#(slightly) disheveled and like something happened to him but he doesn't want to talk about it' type of vibes LMAO

[lususnatura]

[pineconepie]

This was an ask I got a while back, but either I can't find it or accidentally deleted it. But to the anon who asked for a scenario like this, here you go! :D

TW: Amnesia, parental/platonic yandere, forced infantilization, drugging, implied kidnapping, manipulation

"Help! Please help!" you cry, running as fast as you can throughout the dense forest. Branches and sharp brambles scrape your cheeks and catch onto your clothes.

You stop for a brief moment to pick the twigs out of your disheveled hair. The small cuts sting horribly but it doesn't deter you from pushing onwards.

Sweat beads down your forehead and you wipe at it furiously. Your chest is heaving, desperately trying to take in more oxygen.

"(Y/n)! Stop!" His booming voice echoes throughout the forest.

He's getting closer to you. You have to keep running, keep moving, keep—

Something hits you, something cold and metal. You barely have enough consciousness to realize it was a car, on the dirt road path. Your vision swims, and your head feels ready to burst.

Your ears ring incessantly. All you can hear is that horrible noise, but it doesn't completely drown out him calling for you.

And suddenly there are strong arms around you. "Oh! My baby! What have you done?!" Someone picks you up. They yell to someone else, but their voice is fading out.

Your vision fades to nothing.

...

When you wake up, there's the sound of something beeping. It's a comforting constant rhythm, steady and predictable. You think you know what it is, but your head feels all muddled and foggy.

Something cool and soft presses against your forehead, and you lean into the soothing touch.

"That's right, honey. Nice and easy," a voice speaks above you. Its light, with a subtle hint of an accent you can't recognize. A thumb gently rubs at your temple, massaging it with care and ease. "That must've been a pretty bad fall you took. Don't worry, I've got you."

You open your eyes. Hovering above you, is a man with long messy brown hair, light brown eyes, and a slight stubble of facial hair. He looks to be in his early to mid forties or so.

There's something familiar about him. You should know who this person is... but your brain cannot come up with a name.

"There they are!" the man coos. The corner of his eyes crinkle. He has crow's feet around them. You think those mean someone smiles often. You stare blankly back at him, mind still groggy from what happened earlier. He hums a melody, and gently brushes his fingertips along your arm.

"What..."

"Hush now, don't talk just yet," he murmurs. His other hand is behind your head, propping you up in its palm. "Had quite a nasty fall there. Scared me half to death!"

"Where am I?" You blink, still slightly disoriented.

"Shhh..." He kisses your bandaged forehead. "You're here in the hospital, sweetie. Just got done doing x-rays on your head." The room around you is stark white. There are various machines around you and one is beeping at a constant rhythm. It smells of chemicals and medicine. "I know you hate being scolded, but (Y/n), you know better than to play in the forest so late at night..." He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.

You squint at him, trying to jog your memory as to who this guy even is. Is he perhaps someone important? Someone you're supposed to know?

As hard as you try, no answers come to mind. And now that you're thinking about it, you really can't remember much at all besides your name and general sense of self.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" you awkwardly ask.

The man freezes. His eyebrows raise up in surprise before furrowing with concern. "Wh—(Y/n), sweetie," he looks at you. "Can you tell me who I am?" You shake your head. He stares at you for a moment, like frozen. Only when you awkwardly look down, does he do too. "The doctors mentioned possible memory loss, but..." He looks so torn; eyebrows twisted up sadly. You almost want to reach out and hug him.

The only thing that stops you is the IV, and the fact you don't know him, despite what he says.

"What's the last thing you remember, baby?" he asks again.

You wrack your brain. "I don't know. I know my name... and that's about it."

A flash of pain shoots through his gaze, though he seems to keep himself collected. "Okay. So, sweetie... I'm your dad." He reaches out to clasp your hands. "My name is Hugo Harrison. You're (Y/n) Harrison."

"You... don't look very much like me..." You realize that might be a rude thing to say. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a mean way."

Hugo chuckles. "It's okay, there's not a mean bone in your body, kiddo." He pauses, like contemplating his next words extra carefully. "I'm your adoptive dad. Now, we could go into a lot more detail, but let's not strain that noggin of yours for today, hm?" He tenderly touches your wrapped forehead. You must have injured it severely, which explains the splitting headache and memory loss.

"Oh, that makes sense," you murmur. You take in his appearance more. He has a tattoo peaking from below his collar shirt, and looks a bit rugged, with muscular arms that have a few scars. He even has an eyebrow piercing on his left.

Despite that, he seems so... sweet.

"Do you have any photos of us?" you ask. Part of it is genuine curiosity, but mostly just because you don't know what else to say.

His eyes soften, and he pulls out his phone to immediately show you his lock screen.

Sure enough, there the two of you are, smiling at the camera. It doesn't look like it was too long ago. You're both indoors, wearing some kind of brown and periwinkle uniforms.

Noticing your confused expression, he explains, "I own a cafe, sometimes you help out. That's where this photo is from. One of my favorites."

He scrolls through his camera roll and shows another picture of the both of you. In this one, you're sleeping on his lap, his hand covering the side of your face in an apparent attempt to block you from seeing the flash.

You nod mutely, trying to soak it all in. All you know of this man is from these two images.

So far, there's nothing overtly suspicious. Nothing that triggers alarm bells or raises red flags. At this point, you have no reason not to believe him.

So why do you feel so unsettled?

"How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Not good," you mumble, bringing a hand up to your head, cringing from the pain.

He presses a kiss to your hair, holding it for several seconds before pulling away. "Oh, sweetheart..." His voice wavers with emotion. "I'll talk to the doctors again. For now, you rest up, okay?"

With such a splitting headache and sore body, you have no trouble obeying his commands. Your eyes flutter shut, and the last thing you hear is a sigh coming from him, as well as something about wanting to take you home.

...

"Easy," Hugo soothes, letting you lean on him heavily as he walks you to his house. Everything hurts from your body to your head. The medication from earlier wore off halfway to his home.

Speaking of his house, it looks pretty much like a standard home, if not kind of cute, almost reminiscent of a cottage. It's beige with dark brown trimmings. Ivy climbs around the windows.

Flower beds line along the pathway to the front door and a vegetable garden sits near the shed in the back. There's wind chimes hanging near the entrance.

"I wish I could remember any of this," you mutter as he situates you on the couch. "Sorry."

"No, no," he reassures, rubbing your upper arm. "Don't apologize, okay? It's not your fault that this happened."

"What was I doing out in the forest, anyway? You mentioned something about that... is that something I typically do?" you ask.

Hugo looks confused for a moment, then nods. "Ah. Well, it was something you'd usually do, but hopefully that will be the last time. Sometimes you get... impulsive. You do things that are reckless. That's why I'm so protective of you. This isn't the first time you got injured like that." He shakes his head and laughs. "Stubborn kid you are..."

"I see." What else can you say, really? You wish your brain would hurry up and recall something. Right now it just feels blank. All you have to go off of is Hugo. "I know I can't remember, but I'm still sorry. For what I did. Or, uh, do."

His gaze softens even more, looking like the definition of fond. "Like I said, sweetie, you don't need to worry about a thing. It's all in the past now. What matters is that you're here now, safe with me. How about I take you up to your room? You can get a nap in while I make dinner. Sound nice?" He brushes his thumb over your temple.

You wordlessly lean against him. He chuckles and helps you back up, mindful of your injuries, and leads you upstairs.

Again, it looks like a completely normal household. Nothing stands out to you besides perhaps the large number of photographs littering the walls.

Your bedroom has pastel blue wallpaper with stars decorating the top half of the wall.

There's a bunch of stuffed animals lining the bed, as well as pillows with galaxy themed pillows. The carpet is plush and your feet sink slightly in them.

"This was... mine?"

"Yes!" He seems less happy about it when he sees your expression. "Do you not like it? You decorated it yourself..."

"Isn't it kind of, uh, childish? Nothing wrong with that, of course, just doesn't seem like something someone older would want," you lamely explain.

Hugo takes another moment to mull over his words. "Well... you've always been a bit childish for your age, sweetie. I think it's adorable, and you seemed content with this room before... but if you really want to change it up, I don't mind at all." His strained smile tells you that he does, in fact, mind it.

"That's okay. I think I do like it, now that I've seen it longer," you reassure him. Part of it might be because you feel bad. You hobble over to the bed with his assistance, and watch him choose a cutesy beige pajama set. The sleeves are longer than your arms and the pants are covered in sheep patterns. "Do I normally wear that to bed?"

"More like just your typical lounge wear," he answers. "Do you need help, or can I leave you to it?"

"Um, you can leave me to it." You watch him open the door to leave. "Oh, by the way... what do I call you? By your name? Dad? Papa?"

A large smile stretches across his lips. "You call me 'Papa', but really anything works with me. Just want you to feel comfortable, bud. Oh, and dinner'll be ready soon. Tomato, chicken noodle, or cream of mushroom?"

You look down at your lap, where your pajamas lay. "What ever I liked most, I guess."

