his name. He won’t touch himself until you’ve come undone at least three times, then he finally lets you pull him on top, murmuring against your lips, “That’s it… now you can have me.”

Jung Hoseok Hobi is sunshine even in bed, but the moment he senses you need him he turns into pure focused heat. He’ll kiss you stupid first, then slide down your body with that bright smile that never fades. “Wanna make you feel so good, baby,” he breathes before burying his face between your legs like it’s his favorite dance. His tongue moves in rhythms only he knows fast, then slow, then circling until your hips are grinding against his mouth. He moans into you the whole time, hands gripping your thighs like he’s scared you’ll disappear. He won’t stop until you’re shaking and seeing stars, and even then he’s still smiling when he finally slides in, whispering, “My turn to feel how wet you are for me.”

Park Jimin Jimin is the king of sensual eye contact. He’ll undress you slowly, kissing every inch of skin he reveals while whispering how beautiful you are. “Look at me,” he murmurs as he settles between your thighs, plush lips wrapping around your clit like it’s the only thing that matters. His fingers are magic gentle but firm, curling and stroking while he sucks and licks in perfect sync. He drinks in every moan, every flutter of your lashes, never once looking away. He’ll edge you sweetly, bringing you right to the brink and pulling back just to hear you whine his name, then finally letting you crash over the edge again and again. Only when you’re boneless and glowing does he let you touch him, voice shaking, “You first… always you first.”

Kim Taehyung Taehyung treats your pleasure like art. He’ll have you on your back, legs over his shoulders, while he kisses and bites marks into your inner thighs like he’s painting a masterpiece. “So pretty like this,” he growls in that deep voice, tongue diving in like he’s starving for you. He’s creative switching between long, slow licks and quick flicks, fingers joining in ways that make you see galaxies. He talks you through it the whole time, voice low and velvet, telling you exactly how you taste, how you clench around his fingers, how he could stay here forever. He doesn’t stop until you’ve come so many times you’re crying his name, then he finally lets you pull him up, kissing you deep as he slides home.

Jeon Jungkook Jungkook is eager but disciplined the golden maknae knows how to control himself when it comes to you. He’ll start by kissing you breathless, then work his way down with those big doe eyes full of hunger. “Wanna make you cum first, always,” he breathes before his mouth is on you, tongue flat and hungry, sucking and licking like he’s been dreaming about this. His hands are everywhere pinning your hips, spreading you wider, fingers pumping deep while he moans into your core. He’s competitive even here, determined to pull more orgasms from you than last time. Only after you’re a trembling, oversensitive mess does he finally let you wrap your legs around him, voice wrecked as he groans, “Fuck… now I get to feel you.”

reblog if you’d let them ruin you in this order~ (also stream Earned It and pretend it’s their voices in your ear, you’re welcome)

[shwatywithdapen]

LOVE ME

Chapter 8 :Ready.Set.Go

The car ride started quiet

Not awkward—just… charged.

Tyriq pulled away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the center console. Layla leaned back in the passenger seat, one arm draped against the door, watching the city lights streak past the window like they had all the time in the world.

But the air between them?

Heavy.

“You always this bold now?” Tyriq asked, glancing over at them briefly.

Layla smirked. “You always this slow catching up?”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Nah… I just like to take my time. Especially when something’s worth it.”

That lingered.

Layla turned their head, studying him more openly now. “You weren’t saying that a year ago.”

“I wasn’t a year ago me,” he replied.

The car slowed at a red light. Silence slipped in again—but this one was tighter, closer. Tyriq’s fingers tapped once against the wheel, then stilled. Layla noticed everything—the way his jaw flexed, the way his eyes kept drifting back to them like he couldn’t help it.

“Pull over,” Layla said suddenly.

His brow lifted. “That wasn’t a suggestion, was it?”

“Not really.”

Another small smirk from him—but he listened. He turned down a quieter street, parking under a dim streetlight. The engine stayed running, soft hum filling the space.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Tyriq turned toward them fully.

“Alright,” he said, voice lower now. “What’s on your mind?”

Layla leaned in just slightly, enough to close the space but not enough to touch. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who said they wanted to find out.”

That did something to him.

You could see it—the shift. The way his posture changed, the way his attention sharpened.

“Maybe I like hearing you say it,” he murmured.

Layla’s gaze dropped for a second, then came back up, deliberate. “Or maybe you’re stalling.”

Before he could respond, they reached out—slow, intentional—fingers brushing the front of his shirt, testing, like they were reminding him this wasn’t the same dynamic anymore.

Tyriq didn’t pull back.

If anything, he leaned in.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes flicking down to their lips, then back up. “You definitely different.”

Layla smiled faintly. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I keep noticing new things.”

His hand moved then—hesitant at first, then more certain—resting lightly at their waist, feeling the difference, the confidence in how they carried themselves now.

Layla didn’t flinch.

They let him.

“Go ahead,” they teased softly. “Take your time, right?”

That smirk came back—but slower now. Focused.

His hand shifted slightly, fingertips grazing along their side, then pausing—like he’d discovered something unexpected beneath the fabric.

He looked at them, one eyebrow lifting. “You got secrets now too?”

Layla tilted their head, expression unreadable for a second… then playful.

“Maybe,” they said. “You gonna figure them out or just keep guessing?”

Tyriq exhaled, low and amused, his grip tightening just a fraction—not controlling, just present.

“Oh, I’m definitely figuring it out,” he said.