He hums in affirmation. "Sounds good."

Before long, you've changed and situate yourself on your bed, the stuffed toys huddled around you like a cocoon. Though everything seems fine and cozy, it all feels too new, too strange, for it to feel exactly right. It's supposed to be yours, you know this. And yet, it feels so... foreign.

This should make sense. Logically, it does. But your intuition keeps whispering doubts, despite Hugo giving you nothing but warmth.

...

Two weeks pass, and go by pretty uneventfully. He cares for you like you are a toddler, but he assures you this is how he used to act around you.

Still, your memory seems stubborn in recovering, and each night you pray for the morning to finally reveal a clue as to your past.

So far, nothing has shown up.

And being confined within the house doesn't help, either. Hugo refuses to let you go outside unsupervised, claiming how he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if you wound up in danger again.

And really, who are you to refuse him? You don't have any memories, any other friends (he's told you they've moved away years ago), and you have no money to sustain yourself. He's all you have.

"Where are you going?" you ask one morning, to see him slinging on a jacket. His hair is also tied up, which you've gathered he only does when he's going out somewhere.

"The cafe," he replies, though you can tell something is off by the way he smiles. "There's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, okay? Stay inside, and I mean it."

"Can't I go with?" you suggest. Maybe seeing the place could bring back some recollections. Plus, sitting alone all day isn't fun at all, especially when there's nothing to distract you with besides watching TV or reading. Neither of those interests you that much, not to mention a majority of the books and shows catered to people less than half your age.

"Not with those injuries," he chuckles, but there's some firmness in his tone.

"I feel fine! My ankle isn't sprained anymore, and my ribs hardly bother me," you counter. Your face isn't bandaged anymore, either. Instead, only faint scars remain.

"Honey, the answer is no."

"I just want to leave the house!" you blurt. His eyebrows raise up at your outburst. "It's boring staying cooped up all day! I don't want to watch cartoons again or read a comic book or play with action figures."

He purses his lips. "But you love doing those things..."

"Yeah, sure. I don't doubt that I like those activities. But maybe sometimes I'd like to do something more, I dunno, mature." It's not that you hate the stuff Hugo's given you, but you aren't mentally ten years old or whatever age he's assuming you are. So reading picture books and playing with kiddie games get dull real fast. "Please? I don't have to do any physical labor, just wanna get outside the house..."

"(Y/n)..."

Maybe it's a tad bit manipulative, but you've found it works pretty well on him. "I just wanna spend time with my papa... if I can't remember old memories, I was hoping we'd have more time to bond..."

Hugo looks torn for a split second, before giving you a gentle grin, reaching out to pinch your cheeks. "Allllriiight," he drawls. "Wear something warm. It's chilly out."

"Why not my uniform?"

"Because I don't want you working, silly."

The drive there is an hour long, and has you wondering how on earth he makes these long treks there and back five times a week.

By the end, you're yawning and leaning against the window. He laughs, shaking you awake, helping you walk inside the cafe.

In the break room, he situates you on the couch. "I'll get you something to snack on soon. Banana bread, blueberry muffin, brownie, or chocolate chip cookie?"

You weakly smile. "What ever was my favorite?"

He snorts. "Gotcha. I'll be back soon. Don't leave this room, 'kay?" He doesn't wait for a response, quickly busying off towards the counter, throwing his apron back on.

When he's out of view, you try to relax, but as time passes on, you get bored with the things he's given you.

A coloring book, a children's storybook, and crayons litter around you. Sure, they're fun for a little while, but then you're back to square one.

You briefly contemplate if this is the reason why you kept running off to the forest often.

If he's been anything like this normally, you can imagine why you've been searching for more fun things to do.

You peak your head from the break room, to see him tending to another customer, making conversation.

"Oh, (Y/n), that you?"

You look to see one of the customers. He's a person about your age, smiling at you like you guys are friends. When you return the look awkwardly, it morphs into confusion.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks, walking closer to you. "Don't tell me you're working. Hugo told me you had a nasty fall, dude."

"Oh, I'm just here while he works," you shrug. "My memory is a bit weird, still. Who are you...?"

He blinks. "Oh. I'm Weston. We're friends. You must have it pretty bad if you can't remember me."

This is all so confusing. Hugo told you that you didn't have any friends... "Oh. Well, I'm just in the break room while Papa works." You cringe at your own wording. Still feels a bit weird, despite having grown more accustomed to calling him that now. "After he's done, we're probably just gonna go home."

Weston frowns. "Your dad? Are you talking about Hugo?" When you nod, he gives a dry laugh. "(Y/n), he's not—"

"What are you doing?" The deep voice startles you both. You turn around to see Hugo staring between the two of you, jaw tensing with some suppressed emotion. He forces a smile at Weston. "Hey, Weston, sorry, they're going through a lot as you can tell. Still in a state of constant confusion. Sorry. Did you want your usual? Croissant and cappuccino?"

He takes a small step back, but is still clearly defensive, like he's waiting for something to happen. "Yeah, no worries, Mr. Harrison. I know they hit their head hard."

Hugo nods. "I'll get started on that in a sec." He drags you back to the break room, almost slamming the door shut behind him. "Kiddo. What did I tell you?"

"I didn't technically leave... I just poked my head to see if you were busy, and that guy... Weston, I think, recognized me..." You realize his breathing sounds labored. "He said he's my friend."

"That kid?" he says incredulously, laughing. It doesn't sound humorous. It's dry and cold. "No, no, no. Sweetheart, I know everyone in this town and he most definitely isn't friends with you. (Y/n), look, you really can't trust your judgment right now." He grips your shoulders. "You gotta understand that you're hurt. Your head's not working correctly. Okay?"

You wish you could let it go, but something else he said makes you anxious. "He sounded like he was about to say you aren't my dad..."

"He's misinformed. Don't let him fill your head with lies. Now, I gotta get back to work."

"But—"

"For the love of God, just shut up, will you?" he snaps. "I barely let you come along! I should've followed my instincts, why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?"

The glint in his eyes scares you. It reminds you of something terrible, even if you can't remember. You flinch so hard you fall off the couch.

As soon as Hugo's anger came, it dissipated when he saw you trembling, backing up. You shield yourself away with your arms, expecting him to explode.

Even though you have no memory in your head, it's like your body remembers, judging by the way you recoil away from him. It's all instinctual. Even when his expression turns from angry to worried, to guilty.

"Oh no..." He kneels beside you. "Oh, I am so sorry, baby. I don't know what came over me. Here, take my hand," he offers. You reluctantly take his calloused, scarred hand. "Shh... I know, Papa can be scary, huh? I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that you made me so mad, scaring me like that... he's a bad person. This town is filled with them. That's why I'm so protective of you."

He's always making up excuses.

"I just wanna be left alone," you rasp. "Please."

"Okay. That's fair. If that's what you want." You expect him to fight it, but instead he gets up slowly and leaves after mumbling one final apology. After the door closes, you exhale, burying your face into your hands.

Something about what happened triggers a flashback.

"You just never know when to stop, do you? How many times have I asked you not to hang out with them?"

"Hugo, come on, you can't dictate who I hang out with. I can handle myself just fine. Now please, let me just do my job. People are staring."

"Keep up with this attitude, (Y/n), and we'll have problems."

"If you're going to fire me, might as well do so. I'm close to quitting myself."

You don't remember anything after that.

But whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The ride home is relatively silent. Not that it's much different from his normal quietness, but it's a different kind of quiet. Deafening. Tense.

All because he lost his cool earlier. Your shoulders hunch as you try to avoid eye contact.

Finally, Hugo speaks. "Still upset?"

"Why do you care?" you mumble.

His fingers tense against the steering wheel, before relaxing. "Of course I care. I care about you more than anyone else." His eyebrows furrow with concern. "Just because I got a bit snappy back there doesn't mean I love you any less. If you weren't so reckless... but even then, I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that." He sighs deeply. "I'm sorry."

Something tells you if you don't forgive him now, he'll give you hell about it later. "It's okay."

That seems to quell his stress immensely, and he breathes out shakily, like a huge weight was taken off him. "Thank you," he murmurs. "We'll do something special tonight, okay? Movie night, maybe a pillow fort?"

"Sure." You're too tired to argue.

...

The next day, he leaves to get groceries, taking another day off work. You take that as an opportunity to snoop around, for the two hours or so he'll be gone.

Maybe something is fishy about Hugo; the way he keeps trying to keep you restrained from leaving the house is suspicious enough. And the lack of communication to the outside world, even before the fall.

No computer, internet access, cell phone... maybe your memories won't have to return for you to discover some clues.

Searching his bedroom provides nothing useful, so you continue towards his desk area.

Opening drawers, there's lots of random papers inside, which you flip through and scan through as carefully as you can.

That's when you realize one of the letters is a letter of resignation... from you, addressed to Hugo. The date isn't too long ago; in fact, it's the day before you remember having the accident.

You read through it, each sentence causing you more and more distress, until the paper is trembling in your grip.

Hugo,

I appreciate everything you've done for me since I first started working with you, but unfortunately our differences are causing more trouble than it's worth.

The incident last week truly opened my eyes. I didn't realize how toxic and controlling you were. You have isolated me from society, refused to allow me freedom, and tried to control who I hang out with and what I do.

You're my boss, but you insist on acting like my father, despite how many times I've told you that is crossing a boundary of mine.

Therefore, I regretfully inform you I will no longer work with you. This will be my two weeks notice. I'm sorry.

(Y/n)

The paper flutters to the ground. You're sweating. Isolating, controlling, manipulative behavior... it fits to a T of what Hugo's been displaying to you since the accident. Except it started long before that.

You glance around the hallway, suddenly feeling like you're in enemy territory rather than your home. But can you even call it that anymore?

All's you know, is you need to get out of here.

Running back downstairs, you begin planning what supplies to bring with you, but movement from outside catches your attention.

Rushing to the window, you see a familiar figure walking up the driveway. Your blood runs cold.

It's Hugo, carrying bags from the grocery store.

You must've lost track of time. You stumble to your room and pretend to be asleep.

Listening carefully to the noises coming from downstairs, he brings in the bags and rustling follows.

Now that you know the truth, every tiny noise causes anxiety. Why is he doing all this? Was this really all an elaborate lie, this entire situation?

And the most chilling part... was he responsible for your accident? Has it ever been an accident in the first place? As these thoughts race in your mind, your ears strain to listen to what he's doing below you.

Footsteps approach the staircase. Your heartbeat quickens and you burrow further underneath the covers. They ascend slowly.

Eventually they're right in front of your bedroom. Then, it sounds like they turn and head towards his room instead. You have to stifle a relieved sigh when he doesn't enter your room.

The relief doesn't last long.

Did you put everything away where you found it? Did you shut the drawers properly, did you cover up your tracks?

A few minutes go by, until there's a knock on the door. "Sweetheart, I'm getting started on dinner. How does mac 'n cheese sound?"

"Sure," you say, so quiet he almost doesn't hear you.

You wait until you hear his footsteps descend, then sneak into his room to make sure you put everything up.

To your relief, it looks like it, so you shuffle back downstairs, trying to put on the best neutral expression you can manage.

The last thing you'd want him to suspect is that you're onto his twisted game.

"There they are! Come sit at the table. Almost ready." He ruffles your hair gently when you take a seat. It takes everything in you not to squirm away from his touch. To keep pretending that you're blissfully oblivious. "How long were you napping for?"

"Not too long." The less you talk, the better.

"That's good." Hugo serves you a bowl full of macaroni and adds a glass of juice next to it, sitting across from you. Something about his demeanor seems different. You're sure that's just the anxiety talking. "Is something wrong, buddy? You're quieter than normal," he notes.

"Just... still kinda tired." You pick at the macaroni, hoping he doesn't press on about this.

"Awww... well, eat up, okay?"

Despite the lack of appetite, you force down the food. Every bite tastes like mush.

But if you don't finish it, you have the sinking feeling he'll know something's up. So, you force everything down, as well as the juice, which washes it down easier.

Within moments, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. "H...Hugo..."

Hugo gives a lopsided smile, somewhat apologetic. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't want to do that, but found you messed with some of my stuff. My fault, I've been putting off getting locks for it. I swear, I'd lose my head if it weren't screwed on!" He laughs. It borders on hysterical. "All I want is to be your dad... for you to let me care for you." He reaches out, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. "But no need to worry. I doubt you'll remember any of today, anyway."

"No..." You try to stand, but end up collapsing forward. In the haze, you register being pulled upwards.

"You just can't help but be stubborn," he chastises. "Guess you got it from your old man."

"You aren't..." Your tongue begins to feel heavy, just like the rest of your body. "Not my..."

"Sleep, baby. Sleep. When you wake up, this will all just be a silly nightmare. Papa's got you. He'll always have you."

And despite your desperate attempts to stay awake, sleep eventually claims you, as black engulfs your vision.

The last thing you sense is your head being tucked underneath his chin, and hearing him hum the same melody he hummed in the hospital.

[blackbirdsblackberries]

I Hate The New Hero!

Pt 9 - Smackdown

Warnings: Physical abuse

You wake up to a painfully bright light. Opening your eyes you notice you're in a hospital.

So, like any poor person who can't afford a trip to the hospital, you panic. You sit up straight and try to ignore the slightly discomfort in your body. A hand rests itself on your shoulder and you jump slightly, your spider sense were muddled up currently due to the cafe incident.

When you turn to see who placed the hand on your shoulder you almost scream.

Duke Thomas. Duke fucking Thomas.

This is officially the worst day of your life. How could it not be?

Duke seems to be saying something but you can't find the motivation to listen, he looks worried. People could say Duke was the kindest, most normal person in the Wayne family but you could see right through him.

Something was wrong with him. He's dangerous. He has to be, why else would your senses go into hyperdrive whenever he's around. Sure, he's the most tolerable out of them all but that doesn't make him instantly better.

-

Duke stops talking once he notices your dazed look. You look scared.

He furrows his brows and removes the hand from your shoulder, he slowly grabs your hand - so gentle he may as well think it was cracked glass.

"Y/N..?" He mutters, cursing himself silently due to how awkward it sounded coming out of his mouth. Your name was rarely uttered in the family, all talks being through messages and when talking in real life it was always 'that girl' or 'Aranea's hater'.

Never Y/N.

Duke had mixed feelings about you. He doesn't know what to think.

If only you'd just speak with Aranea, things would be so much easier. You wouldn't be so tormented. That look in your eyes - apprehension, fear, and something else he can't decipher - makes him pity you, you have opinions, they just happen to be the wrong ones.

Before Duke can speak up once more to try and snap you out of your dazed state the hospital door slams open.

Both your heads whip to the door a disheveled looking Dick Grayson is leaning against, heaving for breath.

It certainly snapped you out of it. Great. Just your luck. What is he even doing here? Gonna dump more water on you? Ruin more of your belongings? Rub in the fact you ended up in hospital?

To your surprise - and, honestly, horror - Dick rushes to your side and looks you over...

As if afraid of losing you..? What? Are you hallucinating?

You manage to hear his mutterings, his breathless whispers. It immediately enrages you.

"Thank fuck you aren't dead... I would feel so guilty.."

He would feel guilty? Him?

What about you. Not everything revolves around him.

You're the one that was 'pranked'.

You're the one that had the allergic reaction.

You're the one who now has to deal with her parent's wrath once they see the hospital bill.

With all the strength you have you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. None of them reach out to try and stable you when you stumble slightly.

You take a deep breath before glaring at Dick, you hope your hatred can override your exhaustion so you can actually look threatening.

"What are you doing here." You ask, though it wasn't phrased as a question - moreso a demand. You watch as Dick fiddles with something behind his back before sighing and handing it to you.

"I.. I wanted to apologize for the stunt I pulled. It was shitty of me to do. I bought you a new phone to make up for it though!"

You can do nothing but stare down at the phone in it's box. It was one of the expensive ones your parents always talk about wanting. You know for sure that if you arrived home they'd snatch it from you and hand one of their beat up phones in exchange.

So generous.

"Thanks, Dick..."

What else was there to do but sigh and thank him? He seems proud at your gratitude before turning and heading for the door. He stops before leaving and looks over his shoulder.

"No wonder you're a shitty person, you're room is super shitty." With a chuckle he then, finally, leaves. You hunch over in agitation. You are so done with the Wayne family - and you still need to deal with Duke.

Speaking of, his voice finally reaches your ears.

"Y/N..? Sorry for Dick's comments. That was super underhanded." You side eye him while he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly - what is he? an anime protagonist?

"And, uh, about the whole hospital thing, I can pay if need be!" He looks like he's ready to argue with you about it, as if you were going to reject his offer.

And at first you were, before you realized being indebted to the Waynes is infinitely better than being beaten so hard you see Bruce's parent's stupid faces by your dad.

"Okay." Is all you say, shooting him a thumbs up before looking to see if you had your bag - nope! You just gotta hope Sherri or Tia have it.

Duke looks flabbergasted for a minute before composing himself. "R-Right, yeah, sorry, I expected more.. Fight?" You watch as he visibly cringes and you can't help but deadpan.

You're from an impoverish family, one that wouldn't hesitate to hurt you. You are NOT risking anything.

"Hm. Well, you offered. I'm not going to decline such a wonderful and generous offer!" You try to hide your sneer but it seeps through your words no matter how hard you try.

With that you walk out of the room and to the receptionist at the front of the hospital. You explain how Duke is paying and leave.

The only good thing in Gotham is that the Hospitals are so out of line you could claim Bruce Wayne is paying and they'd just put him down.

Obviously no one is bold enough to do so in fear of Bruce noticing.

Walking home seemed quicker than normal, maybe you were just too eager to go home and collapse on your bed.

You quietly open the door to the apartment, it was already getting dark so you had to be careful.