The space between them shrank again, the conversation fading into something quieter, more instinctive. The city outside kept moving, unaware, while inside the car everything slowed down—every glance, every small shift, every breath feeling louder than it should.

And somewhere in that space, Tyriq realized—

Layla wasn’t waiting anymore.

They were choosing.

And if he wanted in?

He’d have to meet them there.

The air in the car felt thicker now—like every breath had weight to it.

Tyriq’s hand stayed at Layla’s waist, but it wasn’t still anymore. His fingers traced slow, curious paths, learning instead of assuming. Layla watched him closely, letting him take that space—but only because they allowed it.

“Careful,” Layla murmured, voice low. “You might get distracted.”

He let out a quiet laugh, but it came out rougher than before. “Too late for that.”

Their knees brushed. Neither moved away.

Layla leaned in first this time—not rushing, just closing the gap until their foreheads almost touched. The tension snapped into something warmer, something alive.

“You think you can handle me now?” they asked softly.

Tyriq’s answer wasn’t words at first.

It was the way his hand slid a little firmer against their side. The way his gaze dropped, then came back up with intention.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I didn’t realize what I had to handle before.”

That honesty hit deeper than anything else.

Layla’s fingers curled lightly into his shirt, pulling him just close enough that their breaths mixed. The moment stretched—balanced right on the edge—before it tipped.

The first kiss wasn’t rushed. It was exploratory. Careful in a way that made it feel heavier, like they both understood this wasn’t just about now—it was about everything that had been unsaid before.

But careful didn’t last long.

It built.

Hands got less hesitant. Closer. Firmer. Layla shifted slightly, closing the distance completely, and Tyriq responded without thinking—like instinct had finally caught up to feeling.

There was a moment—a brief one—where everything paused again.

His hand stilled.

His expression shifted.

“…You’ve definitely been keeping secrets,” he murmured, a hint of surprise and a slow smile pulling at his lips.

Layla didn’t look away. “I told you. You’d have to find out.”

Something about that—about the confidence, the openness—made his smirk deepen. Not teasing anymore.

Appreciative.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m starting to see that.”

The space between them disappeared again, but this time it wasn’t about proving anything. It wasn’t rushed or reckless—it was intentional, charged with everything they hadn’t allowed themselves to feel before.

The windows fogged slightly from the warmth building inside, city lights blurring into soft colors outside. Time stretched, slowed, bent around them as they got lost in the moment—not needing words anymore.

And through it all, one thing stayed clear:

This wasn’t the same Layla.

And this definitely wasn’t the same Tyriq.

Whatever this was now—it wasn’t unfinished feelings.

It was something new.

Something chosen.

[shwatywithdapen]

Love Me Chapter 7

One year Later

A year can rebuild a person.

Or reveal who they were always meant to be.

Layla stepped out onto the sidewalk, the city humming around them like it always had—but they moved through it differently now. Grounded. Certain. Untouchable in a way that had nothing to do with walls and everything to do with knowing.

The wolfcut was gone.

Now, their hair was a soft, sharp pixie—short around the sides, longer at the top, dyed a deep, rich purple that caught the light every time they turned their head. Three small nose piercings lined one side of their face, subtle but deliberate. Their body had changed too—softer in some places, fuller in others. Stronger.

More theirs.

They didn’t rush anymore. Didn’t shrink. Didn’t second-guess every step.

And somehow… they ended up back there.

The same block.

The same building.

Layla didn’t even realize why they’d walked this way until they saw him.

Tyriq.

He was leaning against his car, dressed simply—but it hit different now. Like he’d grown into himself too. Broader. Calmer. His presence didn’t feel restless anymore.

It felt… intentional.

He looked up.

And froze.

For a second, neither of them moved. The world blurred out, just like it used to—but this time, Layla didn’t feel small inside it.

Tyriq pushed himself off the car slowly, eyes scanning them like he was trying to catch up to a version of Layla he’d never seen before.

“Layla?” he said, almost in disbelief.

They smirked a little. “Hey, Tyriq.”

The way his gaze lingered—on their hair, their face, the quiet confidence in how they stood—said everything he wasn’t saying out loud.

“You look…” he started, then stopped, shaking his head like words weren’t enough. “Different.”

Layla tilted their head. “Better or confusing?”

He let out a low laugh. “Both.”

There was a pause—but not the awkward kind from before. This one had tension in it. History. Curiosity.

“I heard about you,” he admitted. “Through people. You’ve been… doing your thing.”

“I have,” Layla said simply.

“And you?” they added, eyes flicking over him. “You look good.”

That made him smile—slow, a little dangerous. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Layla said, stepping just a little closer. “Like you finally learned something.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Oh? Like what?”

Layla’s eyes held his, steady and unreadable for a second—then softened just enough to let a little mischief slip through.

“Like how to recognize what’s been in front of you the whole time,” they said.

That hit.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his gaze dropped for a split second before coming back stronger.

“I deserved that,” he said.

“Yeah,” Layla replied—but there was no bitterness in it anymore.

Just truth.

Another pause. Closer now. Charged.

Tyriq leaned in just a fraction, not touching—but close enough that Layla could feel the warmth of him again. Familiar. Different.

“I thought about you,” he said quietly.

Layla didn’t flinch. “I know.”

That made him exhale, almost like relief.

They studied him for a second, then smiled—slow, confident, just a little teasing.

“So,” Layla said, voice dipping slightly, “you gonna stand there looking fine, or are you gonna take me somewhere and prove you actually learned something this year?”

That did it.

Tyriq’s lips curved into a smirk—sharp, knowing, interested.

“Oh, you different different now,” he said.

Layla shrugged lightly, eyes glinting. “You have no idea.”

He stepped closer then—not rushing, not assuming—just enough to meet them in the space between who they used to be and who they’d become.

“Maybe I wanna find out,” he said.

Layla held his gaze, unshaken.

“Then don’t waste my time,” they replied.

And just like that, the story didn’t rewind.

It moved forward.

This time, on Layla’s terms.

Anon : I’m back it’s been a while but i bout to hit you with the goods don’t worry

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter Nine: The Rules

The apartment was quiet again.

The food sat half-finished on the table, plates pushed aside, the smell of collard greens and smoked turkey still hanging in the warm air. Outside the windows, the city hummed low, distant traffic moving like a slow current.

Inside, the energy had shifted.

Ace sat on the edge of the couch now, bare feet tucked under her, the long graphic tee brushing her thighs when she moved. Rah leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, studying her with the same composed intensity he brought into the dance studio.

Chupa stood near the window, rolling his sleeves up slowly like he was preparing for something.

No one spoke for a minute.

Not because they didn’t have anything to say.

Because everyone understood that whatever came next mattered.

Finally, Rah straightened from the counter.

“If we’re going to do this,” he said calmly, “we’re not guessing our way through it.”

Ace nodded immediately.

Chupa glanced over his shoulder. “Meaning?”

Rah walked closer, stopping in front of Ace but leaving enough space so she never felt cornered.

“Rules,” he said.

The word settled in the room.

Ace’s pulse quickened, but not from nerves. Something about the clarity of it—the structure—made her feel calmer.

Chupa pushed off the wall and came over too, dropping into the armchair across from her. His eyes moved between Rah and Ace, thoughtful.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s hear them.”

Rah’s voice stayed even.

“First rule,” he said. “Honesty. No games. If something feels wrong, it gets said immediately.”

Ace nodded.

“Yes.”

Chupa agreed quietly. “Fair.”

Rah continued.

“Second rule… no competition.”

Chupa’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

Rah met his gaze without hesitation. “She’s not a prize.”

Chupa leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“I know that,” he said.

Rah held his stare for a second longer before nodding once.

“Good.”

Ace watched the exchange carefully.

Two men used to control in different ways.

Neither backing down.

Neither disrespecting the other.

Chupa spoke next.

“My rule,” he said, looking directly at Ace, “is that you don’t disappear.”

She blinked.

“You mean like before?” she asked softly.

He nodded once.

“You shut people out when things get heavy,” he said. “Not this time.”

Ace swallowed, but she nodded.

“Okay.”

Rah added another one quietly.

“Third rule. Consent stays active.”

Ace tilted her head slightly.

Rah explained, “Just because you say yes once doesn’t mean it stays yes forever.”

The weight of that made something warm settle in her chest.

Chupa smirked lightly.

“You always this serious?”

Rah gave him a calm look. “When it matters.”

Ace laughed softly under her breath.

The tension in the room eased a little.

Then Chupa leaned back again, studying her with that familiar artist’s gaze.

“My last rule,” he said.

Ace looked up at him.

“You don’t shrink.”

She frowned slightly.

Chupa explained, voice softer now.

“You’ve spent a lot of time holding yourself back. Dancing halfway. Speaking halfway.”

His eyes moved briefly toward Rah before returning to her.

“Not with us.”

Ace felt her throat tighten a little.

Rah spoke again then, quieter but just as firm.

“And you don’t give up your power to us either.”

Ace blinked in surprise.

Rah held her gaze steadily.

“Submission isn’t disappearing,” he said. “It’s trust.”

The words settled deep.

Ace exhaled slowly.

For the first time that night, she felt the full shape of what they were building.

Not chaos.

Not confusion.

Something intentional.

Something chosen.

She slid off the couch and stood.

Rah and Chupa both watched her carefully.

Ace looked at each of them before speaking.

“My rule,” she said.

They waited.

“You both treat each other with respect. Always.”

Rah nodded immediately.

Chupa followed a second later.

“Done,” he said.

The room grew quiet again.

But this time it felt different.

Like the foundation of something had just been set.

Rah finally stepped a little closer, stopping just within reach.

Chupa remained where he was, but the warmth in his gaze hadn’t faded.

Three people.

One understanding.

And a future none of them had expected a week ago.

Rah spoke softly.

“Now we see where it goes.”

Ace felt a small smile tug at her lips.

“Together,” she said.

Chupa chuckled under his breath.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Together.” 🔥

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat And Second Chances

Chapter eight: The Table Between Us

Ace cooked when she needed clarity.

The rhythm helped her think.

Oil cracked softly in the skillet while the smell of seasoning filled the apartment. Collard greens simmered low on the stove, smoked turkey settling deep into the broth. Mac and cheese baked slowly in the oven, the top turning golden. Sweet yams glazed under cinnamon and brown sugar.

Food that grounded people.

Food that meant something.

She checked the clock again.

Both of them had said yes.

That fact alone made her chest tighten.

Ace wiped her hands on the hem of her long graphic tee, the fabric brushing the tops of her thighs. It was big enough to be comfortable but short enough that when she moved, it hinted at the curve of her legs underneath.

She’d left her hair loose.

Bare feet on the hardwood.

She told herself it wasn’t intentional.

A knock came first.

Chupa.