But, once more, this is most definitely not your day.

Both your parents are up, you can hear your mom muttering to your dad about having a visitor. You walk into the kitchen, hungry, tired, and so done with everything you don't care if your parents hurt you.

Your mother shoots a glare to you while your father busies himself with his food - eating like a greedy pig.

"Where have you been?! We had a HIGHLY important guest here for you and you never arrived!" Her shrill voice grates on your ears and you turn to the pantry, hoping there would be something to eat.

"I was busy... School work and stuff.." You mutter, if you told your mom about the hospital visit she'd lose her head and you'd be on the streets in the blink of an eye.

That would mean your begging with Tim would be for nothing - you'd look like a fool for nothing.

"Stop muttering, child! That's not excusable! Now- What's that..?" You're mother cuts herself off once her eyes catch onto the new and expensive-looking box in your hand.

You hesitate before holding it out, she would've taken it from you anyway, best not to put up a fight.

"... Mr Grayson got me a new phone after accidentally breaking mine" You speak up, louder than before. You mom hated when you spoke under your breath, made her feel like she is the only one who can speak in the house.

She yanks it out of your hands and looks over it, your dad also seems to draw his attention to it. His eyes narrowing as he takes in the fancy thing in your mother's hands.

Your mother turns it around in her hands "Hm... You know, you don't need such a nice phone... You're only in high school. I'll take this and you can have my one!" She grins cockily.

Your dad slams his hands on the table and glares at you and your mom.

"Where is my one" he signs angrily. You gulp, you're in serious danger now..

"I.. Dick didn't get a second.. The phone was meant for me is all!" Your words falling out of your mouth like vomit.

To say your dad isn't happy would be an understatement. Your mom, noticing his demeanor, hums and says something about taking a shower as she leaves the kitchen.

Your dad stands up, fists clenched, he walks around the bench and stalks up to you. You take a step back, you can see your hands shaking in front of you as you brace for impact.

One punch across your jaw, a kick to the knee, a pull to your hair that brings you to the floor with a cry.

if it was a criminal and you were Aranea you would fight back, defend yourself. But, this is your dad, you can't bring yourself to fight back - you hate him, god you hate him.

A kick directs itself into your stomach, then your lips, then back down to your ribcage. You swear your gums are bleeding, you feel blood drip from your busted lip.

You do what you usually do when confronted with this situation.

You zone out, pretend you're in a better world, a better life.

Eventually you go unconscious, unaware of when or how. When you wake up you're on the kitchen floor and the morning light casts in your eyes like a lamp that's too bright.

You groan and sit up, blood on your tongue, your clothes, and your skin. You'll need to have a quick shower because school starts in an hour.

~

Taglist

@rissareader @delias-stuff @hogwarts9 @marsmabe @randomlyappearingartist @coralaura @nervousalpacalady @citrushalo @chericia @soriansick @v0idl1nq @scrumdidiliyumyum @kittykatcreatster @feral-childs-word @anon34570 @shycreatorreview @sunny-sp3lls @fluffypackofships @cynniee @yuyuzi-ling @coffeeaddictxd @starryperson @readermommy @niggrrooo @bunbunboysworld @yanrandom @fluffypackofchips @vanilliona @wizzerreblogs

[asahisbunny]

SMOOTH AS SILK

── .✦Asahi azumane x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 Your husband, Asahi Azumane, is a famous designer in japan, but deadlines are his worst enemy. How would he react when his pretty wife offers to help him solve his multiple problems!?

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; smut, p in v, dirty talking,this man is so down bad, getting turned on over fashion? Asahi turns feral, teasing, breeding kink if you open your eyes (it's so obvious), cervix kissing, or smth, he's so whiny..until he isn't.

I'm not responsible for the content you consume MDNI

Asahi sat on his desk, hair no longer sitting in his stylish bun but cascading down his temples. in front of him sat his upcoming spring collection, all pieces finished except for an infuriating vest. he knew there was something missing, but as much as he kept on sketching he couldn't seem to find what it was, he is very meticulous with his designs, it doesn't matter if the deadline is in an hour, if there's something missing, he won't turn it in. But what did take him out of his perfectionist loop was being far away from home too long. His deadline was tomorrow, and he had already been away from home for two agonizing days. Killing himself slowly in his studio, accompanied by soulless mannequins and lavish fabrics.

Away from your love, your doting, your touch. He dreaded being away from you, so much that his thoughts distracted him from hearing the lock turn, and your quiet steps made their way inside. It was only when you snaked your arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek that he noticed your presence.

“‘sahiii” you whined playfully, making him smile fondly “good evening, my love” he spoke, turning around in his chair to get a better look at you. you cooed worriedly at his features “oh baby, look at your eyes, how long has it been since you slept?”

your hands cradled his face as of he was a sickly victorian child. well..he probably did look like that in your eyes. you pulled the strands of hair that framed his face behind his ears before kissing him on the lips. oh how sweet did your lips taste he though to himself.

Asahi all but melted into your touch, the blood in his veins ignoring his sleep deprived state and rushing blood south. with his lips still on yours, tongue swiping at your bottom lip to gain access, he took hold of your hips, squeezing them with want.

“Asahi, you need a good night's sleep and something other than instant noodles filling you up”

you reprimand him, hand on you hip like a scolding teacher

His face only turned flustered “what about me filling up my wife hmm?” his hands now snaking their way to the small of your back.

“Asahi!”

You basically walked in on that on your own.

After having to pry him away from your side, blush as bright as the night of your wedding, you made your way to the “kitchen” of the studio. the one which consisted of a microwave that had seen better days and an old coffee maker.

“I brought you some rice and side dishes from last night, ‘samu came to drop em off”

The only respond you received was a huff, worried you walked over to him again.

“What's the issue with the piece ‘sahi?”

He only deflated back on the chair, head thrown back as he rubbed his palm roughly down his face with a deep sigh.

Gods did he drive you mad, even in his disheveled state, your eyes drifted to his constricted bulge, your eyes getting all glossed up like some-

“You are so cruel you know, lovely?” he spoke with a breathy laugh, looking at you through his spread fingers on top of his face.

“‘m sorry, you were saying?” you were not faltering. Mhm not happening.

“don't be, come here” he pulled you by the side of your hip. showing you the sketch of the vest and what it was paired up with. Immediately, you know knew what caused him so much trouble. he observed your features closely, how you frowned slightly while looking at the buttons sampled on the side and the array of colors the other garments the model would wear, the more he looked at you, the more his cock would twitch with fervor

Get it together Azumane.

“I think I know what's missing ‘sahi” you say before eyeing him weirdly at his flustered expression and slightly dilated pupils. “All yours baby” he hands you the pencil, and much to his dismay, sit on his lap. “Baby, could you behave for just five minutes, hmm?” you teased, smiling when he nodded eagerly,not missing the way his cock twitched against you clothed pussy.

“It's a sleeveless vest, and I know for a fact that the model is Angelo cause the torso is rather long, so maybe the buttons should be a color that compliments his skin color better” you started, erasing slightly the buttons, adding annotations to the side

“Is the design alright” he asked, peeking at your work, setting his shin on the crook of your neck, breath hitching when you shifted on top of him to get comfortable, resulting in his hand grabbing your hip to stop you. “Asahii” you draw out his name in a warning tone “sorry baby, carry on” he huffed.

“Since the pants are a dark pomegranate color, maybe an embroidery design of the fruit on the left would be ideal. Does Angelo have his ears pierced?”

You were driving him insane

“‘Azumane”

“H-huh? Oh y-yeah he does” his cock was leaking so much precum it was pressing against his pants, soiling them.

“Good, then make sure he wears deep red ones” you enunciate deep, with a slow drag of your hips.

He once again threw his head back at the friction “please I'll be so quick then I'll take a small break beautiful, I need to be inside you” he all but whined, tears threatening to escape his eyelids.

“Honey, I need to concentrate” your voice was laced in such a syrupy essence as you patted his knee lovingly that it made him leak even more into his already ruined boxers.

“I think you could add a striped tie to bring out his elongated torso, maybe. I'll still draw it on the side to see if you like it when I'm done”

His body was here yet his mind was on your shared bed, with you spread open on his throbbing cock, load after load stuffed so deep in your womb you'd be lucky that you weren't pregnant by the end of it.

“All done, come look” His thoughts all but dissipated as he saw you leaning on his desk, your back to him, ass so inviting.

He caged your frame from behind, one hand keeping you pressed against his confined..problem

“My wife is so good at what she does, so hah- so talented baby” he whispered in your ear, now full on rutting into you

“I teach fashion for a reason baby, I'm good at my job” you reply, hands bucking at the intensity of the wave of arousal hitting you all of a sudden.

“please let me thank you bunny, I'll be so good to you, hmm? you'll let me?”