He stepped inside with that same steady warmth he always carried, eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

“Smells dangerous in here,” he said.

Ace smiled. “You haven’t even tasted it.”

Chupa leaned against the counter, close enough that she could feel the quiet gravity he always brought with him.

“You cooking like this for me?” he asked.

Before she could answer—

Another knock.

Rah.

The air shifted the moment he walked in.

He wasn’t in professor mode tonight. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Calm. Controlled. Observant.

His eyes landed on Ace first.

Then Chupa.

Something unspoken passed between the two men immediately—recognition, curiosity, a quiet measuring.

Ace noticed.

“Come in,” she said, softer now.

Rah stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The apartment suddenly felt smaller.

Warmer.

Dinner started normally enough.

They sat around the table, plates full, conversation easy at first. Stories about classes. Chupa teasing Ace about nearly falling out of a turn last semester. Rah correcting him about technique.

But underneath it all was something else.

Awareness.

The way Rah’s gaze lingered when Ace leaned forward to refill someone’s glass.

The way Chupa’s knee brushed hers under the table and didn’t move away.

The way both men watched her without speaking about it.

Finally, Ace set her fork down.

“Okay,” she said.

Both of them looked at her.

She inhaled slowly.

“I didn’t invite you here just for food.”

Chupa’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

Rah stayed very still.

Ace continued. “You both want me.”

Direct.

No games.

Silence stretched across the table.

Then Chupa leaned back in his chair, a slow smile touching his mouth.

“You’re not wrong,” he said.

Rah’s voice came quieter. “No.”

Ace nodded.

“And I want both of you.”

The words landed heavy.

Rah exhaled through his nose.

Chupa’s smile disappeared—not from disinterest, but because the moment had suddenly become serious.

“You sure about that?” Chupa asked.

Ace held his gaze. “Yeah.”

Rah finally spoke again.

“You understand what that means?” he said.

His tone wasn’t dismissive.

It was grounding.

Ace did.

And something inside her responded to that steadiness automatically.

“Yes,” she said softly.

The room felt warmer now. Charged.

Chupa stood first, walking around the table slowly until he stopped beside Ace’s chair.

Rah didn’t move—but his eyes followed everything.

Chupa rested his hand lightly against the back of Ace’s chair, leaning just close enough that she could feel the heat of him beside her.

“You inviting both of us here to tell us that,” he said quietly, “or asking permission?”

Ace looked up at him.

Her voice came softer now.

“Maybe both.”

Rah stood then.

Slow.

Measured.

The air shifted again.

He walked toward them until the three of them were standing close enough to feel each other’s presence.

Not touching yet.

Just… there.

Rah’s voice lowered.

“You understand something, Ace.”

She nodded slightly.

“If this happens,” he continued, “it happens with honesty.”

Chupa added quietly, “And control.”

Ace felt a shiver move down her spine.

Her voice dropped to almost a whisper.

“I trust you both.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Chupa reached out first, brushing his fingers lightly along her arm—slow, deliberate, testing the space.

Rah’s hand came to rest gently at her waist.

Not grabbing.

Just grounding.

Ace’s breath caught.

The energy between them wasn’t rushed.

It was intentional.

Three people standing close enough to feel heartbeats shift.

Rah leaned slightly closer, his voice low near her ear.

“You sure about this?”

Ace nodded again.

“Yes.”

Chupa’s hand slid up just enough to tilt her chin so she looked at him.

Rah’s presence remained steady behind her.

Two different kinds of gravity.

Two different kinds of control.

Ace felt herself settle between them naturally.

Like she’d always known where she belonged.

No one rushed.

No one pushed.

The night stretched quietly around them.

And whatever came next…

Would be chosen.

Together.

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter Seven: Would You Mind

The next day, Ace walked into class already smiling.

Her body still remembered the night before—the way the music had wrapped around her skin, the way Raeshawn had watched without touching, the way restraint had crackled louder than contact. She wore it like a secret.

Rah stood at the front of the studio when class started, calm as ever. Clipboard in hand. Voice steady.

“Today,” he said, “we’re freestyling.”

A few groans. A few excited murmurs.

“I want honesty,” Rah continued. “No tricks. No performing for anyone else. Choose music that challenges you.”

Ace raised her hand.

Rah glanced at her, then nodded. “Ace. You wanna pick the track?”

A pause.

A few students turned to look at her.

She met Rah’s eyes—just for a second—and something unspoken passed between them.

“Yeah,” she said lightly. “I got one.”

She connected her phone.

The opening notes of ‘Would You Mind’ – Janet Jackson slid into the room—slow, intimate, unmistakable.

The class immediately reacted.

“OHHHH—” “AYO—” “THIS SONG???”

Ace stepped into the center of the floor before anyone could stop her.

Rah’s breath caught.

Just for a second.

Ace felt it.

She didn’t rush. She let the beat breathe. Let the silence between notes stretch. Her movements were controlled—hips deliberate, spine fluid, hands tracing lines that were confident but never rushed.

She danced like she knew exactly who was watching.

Not for him.

At him.

Rah tried to keep his expression neutral. Tried to focus on posture, on musicality, on pedagogy.

Failed—slightly.

A flush crept up his neck.

The class noticed immediately.

“PROFESSOR BLUSHIN’—” “RAH YOU GOOD??” “AYE LET HER COOK!”

Ace caught his reflection in the mirror and let herself smile—slow, knowing—before finishing with a grounded, deliberate stop.

Silence.

Then applause.

Rah cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, voice just a touch rougher than usual. “Next.”

The rest of class passed in a blur of jokes and side-eyes thrown his way.

When it finally ended and the room emptied, Ace stayed behind, stretching calmly like nothing had happened.

Rah waited until the door clicked shut.

Then—without raising his voice—

“You think you’re funny.”

Ace glanced up, innocent. “Was the song not challenging?”

Rah stepped closer—but stopped at a professional distance. Close enough for tension. Far enough for control.

“You chose that song on purpose,” he said.

She shrugged. “You said honesty.”

He exhaled, a quiet laugh slipping out before he could stop it. “You enjoy pushing buttons.”

“Only the ones that light up,” she replied.

Rah shook his head, eyes dark but amused. “Careful, Ace.”

She rose slowly, meeting his gaze. “You already warned me about comfort.”

A beat.

Then Rah leaned in—just slightly, voice low enough that it stayed between them.

“And you,” he said, “enjoy watching people lose composure.”

Ace smiled. “Only when they teach restraint.”

Rah straightened first.

Professional again. Controlled.

But his eyes lingered a half-second longer than necessary.

“Good class today,” he said.

“Yeah,” Ace replied softly. “It really was.”

As she walked out, she felt it—that quiet victory. Not because she’d flustered him.

But because she’d claimed the space.

And Raeshawn knew it.

[shwatywithdapen]

sweat and second chances

Chapter Six: Call and Response

Ace didn’t expect to see him there.

The studio lights were low—intentional, not accidental—and the room smelled faintly of wood and heat. She’d come late again, chasing the echo of something unfinished in her chest.

She pressed play.

“SOS” – Victoria Monét & Usher

The beat slid in smooth and urgent, a call and response that felt like tension itself. Ace let her eyes close. Let her shoulders drop. Let the music take the wheel.

She started slow.

Controlled rolls through her spine. Hips answering the bass like it had called her name. This wasn’t performance. This was conversation—between her body and the truth she’d been holding back.

She didn’t hear the door.

Raeshawn stopped just inside the studio, hand still on the handle.

And then—he stayed.

Ace danced like she knew she was being watched, even though she didn’t. Like her body was signaling something it had decided on its own. The music climbed. She sank lower, grounded, deliberate. Every movement confident. Adult. Certain.

Rah swallowed.

When Ace finally turned, she froze.

He stood near the mirrors, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, gaze dark and steady. Not surprised. Not apologetic.

Just present.

“I thought I was alone,” she said quietly.

“You weren’t,” he replied.

The song kept playing.

Neither of them moved to stop it.

Ace exhaled slowly. “If this isn’t okay—”

“It’s dance,” Rah said, stepping closer—but stopping at a careful distance. “You’re allowed to move.”

She nodded.

Then she did.

She danced toward him this time—not at him, not for him. Around him. Close enough that the air between them warmed. Her movements sharpened, answering the urgency in the music. His eyes followed every shift, every pause.

When the chorus hit, Rah moved too.

Not as her professor.

As a dancer.

Their bodies didn’t collide—they aligned. Mirrored steps. Shared rhythm. His hand hovered near her waist, guiding without gripping. Her shoulder brushed his chest. Electricity sparked where skin nearly met.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

“I am,” she whispered back.

She turned under his arm—clean, intentional—and for half a second, his hand settled at her lower back. Not possessive. Not accidental. Just enough.

The touch grounded her.

She responded instinctively—rolling her hips back into the space he offered, controlled but undeniable. The music swelled. Their reflections blurred in the mirror.

Rah’s jaw tightened.

He pulled back first.

Just a step. Enough to remind them both where they were.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly—not harsh, not cold. Steady.

Ace nodded, chest rising and falling. Heat lingered between them, alive and unashamed.

When the song faded, the silence was loud.

Rah met her eyes. “You’re dangerous when you trust yourself like that.”

Ace smiled softly. “You taught me control.”

“And you’re testing mine,” he replied.

A beat.

Then he stepped back again—choosing distance, even as the air still hummed.

“Good night, Ace.”

She watched him leave, heart steady, skin still buzzing.

This wasn’t a mistake.

It was a signal.

And now—everything was awake.

anon: hey guys chapter 6 its finally here but i have to get chapter 7 and 8 up and it will take me longer

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter Five: Lines Drawn in Heat

Ace didn’t mean for it to happen like this.

It just… did.

The gallery opening buzzed with bodies and voices, wine glasses clinking, music low enough to feel intentional. Chupa’s work lined the walls—movement frozen mid-thought, bodies half-formed, emotion bleeding through texture and color.

Ace stood near one of the larger pieces, arms crossed loosely, energy humming under her skin.

Rah arrived late.

Not as Professor. Not entirely as Rah either.

Just Raeshawn—hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. When he saw Ace, something in his posture shifted. Subtle. Controlled. But real.

Chupa noticed.

He always did.

The three of them ended up standing close—too close for coincidence. Conversation flowed easily, but underneath it ran something sharper. Glances held a beat too long. Silences thickened instead of thinning.

Ace felt it from both sides.

Chupa’s presence was warm, grounding—his shoulder brushing hers like it belonged there. Rah’s was quieter, heavier—the kind of attention that didn’t touch but still pressed.

At one point, Chupa stepped away to greet someone.

The space he left was immediately filled.

Rah stood beside Ace now, close enough that she could feel the heat of him through the air.

“You look… settled,” he said quietly.

Ace turned to him. “I feel awake.”