Oh how you loved when he rambled away when he was all pent up

“I'm all yours Asahi” you say, looking back at him with half lidded eyes, giving him one more drag against his bulge

In a second all his resolve dissolved into the softness of your hips. In an instant he rid the desk of all the papers and art supplies that adorned it, buttons flying to the floor, making you gasp

“I am not helping you re-do all that last minute Asahi!” you yelped in disbelief

“we won't have any time after I'm done with you anyway, I'll ask for an extension if I need to” he said, bending you over the now empty desk, pinning your arms behind your back. One hand keeping them in place sweat already beading on his forehead at the anticipation.

He tugged at the elastic of your panties, leading them down your legs, until it reached your ankles, hiking up the little dress he made you not long ago past your ass,he let out a guttural groan as he saw how slicked your folds were.

“Look at her, all pretty and ready for me, don't you think?” he laughed as his middle finger went in with ease causing a filthy sound to Come out of your lips.

“Can just shove my cock in her” You didn't even noticed when he got rid of his briefs but his tip was already teasing your dilated entrance “so wet already can just slip it riiiiiight in”

You mewled at the burning stretch. Asahi was big in all the senses, from his stature, his heart, to his inches. Yet you took it all, all 9 of ‘em

“so deep ‘sahi, you're in– nghh in so deep” your

“I know bunny, can feel it– fuck! Can feel it kissing it”

It made you shiver how he behaved so animalistic. Your usually pliant and kind husband became an animal in heat once sheathed inside you– and you love it!

“‘gonna fill you up so well and soo deep, gonna have you all round an’ swollen in a few months” he felt you clench with such vigor it made him dizzy.

“you like that honey, hm? yeah, I knew you would” his thrust were borderline inhumane, his tip violently rocking against your fertile womb, your moans and whines fueling him on.

Not long after, his thrust faltered as he spilled his sticky seed against your walls, painting them white, detonating your own orgasm in its tow.

“Oh shit- did I go too far?” he asked, worried, coming down from his high.

There he was, your gentle giant

“You really think once is gonna make it stick baby?”

You were gonna drive him mad.

©𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘, 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍...𝐁𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐅𝐒

[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 9

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 10,097

A/N: We've finally made it to the end my friends! Enjoy. [I've been trying to post this for the past 3 hours, but kept getting pulled into meetings. As if they don't know I have important schedules to keep! 😂]

You push through the door of your penthouse, yoga mat tucked under one arm, too much sweat cooling uncomfortably against your skin after an hour at hot power yoga. The air conditioning hits you like a reprieve, and you're already mentally mapping the path to your shower when you see him, Christopher, perched on your pristine white couch like he owns it, like he owns you. His eyes track your movement, dark and intent, a predator watching prey. The mat slips from your grip, thumping softly against the marble floor.

"What the fuck?" The words escape before you can collect yourself. Your leggings cling to your thighs, sports bra damp against your chest. You feel suddenly, acutely exposed.

Christopher doesn't move, just watches you with that infuriating stillness of his. He's dressed impeccably. Black slacks and a cream long-sleeved crew neck shirt, both tailored to mathematical perfection, the glint of his watch worth more than most people's cars peeking out from beneath his sleeve. His hair is swept back, not a strand out of place. A stark contrast to your post-workout dishevelment.

"Good afternoon to you too," he says, voice level in a way that raises the hair on your arms. "Your doorman is remarkably accommodating when you flash the right credentials."

Mental note: File a complaint with management about the doorman. And put your foot so far up his ass you’ll rip him a new one.

"Breaking and entering is a crime, Christopher," you say, crossing your arms. You don't move closer. "Even for rich assholes."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I wouldn't have resorted to this if you'd answered a single one of my calls."

"Did it occur to you that there was a reason I wasn't answering?" You bend to pick up your mat, needing something to do with your hands. "That perhaps I didn't want to talk to you?"

"It's been three weeks." His composure cracks slightly, a fissure in perfect marble. "Three weeks of silence. Not even the courtesy of a response to my offer for renewal."

You laugh, though nothing about this is funny. "Courtesy? That's rich coming from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He stands now, unfolding his frame from your couch, and you hate that part of you still responds to his presence. His confident stance, the breadth of shoulders under expensive fabric, the dangerous line of his mouth. And those fucking lips.

"It means I'm not renewing the fucking contract." You say it flatly, letting each word land. "I'm done. And I don't want you as a client anymore."

His entire body tenses, as if you've physically struck him. He wasn't expecting that; you can see it in the momentary widening of his eyes, the subtle step backward he takes. Christopher Bahng, master of the universe, actually caught off guard.

"That's absurd," he says, recovering quickly. "We have a good arrangement. The best, by your own admission."

"Had," you correct. "Past tense."

He moves toward you, crossing the cool expanse of your living room in three long strides. You force yourself not to retreat, even as he stops close enough that you can smell his cologne, that familiar blend that's imprinted itself on your senses, on your sheets, on your skin.

"This is about what happened that night." It's not a question. His chest rises and falls more rapidly now, control slipping. "About what I said."

"This is about me making a business decision," you counter. "Our arrangement has run its course."

His hand reaches for you, and you step neatly out of his grasp. Something flashes in his eyes… hurt, anger, both.

"You're being childish," he says, and the words strike a match inside you.

"Childish?" Your voice rises despite your best efforts. "Because I don't want to fuck you for money anymore? Because I had the audacity to develop feelings, that you encouraged by the way, and then got crushed when you made it clear all I am to you is a fantasy in a convenient body?"

Christopher's face darkens. "That's not what happened."

"No? Then what would you call it?" You're in dangerous territory now, the words spilling out unchecked. "Because from where I'm standing, you made it perfectly clear that our arrangement was purely transactional when I asked if you had feelings for me."

"You blindsided me." His voice rises to match yours.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you spit back. "Next time I'll be sure to schedule my emotional vulnerability in your Outlook calendar. Would that work better for you Christopher?"

"Don't twist my words." He steps closer, invading your space. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."

"Do I?" You tilt your chin up, refusing to be intimidated despite the hammering of your heart. "When I asked if there was something real between us, you shut down faster than the stock market on Black Monday."

"And you ran." His accusation hangs in the air between you. "You didn't give me a chance to process, to explain. You just disappeared."

You laugh. "You had a fucking month to process. Yet nothing. Even as you continued fucking me. And what was there to explain? You said everything I needed to hear."

"I said what I thought I was supposed to say!" The words explode from him, echoing off the high ceilings. You raise an eyebrow at his sudden loss of composure. "Christ, do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I planned for any of this?"

"Poor Christopher," you mock. "Did the girl you were paying to fuck actually expect to be treated like a human being? How inconvenient for you." You roll your eyes.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, not threatening but restraining. "Is that really what you think of me? After everything?"

The question catches you off guard. There's genuine hurt in his voice, and it makes something inside you falter. But you've come too far to back down now.

"What I think doesn't matter," you say, more quietly. "Our arrangement is over. We’re done. I'd like you to leave."

"No." His refusal is soft but steel-lined. "Not until you hear me out."

"There's nothing to hear."

"I'm in love with you."

The words hang between you like a suspended moment of time. You stare at him, certain you've misheard. "What? What the fuck did you just say?"

"I said I'm in love with you." His voice is different now, raw, stripped of its usual polished confidence. "I love you. I've been in love with you since... I don't even know when. And it terrifies me."

You shake your head, disbelief warring with a dangerous spark of hope. "Don't do this," you warn him, your voice soft. There’s nothing you hate more than men trying to use ‘love’ to get their way.

"Do what? Tell the truth?" He laughs, a harsh sound. "Believe me, I tried not to. I told myself it was just sex, just companionship. That you were just another beautiful thing I could buy."

"Stop it," you whisper.

"But you're not. You never were." He runs a hand through his perfect hair, mussing it. "I see you. That ditz Rebecca got one thing right; you are a beautiful soul. You’re smart, you’re strong, you’re your own person. And you see me. Not Christopher Bahng the financial titan. Not the rich client. Me. Chris. The kid from the Bronx who grew up with nothing. And you're not afraid to call me on my shit. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

Your throat feels thick. "This isn't…"

"When you asked me that night about my feelings, I panicked." His confession rushes out now, unstoppable. "Because admitting I loved you meant admitting I could lose you. That you had power over me. And control is... it's all I've ever had. I wasn’t ready to take that risk."

"So you pushed me away instead," you say, voice hollow.

"I fucked up." The admission costs him, you can see it in the tight line of his shoulders. "In our last month together, I tried to let you have your space, allowed you to disconnect yourself and your feelings from me. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t that attached to you.” He sighs deeply. “But these weeks without you? They've been hell. Every call you didn't answer, every message you ignored... I realized that the control I thought I needed was worth nothing if it meant losing you."

Your pulse thuds in your ears. This is everything you wanted to hear and everything you're afraid to believe.

"What exactly are you saying?" you ask, needing clarity.

Christopher takes a breath, steadying himself. "I'm saying I want you. Not as an arrangement, not as a transaction. Just you. I want a real relationship. I want to wake up with you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. I want to watch sunrises with you. I want to lay my head in your lap when I have a shitty day. I want to eat your scrambled eggs for breakfast on the days I have time for breakfast. I want you to move in with me, properly, this time. No separate rooms. No conditions."