Their eyes locked.

For a moment—just a moment—the room fell away. No titles. No rules. Just awareness. Want. Recognition.

Chupa returned and caught it instantly.

The look between them.

The way Rah straightened—subtly but deliberately—creating space instead of closing it.

Later, outside, the night wrapped around them like a held breath.

Chupa leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, watching Rah with an artist’s curiosity. “So,” he said lightly, “we all feeling the same thing here?”

Ace’s pulse jumped.

Rah exhaled slowly. “Seems like it.”

Silence.

Then Rah spoke again, measured. “But nothing happens like this.”

He looked at Ace—not apologetic, not cold. Honest.

“I won’t cross that line,” he said. “Not as your professor.”

Ace nodded. She respected that more than she wanted to admit.

Chupa studied him for a long beat. Then smiled—not smug, not competitive. Understanding.

“Doesn’t mean we stop wanting her,” he said.

Rah’s jaw tightened just slightly. “No.”

Another pause.

Then Rah added, “But it happens separately. Or not at all.”

Ace felt the weight of it—the choice being placed in front of her without pressure. Without possession.

She liked that.

Chupa pushed off the wall, stepping closer to Ace. Not touching. Just close enough that she could choose.

“Your pace,” he said. “Your call.”

Rah met her eyes one last time. “Always.”

Then—deliberately—he stepped back.

Left first.

Ace stood there, heart steady, body warm, mind clear.

Two men. Two kinds of desire. Both willing to wait.

And for the first time in a long time, Ace realized something important:

She wasn’t being chased.

She was being chosen.

Anon - Chapter 5 is here guys. Thank you for showing support and i love yall. So chapters 6 and 7 will probably take longer because i have new characters being added to this and it’s gonna be funny because this is actually people that are close to me. So stay tuned

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter Four: Reading the Air

Chupa noticed it the next day.

Not right away—not when Ace walked into the art building, not when she waved at him from across the quad. It was subtler than that. The way her energy sat differently in her body. Like she was holding something close to her chest. Like she’d crossed an invisible line and hadn’t told anyone yet.

She looked… awake.

“You good?” he asked later, when she stopped by his studio again. Same brick walls. Same paint-stained floor. Different tension.

Ace smiled. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Chupa hummed, unconvinced. He watched her the way artists watched things—without interrupting, letting details reveal themselves. The way she paced. The way she stretched her calves absentmindedly. The way her laugh came a half-second later than usual.

Something had shifted.

He didn’t ask what it was.

Instead, he made space.

“You wanna see something?” he asked, gesturing toward a canvas turned face-down.

Ace nodded.

He flipped it around.

It was unfinished—a figure in motion, blurred at the edges, all hips and spine and intention. Not a portrait, exactly. More like a feeling.

Ace stared. “Is that…?”

“Movement,” Chupa said simply. “Did it last night.”

Her chest tightened. “It feels personal.”

Chupa met her gaze. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged. Ace became aware of how close he was standing now, the familiar warmth of him, the ease of being in his space.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” he said quietly. “Even when you were here.”

Ace swallowed. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

Chupa stepped closer—not touching yet. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

She looked up at him. Their faces were close enough now that she could see the flecks of color in his eyes, smell the faint trace of paint and soap on his skin.

“I missed you,” he admitted. Not dramatic. Just honest.

Ace’s breath hitched.

Chupa lifted a hand—not to grab, not to rush—just enough to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin, light and deliberate, then paused. He waited.

Ace didn’t pull away.

That was his answer.

Their foreheads almost touched. The space between them felt loud, buzzing with everything unsaid.

“I don’t know what’s changed,” Chupa murmured, “but I can feel it.”

Ace closed her eyes for a moment. She thought of the studio. Of music after midnight. Of restraint that burned.

She opened them again. “I’m still figuring it out.”

Chupa nodded, respectful even in desire. “Take your time.”

Still—he leaned in just enough to let the possibility exist. Close enough that if she wanted, she could close the distance herself.

Ace didn’t.

But she didn’t step back either.

When he finally pulled away, it was slow, intentional. Like he was proving something—to her, or maybe to himself.

“Come to the gallery opening this weekend,” he said. “I wanna show you something when it’s finished.”

Ace smiled, pulse steady but alive. “Okay.”

As she left, Chupa watched her go, jaw tight—not frustrated, just focused.

Something was happening with her. Something big.

And whatever it was, he wasn’t planning to stay on the sidelines.

Anon- Chapter 4 of this installment is here , yay.

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter Three: After the Music Stops

Ace didn’t plan it.

The urge hit her sometime after midnight—restless, familiar, impossible to ignore. She pulled on leggings and an oversized hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, headphones tucked into her pocket like a secret.

The dance building was quiet at that hour. Too quiet. Lights dimmed to their night setting, the security desk empty. She signed in, slipped into Studio B, and locked the door behind her.

Finally.

She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the center of the floor. The mirror reflected a version of herself she hadn’t fully met yet—older, softer in some places, sharper in others.

Ace pressed play.

“Touch Me” – Victoria Monét

The bass rolled in low and slow. Sensual without trying. Grown.

She closed her eyes.

Her body answered before her mind could interfere.

Hips first. Always.

A slow roll through her spine.

Hands tracing her own lines—not for anyone else, not to perform, but to feel.

This wasn’t choreography. No counts. No discipline. Just instinct.

She moved like she trusted herself again.