"And my work?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

His jaw tightens. "I won't share you. Not anymore. But I'll take care of you financially, if that's what you're worried about."

And just like that, the momentary spell is broken. "Take care of me? Like I'm what, your dependent? Your pet? Your toy?"

"That's not what I meant…"

"But it's what you said." The anger returns, sharper now. "You say you want me for real, but on your terms. You still want to control the situation. Control me."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You're trembling now, but not from fear. From fury. From the bitter disappointment of almost believing. "You don't want a relationship, Christopher. You want ownership. That’s all you know."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to be with you?" His frustration matches yours. "And that I don't want to think about you with other men?"

"Because you're still making it about what you want!" The words tear from your throat, loud enough that you’re sure the entire building has heard you. "My work, my life, my body, my choices; they're mine to make. Not yours to approve or forbid."

"So that's it?" His voice drops dangerously. "You'd rather keep whoring yourself than be with me?"

The slap of his words stings worse than any physical blow could. You step back, ice crystallizing around your heart.

"Heh….” You shake your head slowly in disbelief as you chuckle. This is how he really sees you. “Get out."

"Baby girl…" He steps closer to you. “I didn’t…”

"Don't you fucking dare." Your voice shakes as you move away from him. "I can’t believe I thought you could be a real person,” you say more to yourself than to him. “Get the fuck out of my face. Get out of my penthouse. Get out of my life."

Christopher stands frozen, shock written across his features. For a man so accustomed to control, to getting exactly what he wants, your rejection is incomprehensible.

"You don't mean that," he says, but doubt has crept in.

"Try me." You stride to the door, wrench it open. "Leave, Christopher. Now."

For a moment, he doesn't move, and you think he might refuse. Then, slowly, he walks toward the door. He pauses as he passes you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"This isn't over," he says quietly. "What's between us… it's real. You know it is."

You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. "There’s nothing between us. Goodbye, Christopher."

The door closes behind him with a click that sounds like finality. Only when you're sure he's gone do you allow your legs to give way, sliding down the wall to the floor, yoga mat forgotten, sweat drying cold on your skin.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Christopher, no doubt. You ignore it, head tipping back against the wall, eyes closed against a sting that has nothing to do with post-workout exhaustion.

He loves you. And it changes nothing.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you dial Eva's number, the phone slick against your palm. The penthouse feels too quiet now, Christopher's absence a tangible thing, like furniture moved just slightly out of place. You need another voice, someone who understands this world and its complicated currencies of power and desire. Eva picks up on the third ring, and you don't bother with pleasantries. "I need you to come over. Now."

"What happened?" Eva's voice is sharp, instantly alert. She knows you don't panic easily.

"Christopher was here." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, stretched thin like worn elastic. "He… We had it out. He said he loves me."

A beat of silence. "I'll be there in twenty."

The call ends with a click, and you're alone again with the echo of Christopher's words. Love. Such a small word for something so dangerous. 

You pull yourself from the ground and head to the bathroom. You peel off your damp workout clothes, stepping into the shower on autopilot. The hot water drenches your skin, but it can't wash away the memory of his face when you told him to leave. There was shock giving way to something that looked uncomfortably like heartbreak.

By the time you've dressed in soft loungewear, hair wrapped in a towel, your mind has replayed the confrontation a dozen different ways. Each version ends the same, with Christopher walking out your door and taking something of yours with him, something you hadn't meant to give.

Your phone buzzes with Eva's text.

Eva: Downstairs. Buzz me up.

You: Tell that motherfucker that if he can let some random ass man into my home without my consent, he can let you in. He’s sees you every fucking week.

Eva: Uh… Okay.

You ditch the towel and walk out of your bedroom, then stand in the center of your living room, unsure what to do with your body. The space still feels charged, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. You can almost see the indent in your couch where he sat, waiting for you.

After two quick knocks, the door opens and Eva strides in, all five feet ten inches of her a vision in a crimson wrap dress, lips painted to match. She takes one look at you and arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"You look like shit," she says, kicking off her heels by the door. It's her way of showing concern.

"Thanks. You look stunning, as always."

Eva crosses to you, bracelets jangling as she takes your face between her hands, examining you like a doctor checking for symptoms. "Have you been crying?"

You pull back. "No."

"Liar." She releases you, moving to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of red wine from your rack with familiar ease. "So. Christopher Bahng, love confession. Start from the beginning."

You sink onto the couch, pulling your legs up beneath you. "He broke into my apartment."

"Dramatic. Is that why the doorman is now terrified of you?" Eva pours two generous glasses. "This is not surprising. Men like him don't handle rejection well, and three weeks of ghosting is definitely a rejection."

"I wasn't ghosting him. I was..." You accept the wine she hands you, searching for the right word. "Processing."

Eva settles beside you, her eyes, sharp and knowing as ever, never leaving your face. "And what conclusion did this processing lead to? Before he showed up with his grand declaration."

You take a sip, letting the tannins bite at your tongue. "That it's over. That it has to be."

"Why?" The question is simple but pointed.

"Because he wants to own me." The words come automatically, rehearsed. "Because he thinks he can buy me like everything else in his life. He didn’t come here to tell me he loved me. He came to offer terms for an extended arrangement. His love confession only came after I said I wasn’t interested in another contract."

Eva makes a noncommittal sound, swirling her wine. "And what exactly did he say, when he professed this earth-shattering love?"

You relay the conversation, trying to keep your voice detached, clinical. But even as you speak, you hear the tremor creeping in, feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Eva watches, her expression unreadable.

"So," she says when you finish, "he wants a real relationship. No contract, no arrangement. Just you and him, playing house in his mansion."

"With conditions," you counter. "No more work. Complete financial dependence on him."

"Did he say that explicitly?"

You pause, remembering. "He said he'd 'take care of me financially.'"

"Mmm." Eva sips her wine. "And that's a deal-breaker."

"Of course it is!" The vehemence in your voice surprises even you. "I've worked too hard for my independence. Where does that put me when he decides he wants a new toy and he’s done playing house with me? I’ve already tasted that. For five months he worshipped me, was emotionally vulnerable with me, let me see the parts of him he hid from everyone else; then all of a sudden I was just something he paid to fuck again with no warning. And when I tried to get him to be open with me, he shut me down and basically told me my role was to fulfill his fantasies and anything else I felt I was imagining. I’m not interested in that shit again. And I'm not trading one form of transaction for another."

"Are you sure that's what he's offering?" Eva's tone is mild, but her gaze is penetrating. "Are you sure you're not using your work as a shield?"

You blink at her. "A shield?"

"Against vulnerability. Against the possibility that this might actually be real." She leans forward, bracelets clinking. "Think about it. How many clients have said they loved you? How many have offered to make it exclusive?"

"Several." You shrug. "It's part of the fantasy. They all think they're fucking special."

"And how many have you believed?" She doesn't wait for your answer. "None. Until Christopher."

The truth of it sits heavy in your chest. You stare into your wine, seeing nothing.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Eva asks, her voice softer now. "Are you sure you want to walk away?"

"I don’t doubt that he loves me. And yes, despite everything, I've fallen hard for him," you admit, the words leaving a burn in their wake. "But I can't let this control me. Not when he thinks he can use love as chains. And that’s what he’s doing. I can't become another possession."

Eva sets down her glass, turning fully toward you. Her expression is unusually grave. "Listen to me. I've been in this business longer than you. I've seen every kind of relationship, every kind of arrangement. I know what I said about Christopher at the beginning. But what you and Christopher have? It's not typical. And I don't just mean the black card and the mansion."

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean he sees you." Eva's words echo Christopher's uncomfortably. "The real you, not just the fantasy you sell. And you see him; the man behind the money, behind the power. That's rare. That's worth considering, even with the complications."

"He wants me to stop working," you say stubbornly.

"So negotiate." Eva shrugs, as if it's simple. "Set boundaries. Find compromise. That's what real relationships require."

You shake your head, a hollow laugh escaping. "Christopher Bahng doesn't compromise."

"He does. He did it with your arrangement. Gave you everything you asked for. And that was before you got to know each other. Maybe he’s changed." Eva drains her glass, standing in one fluid motion. "Or maybe you'll realize some things are worth surrendering for. Not your independence, never that. But maybe your fear."

She gathers her things and walks to the door. “I have to run, babe. An appointment.” She slips back into her heels, then pauses, looking back at you with an expression you can't quite decipher. "For what it's worth," she says, "I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. Not even when you're trying to hate him."

And then she's gone, leaving you with a half-empty wine glass and thoughts that refuse to settle into any coherent pattern. You sit motionless, watching shadows lengthen across your floor as afternoon slides toward evening.

Eva's words circle in your mind, bumping against Christopher's. Love. Compromise. Fear. The shape of them changes each time, like a kaleidoscope turning.

Your phone rings, startling you from your reverie. An unfamiliar number. No, not unfamiliar; just one you keep forgetting to save. Hyunjin.

Your finger hovers over "decline." At the last moment, something makes you swipe to answer instead.

"What?" Your greeting lacks warmth.

"Good evening to you too." Hyunjin's voice is smooth as aged whiskey, with just a hint of amusement. "I think we need to talk."

"Let me guess. Christopher sent his attack dog to clean up his mess."

A soft chuckle. "If I were in 'attack dog' mode, believe me, this conversation would be very different. And no, he doesn't know I'm calling. In fact, he'd probably fire me from my job and as his best friend if he did."

That gives you pause. "Then why are you?"

"Because I've known Christopher Bahng for almost twenty years, and I've never seen him like this. He's a wreck."

Something twists in your chest: concern, satisfaction, guilt. You push it away. "Not my problem."

"See, I think it is." Hyunjin's tone remains conversational, but there's steel underneath. "I think you're both making this far more complicated than it needs to be."

"He broke into my apartment."

"Technically, he was let in." Hyunjin sounds almost bored. "And yes, it was excessive. Christopher doesn't do anything by halves. Surely you've noticed."

You bite back a caustic reply, because he's right. Everything about Christopher is intense, all-consuming. It's what drew you to him, even as it terrified you.

"Look," Hyunjin continues, "I understand why you're pissed. Chris can be extremely stubborn, especially when he's scared."

"Christopher Bahng, scared?" You can't keep the skepticism from your voice.

"Terrified." Hyunjin says it matter-of-factly. "He's never been in love before. Not really. Not like this."

The word hangs between you, a live wire. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Does he?" Hyunjin sounds genuinely curious. "He's given you everything you've asked for, hasn't he? Well, except for the one thing he couldn't admit to himself; that he loves you. Always has. But he's admitted it now, hasn't he?"

You swallow hard. "He also wants to control me. My work, my life…"

"He wants exclusivity," Hyunjin corrects. "He's possessive, yes. Jealous, absolutely. But controlling? I don't think that's quite fair."

"Oh please, Jin. He’s the literal definition of a control freak. I’m sure if I were to look it up, his picture would appear as the classic example. He wants to dictate every aspect of my life: what I wear, how I smell, how I do my hair. He wants me to quit my job and depend on him financially. What would you call it?"

A pause. "Okay, yes, he’s also a bit controlling. But I'd call it more clumsy than anything. An inelegant attempt to keep you in his life without having to share you. But I think it's less about control… not in the way you mean."

You say nothing, processing this perspective. It's one thing to hear it from Eva, who knows you but not Christopher. But Hyunjin knows him, has known him for decades and is the one person on the planet who knows everything about him.

"Here's what I know," Hyunjin continues into your silence. "You're both in love with each other. And you're both too fucking stubborn to admit it without conditions."

"I told him how I felt," you say defensively. "That I had strong feelings for him. A month before the end of the contract. I asked him to tell me I meant something to him, more than the arrangement. He shut me down."

"So he was on a different timeline. But now he's told you, and you've done the same thing. Shut him down." A smile colors Hyunjin's voice. "You're more alike than you think."

"Stay the fuck out of it, Hyunjin." Your voice hardens. "I don't care if you're the Christopher whisperer. This is between him and me."

"Fair enough." He doesn't sound offended. "But ask yourself this: if your positions were reversed, if you had his money, his power, and fell in love with someone who slept with other people for a living… would you be so quick to share?"

The question hits uncomfortably close to home, touching a nerve you thought you had numbed. It’s one thing for Eva to push you to confront your feelings, but Hyunjin knows exactly how to reframe Christopher’s perspective. To put you emotionally off balance. You know what he’s doing, and it pisses you off even more because it’s working.

“But here’s the thing, Hyunjin,” you say, spitting his name like an expletive while you pace your living room. “He knew I was a whore before all of this started,” you say, using Christopher’s word to describe yourself; a word you never use. “Did he tell you he called me a whore?” You don’t wait for an answer. “What the fuck do I look Iike? Some girl standing on a dusty ass corner begging for a ten in exchange for a blow job only to hand it over to my pimp so he can reward me with two of those dollars? I may not be a billionaire, but my annual take home salary is over two-hundred thousand. I own my penthouse and my mom’s home outright. My IRA is maximized every fucking year and my 401K makes a million annually just on dividends. He can get the fuck outta here with that whore bullshit. He knew what being with me meant. Nobody made him sign up for this; in fact, it was his idea, his deal, his arrangement.” You sigh deeply. “He said he loved me because I was different, not like the rest. And now suddenly I’m supposed to fit into this neat little box because he doesn’t like that I have sex with other men? What happened to being special? What happened to being the one? You don't do that; you don’t put conditions on someone you claim to love."

Hyunjin stays quiet, letting you burn off the frustration. You can almost see his smirk at your rant, the way he’s probably lounging somewhere luxuriously. The world’s most unbothered fixer.

"This is who I am, Hyunjin," you continue, relentless, emotions spilling over. "What I do for a living doesn’t define who I really am as a person anymore than what he does defines him. Yet, he gets to demand I change my life because my job involves fucking people? Do I get to make similar demands about what he does for his job since he fucks people over financially? The hypocrisy and misogyny are astounding." You don’t give Hyunjin the chance to speak, your voice rising in pitch. “Imagine how it makes me feel that he decided to buy me and then changed his mind about what that means. All of a sudden, he can’t stand thinking about me with other men, he can’t stand not having me all to himself. But what about me? Why would I want to be as attached as I am, only for him to one day decide he’s done with me and he wants a new sexy toy? Or that I’m not good enough to love as an equal? I can’t do that again.”

Your words echo in the room, bouncing off the walls with a ferocity that surprises you. You’re panting a little, like you’ve just finished an argument with Christopher himself, and in a way, you have. It feels like Hyunjin is the stand-in, the proxy, navigating through you and Christopher’s bullshit too easily.

"Touché," Hyunjin replies.

He sounds amused, but there’s a hint of admiration in the word. You can picture him quirking an eyebrow, completely unfazed by your tirade. He always was the more perceptive of the two of them, more willing to let you rant yourself into exhaustion. You force yourself to quiet down, steady your breathing.

When he speaks again, breaking the silence with your real name, his tone is different. It’s gentler, almost coaxing. "Look, I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. And I’m sorry he called you a whore. Everything you’ve said is valid. But have you considered that maybe you’re scared too?"

Scared. That damned word again. 

Scared to lose him. Scared to want him. Scared that he has the power to destroy you, and maybe you have the power to destroy him too, if you'd let yourself use it. Scared you can’t trust the love without the transaction and the rules, the security without the walls you keep so carefully constructed.

“Of course I’m fucking scared,” you whisper. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he wants me to act like something I’m not and that he wants to have the upper hand in this relationship where he gets to dictate what everything is, what everything means. I’m not interested in any of that.”

"Just think about it," Hyunjin says softly. "Before you throw away something that could be extraordinary. For both of you." He takes a deep breath. “You know, I also love having you around, as a part of our fam. Not sure that holds any weight for you, but I hope it does.”

The call ends, leaving you with a silence that feels heavier than before. Outside your windows, the city sparkles into twilight, thousands of lights glimmering like promises. Somewhere out there, in his sleek glass tower, Christopher is wrestling with the same questions, the same fears.

You close your eyes, letting yourself imagine, just for a moment, what it might be like to choose him. To be chosen by him, not for your body or your companionship, but for yourself. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Your wine sits forgotten on the coffee table. The night stretches ahead, full of possibilities and pitfalls. And for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to truly feel the ache of his absence, not as a client, but as the man who somehow, against all odds, has become essential to your life.

Hours later, you lie in bed, eyes tracing the subtle patterns of shadow and light that play across your ceiling as cars pass on the street below. Sleep feels like a foreign country, distant, unreachable. Your mind keeps circling back to Christopher's face as he said those three dangerous words.

I love you.

The memory of it sits on your chest like a stone, heavy with possibility and fear. You've been here before, staring at ceilings, dissecting men's words for truth. But it's never felt like this…like your entire future balances on the edge of a decision.

The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 3:17 AM in accusatory red. Hours since Eva left. Hours since Hyunjin's call. Hours of circular thinking that leads you nowhere except back to Christopher's eyes, dark with an emotion you're afraid to name.

You roll onto your side, punching your pillow into submission. This is ridiculous. He's just a man. Another wealthy, entitled man who thinks he can arrange the world to suit him. So what if he's different from your other clients? So what if he makes you laugh, challenges you, sees parts of you that you've kept hidden from everyone else?

So what if you're in love with him?

The thought arrives fully formed, impossible to deny in the honest darkness of your bedroom.

You're in love with Christopher Bahng.

Not with his money or his power or the luxuries he provides. With him. With the man who grew up with nothing, who built an empire through sheer force of will, who looks at you like you're the most fascinating puzzle he's ever encountered.

You close your eyes, and memories flood in unbidden.

Christopher teaching you to play chess in his study, his smile slow and surprised when you captured his queen. His hand at the small of your back as you entered a crowded space, protective but not possessive. The way he listened, really listened, when you told him about your childhood, about the dreams you had for your future, about the compromises you've made along the way.