Her hoodie slipped off her shoulders. She didn’t bother fixing it. Sweat warmed her skin as she sank into the music, letting it pull things out of her she’d packed away for too long—desire, confidence, memory.

She didn’t hear the door open.

Rah stepped inside silently, intending only to grab a forgotten notebook.

Then he froze.

Ace was in the middle of the floor, back to him, lost in the song. Every movement deliberate and unguarded. Nothing flashy—just control, fluidity, ownership.

She wasn’t dancing for anyone.

Which made it impossible to look away.

Rah stayed where he was.

He told himself he’d leave.

He didn’t.

Ace turned, catching her reflection—and stopped.

Her breath hitched.

Rah stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable. The music kept playing, filling the space between them with something heavy and electric.

“I—” She swallowed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed,” he said calmly.

Silence stretched.

The song continued, low and intimate, like it knew better than either of them.

“That was… freestyle?” Rah asked.

Ace nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t comment right away. His gaze wasn’t inappropriate—if anything, it was careful. Measured. But the intensity of his attention made her acutely aware of herself anyway.

“You dance differently when you’re alone,” he said finally.

Her pulse jumped. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Rah replied. “It’s honest.”

The word settled between them.

Ace shifted her weight, suddenly aware of the late hour, the empty building, the way the room felt smaller with just the two of them inside it.

“I should probably go,” she said, though she didn’t move.

Rah nodded once. Still didn’t step closer. “Probably.”

Neither of them moved.

“You carry a lot in your movement,” he added, voice lower now. “Experience. Want. Restraint.”

Ace met his eyes in the mirror. “You teach restraint.”

“And you’re testing it,” he said softly.

The air thickened—not with danger, but with awareness. Boundaries standing tall, but humming.

Rah glanced at the speaker, then back at her. “You should lock the door next time.”

“I did,” she said.

That made him pause.

A beat passed.

Then Rah stepped back—giving her space, choosing it deliberately. “Good night, Ace.”

She exhaled only after he turned to leave.

The door clicked shut.

The music faded.

Ace stood there, heart pounding, skin warm, mind racing—not with regret, but with clarity.

She wasn’t a girl being discovered.

She was a woman reclaiming herself.

And both Rah and Chupa were already orbiting that gravity.

Anon : 😅 so if you noticed the name change in the story then it’s not on purpose it is a accident but a funny one. The characters are loosely based on real people and so I was supposed to change one of there names. I changed it in chapter one but I forgot to change it in chapter 2 and 3 and just noticed. I think they are fine with it but if not there will be changes.

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter Two: Different Languages

Ace learned quickly that dance didn’t end when class did.

Her body stayed tuned—hips loose, spine alert, senses sharpened—as she crossed campus later that afternoon. The art building sat a little apart from the others, older, quieter. Brick instead of concrete. Tall windows that let light spill in unapologetically.

She found Chupa there.

He was standing in the open doorway of one of the studios, charcoal smudged along his fingers, sleeves pushed up his forearms. The room behind him smelled like paint and turpentine, canvases leaned against the walls in various states of becoming.

“You stalking me now?” he teased when he saw her.

Ace leaned against the frame, mirroring his posture. “I had time before my next class.”

Chupa smiled, slow and knowing. “Come in.”

Inside, the space felt intimate in a different way than the dance studio. Messy. Personal. Vulnerable. His work was everywhere—sketches of bodies in motion, abstract shapes that somehow still felt human. Some were unfinished, raw.

“You draw dancers a lot,” Ace said, stepping closer to one of the canvases.

Chupa shrugged. “Movement tells the truth faster than faces.”

He stood closer now. Not touching. Just close enough that Ace could feel his presence, the warmth of him, the way his attention settled fully on her.

“You always looked like you were holding back,” he added quietly. “Even back then.”

Ace turned to face him. “And now?”

“Now,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before catching themselves, “you look like you’re deciding.”

The air shifted.

Ace exhaled, steadying herself. “Dance does that.”

Chupa’s smile softened. “Yeah. Art too.”

Their silence stretched—not awkward, just loaded. Ace became acutely aware of her body in the room, of how close they were, of how easy it would be to lean in.

She stepped back first.

“Good luck with your critique,” she said, voice even.

Chupa watched her go, eyes lingering. “Don’t disappear again.”

She didn’t promise anything.

⸻

Later that evening, Ace returned to the dance building for open studio hours. The space was quieter now, lights dimmed low, music humming softly from hidden speakers. A few students scattered across the floor, marking routines or stretching.

Rah stood near the mirrors, reviewing something on his tablet.

Ace hesitated—then entered.

He looked up immediately.

“Evening,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied, dropping her bag.

She warmed up slowly, intentionally, aware of his presence in a way that felt different than with Chupa. Where Chupa’s attention felt inviting, Rah’s felt… measuring. Careful. Deliberate.

After a while, Rah approached—not too close, but close enough.

“You’re improving already,” he said. “Your lines are cleaner than this morning.”

Ace wiped sweat from her brow. “I’ve had good teachers.”

Rah studied her for a beat. “Discipline suits you.”

The compliment landed heavier than she expected.

He gestured toward the floor. “Run that phrase again. Slower.”

She did. Each movement intentional, breath controlled. When she finished, Rah nodded once.

“Better,” he said. Then, quieter, “You’re learning to take up space.”

Ace met his eyes. There it was—that same charged stillness from earlier. Professional, yes. But not detached.

“Is that… okay?” she asked.

Rah’s jaw tightened just slightly. “It’s necessary.”

He stepped back, creating distance—but the space between them felt louder than before.

As Ace gathered her things to leave, she caught his reflection in the mirror. Watching. Thinking.

Not crossing lines.

But aware of them.

Outside, the night air cooled her skin. Ace paused on the steps, heart humming—not racing, not calm. Somewhere in between.

Chupa pulled at her desire like a familiar melody—warm, expressive, close enough to touch.

Rah challenged her in silence—control, restraint, the weight of being seen and held to it.

Both made her feel something.

Ace smiled to herself.

She wasn’t naïve anymore. She knew tension when she felt it. Knew how dangerous it could be. How intoxicating.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to run from it.

She wanted to move through it—on her own terms.

Anon- Chapter 2 is here guys. Chapter 3 is coming right after it an you guys are not ready for it

[shwatywithdapen]

Sweat and Second Chances

Chapter one - First day

Ace almost turned around at the door.

The building looked exactly the same—gray concrete outside, chipped paint near the handles—but the moment she stepped inside, her chest tightened. The hallway smelled like polished floors and old flyers taped to bulletin boards. Dance majors rushing past her with gym bags slung low, headphones in, bodies already warm with purpose.

She was back at the school.

Two years ago, she’d walked out thinking she was done. Burned out. Broke. Tired of loving something that didn’t love her back the same way. She told herself it was temporary. Then temporary stretched.

Now she was twenty-three, turning twenty-four soon, older than most of the students she passed. Not late—but not early either. Just… seasoned.

Ace adjusted the strap of her bag and followed the signs toward Studio B.

Inside, the room buzzed with energy. Conversations layered over music bleeding faintly from someone’s speaker. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting bodies in various stages of warm-up—stretching, rolling shoulders, marking steps. She caught her own reflection and barely recognized the woman staring back.

Stronger. Quieter. Sharper around the edges.

“Yo.”

Ace turned.

Eric stood a few feet away, leaning against the mirror like he belonged there—which, honestly, he did. Same easy grin. Same expressive eyes. He wore loose sweats and a tank that showed arms he’d clearly been using.

“I knew that was you,” he said. “You just… walk different now.”

She laughed softly. “That good or bad?”

“Grown,” he replied. “I like it.”

There was a beat—familiar, warm, charged in a way she hadn’t expected to feel this fast.

Before she could respond, the room shifted.

The conversations dulled. The music cut.

A presence entered.

Ace didn’t look right away—she felt it first. The way the air seemed to tighten, like everyone instinctively straightened without being told.

Then she turned.

Raeshawn.

He moved with the kind of ease that came from certainty—not rushed, not stiff. Black tee, dark sweats, posture relaxed but controlled. He looked… intentional. Older than most of the students, early thirties maybe. His face was calm, unreadable, but his eyes missed nothing.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was steady, low enough to settle the room. “I’m Raeshawn. Most of you will call me Professor. Some of you will call me Rah.”

A few students smiled at that.

Ace didn’t.

Something in her stomach flipped.

He scanned the room, gaze sweeping—not lingering, just assessing. When his eyes met hers, it was brief. Professional. Neutral.

Still, she felt it.

Recognition? No.

Curiosity.

“Let’s get started,” Rah said. “This class isn’t about tricks. It’s about control. Awareness. Understanding why your body does what it does.”

Ace swallowed.

That had always been her problem—feeling too much, too fast.

They began with warm-ups that were deceptively slow. Rolling through the spine. Engaging muscles that had been dormant too long. Ace’s body protested quietly, but she welcomed it. Sweat gathered at her temples. Her breath deepened.

“Don’t rush,” Rah called out. “If you can’t control slow, you can’t control anything.”

Ace slowed.

She felt his presence before she saw him beside her.

“Your foundation is solid,” he said, voice low but neutral. “You’ve danced before.”

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded. “Yeah. A long time ago.”

“And then you stopped.”

She glanced at him, surprised.

Rah’s eyes were on her posture, not her face. “Bodies don’t forget training. They just carry pauses.”

Something about that landed deep.

He stepped away, already moving on, leaving behind the faintest echo of his cologne and the unsettling realization that he’d seen more than she expected.

Eric caught her eye from across the room, eyebrow raised.

You okay? his look asked.

Ace nodded—but her pulse hadn’t settled.

By the end of class, her shirt clung to her skin, muscles trembling in that satisfying, dangerous way. Rah dismissed them with a nod.

“Same time next week,” he said. “Be honest with your bodies until then.”

As students filtered out, Ace stayed back to stretch. Eric joined her, dropping down beside her with a groan.

“I forgot how intense his classes are,” he said. “Rah don’t play.”

“So you’ve had him before,” Ace said.

“Yeah,” Eric replied. “He’s tough. But fair.”

He glanced at her. “You impressed him.”

She scoffed. “He barely looked at me.”

Eric smiled knowingly. “That’s how you know.”

Across the room, Rah gathered his things. As he passed, his eyes flicked to Ace once more—quick, unreadable.

Professional.

Still… intentional.

Ace exhaled slowly.

Coming back was already changing her.

And something told her this class—this space, these people—were going to open doors she wasn’t sure she was ready to walk through.

But she didn’t step away.

She never had.

Anon - Chapter 1 is installed y’all and there is more to come and just wait for chapter two the tension rises. I’m so happy you guys love my stories Ive been writing since high school but never had the guts to post anything but I now have free time and friends who are encouraging me to post.