But there are darker memories too.

His cold fury when another man flirted with you at a charity event. The way he once casually mentioned buying the restaurant where you first met, as if acquiring significant landmarks in your shared history was normal behavior. The times when his need for control slipped into something harder, hungrier, when his hands gripped you tight enough to leave marks, not out of cruelty but from a sheer desperation to keep you close.

Christopher Bahng is complicated. Possessive, yes. Controlling, at times. But also vulnerable in ways he shows to no one else.

You remember the night he told you about his mother's death, how his voice had cracked on the memory, how he'd tried to hide the moisture in his eyes before throwing himself in your lap as he sobbed. You remember how he'd relaxed beneath your hands that night, tension melting like ice under spring sun.

You sit up, giving up on sleep entirely. This circular thinking will get you nowhere. What you need is clarity. A balance sheet of pros and cons, the kind of objective assessment you'd make for any other life-changing decision.

Pro: Christopher loves you. Not the version of you that you present to clients, but the real you. Messy, stubborn, sarcastic, ambitious you.

Con: His love comes with expectations. No more work. Financial dependence.

Pro: You love him too. The real him, not the financial titan or the dominant lover, but the man beneath. The one who sometimes wakes from nightmares he won't discuss, who reads philosophy and poetry and romance books before bed, who still has a soft spot for the bodega cat near his first apartment and keeps a picture of her and one of her kitten litters tucked away in his drawer.

Con: Loving him means vulnerability. It means giving someone else power over your happiness.

Pro: With Christopher, you don't have to pretend. You don't have to be the fantasy: charming, agreeable, endlessly accommodating. You can be sharp-tongued, challenging, a pain in the ass, and he loves you for it.

Con: You'd be giving up your professional independence, the control over your body and time that you've fought so hard to maintain.

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes until sparks dance behind your lids. The list feels inadequate, clinical. How do you quantify the way your heart races when he enters a room or he smiles at you with those fucking dimples? How do you measure the comfort of being truly seen? How do you weigh independence against belonging?

Hyunjin's words return to you: if your positions were reversed… if you had his money, his power, and fell in love with someone who slept with other people for a living, would you be so quick to share?

The truth lands like a blow. You wouldn't want to share. The thought of Christopher with another woman, even professionally, makes something feral curl in your gut. You've been judging him for a possessiveness you also share.

But that doesn't mean you'd demand he quit, become financially dependent on you. You’d leave that choice up to him, and if you were truly in love with him, you’d move past it. There's a line between commitment and control, and that's where the negotiation needs to happen.

Your phone lies dark on the nightstand. It would be so easy to pick it up, to text him, to start repairing the bridge you burned today. But once that door opens, there's no closing it again. Whatever happens next will be irreversible in a way your arrangement never was.

You reach for the phone anyway.

The screen illuminates your face in the darkness as you type, delete, and retype a message. Finally, you settle on simplicity

You: Can we talk? Today, Prospect Park by the lake. 1 PM.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself, then fall back against your pillows, heart hammering as if you've run a marathon. It's done. The ball is in his court now.

The response comes faster than you expected given how early it is, your phone buzzing against your palm.

Christopher: I'll be there.

Just three words, but they carry the weight of promise. You stare at them until the screen dims, then fades to black. Outside your window, the sky has begun to lighten, night giving way to the first tentative touches of dawn. You close your eyes at last, and sleep finds you easily now, as if it was only waiting for you to make a decision.

****

The park hums with Saturday afternoon life: children shrieking by the playground, joggers pounding past on gravel paths, couples sprawled on blankets enjoying the unseasonable warmth. You spot Christopher before he sees you, a solitary figure by the lake, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Even dressed down in a simple black t-shirt, he stands apart, marked by an innate confidence that draws the eye.

Your pulse quickens as you approach. This is Christopher without the armor of his suits, without the shield of his office or mansion. Just a man waiting by a lake, uncertainty written in the set of his shoulders.

He turns as you draw near, sensing your presence before you speak. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

"Thank you for coming," you say finally, stopping a few feet away from him.

"Thank you for asking me to." His voice is measured, careful. "I wasn't sure I’d hear from you again."

You gesture toward a nearby bench, and he nods. You sit together, a careful distance between you, watching ducks glide across the lake's surface.

"I've been thinking about what you said," you begin, eyes fixed on the water. It's easier somehow, not looking at him. "About wanting a real relationship."

Christopher shifts beside you, but doesn't interrupt. You can feel him looking at you.

"I need you to understand something." You turn to face him now, needing to see his reaction. "I'm in love with you too. I have been for... longer than I want to admit. That's why I asked you that night, about your feelings."

His expression softens, relief and something like wonder crossing his features. "Baby girl…"

"Let me finish," you say, gentle but firm. "I'm in love with you, but I'm also my own person. I built my life on my terms, and I won't give that up. Not even for you."

Christopher's jaw tightens, but he nods for you to continue.

"If we do this, if we try for something real, it needs to be clear that I am not your possession or your toy. I'm your partner." You hold his gaze, unflinching. "That means we make decisions together. That means the controlling shit stops."

"And your work?" The question is quiet, but there's tension behind it.

You take a breath. "I'm willing to consider stopping escorting. Not because you demand it, but because I want exclusivity too. So I’ll think about it. But it is my decision to make, not yours. If I choose to continue, you’d need to decide if you can live with that. But I can’t be kept; I need financial independence. I need my own money, my own security."

"I could provide that security," he says, a hint of his usual confidence returning.

"I know you could. But I need to know I can stand on my own two feet, with or without you." You soften your voice. "It's not about trust, Chris. It's about who I am, fundamentally."

He's silent for a long moment, processing. The ducks circle back toward your end of the lake, hopeful for bread crumbs that aren't coming.

"I've never done this before," he admits finally. "A real relationship, I mean.”

“What about Julia?”

“Julia was... different. More of a performance. Less complicated."

"I haven’t been in a real relationship either. Not since high school, and that doesn’t fucking count." You smile faintly. "We're both fumbling in the dark here."

His hand finds yours on the bench between you, fingers brushing against your skin. The contact sends a current through you.

"I meant what I said yesterday," he says, voice low. "I love you. Not as a possession or a trophy, though I know I've treated you that way sometimes. I love your mind, your stubbornness, the way you call me on my shit."

"I do that a lot," you acknowledge, warmth spreading through your chest.

"Too much, sometimes." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "But I need it. Need you." He goes quiet again as he looks down at your joined hands. "About that night, when we had dinner with the Thompsons… They talked about being truly vulnerable for the person you love and I didn’t know if I could do that. I thought I would lose you," he admits finally, his voice raw and stripped of its usual confidence. “I was so fucking terrified of losing you that I unintentionally sabotaged us.”

You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re not going to lose me,” you say, your voice steady and full of the truth you’ve come to realize. “You’re not. Not if you continue to be open with me, and share the real version of yourself. The Chris who told me about the chip on his shoulder, who opened up about being scarred physically and emotionally by his dad, who held me when he woke up from nightmares, who cried in my arms about his mom… that’s the man I fell in love with. I could give a shit about all the other stuff like the mansion, the cars, the trips…”

Your fingers interlace with his, the simple contact more intimate somehow than all the nights you've spent in his bed.

“That man sounds pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No, that man sounds genuine,” you counter. “Real. As real as those emerald earrings you bought for me.”

“So you did see those,” Christopher presses, a hint of curiosity in his voice, though his gaze remains fixed on your intertwined fingers, unwilling to meet your eyes.

“I did,” you respond, keeping your voice steady.

“I had them made especially for you," he continues, the corners of his mouth twitching with a flicker of emotion. “Each emerald surrounded by 6 diamonds for the 6 months we spent together. But you didn’t take them with you.”

Your heart tightens as you lean back slightly. “I didn’t want them," you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. "I wanted you, Chris.” The words were barely a whisper. You both fall silent, the air growing heavy with unspoken words. "So where does this leave us?" you ask.

Christopher turns to face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "It leaves us figuring it out together. I can't promise I won't be possessive or controlling sometimes; it's in my nature. But I can promise to try. To listen. To respect your boundaries."

"And I can't promise I won't challenge you, push back when you get too controlling. But I can promise to be honest. To stay, even when it's hard. To choose you, every day."

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, a touch so tender it makes your throat ache. "I want you to move back in. We can set up a home office for you, your own space, if you want to continue your business. Or you could finish your MBA. Whatever you want."

The offer is unexpected, a glimpse of the compromise Eva suggested might be possible. "You'd support that?"

"I'd support anything that makes you happy," he says simply. "As long as you're with me."

You lean into his touch, the last of your resistance melting away. "Okay."

"Okay?" Hope flares in his eyes.

"Okay, I'll move in with you. For real this time. No separate rooms, no arrangement." You smile, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. "Just us, figuring it out."

Christopher's answering smile is radiant, transforming his usually guarded features. He leans forward, and you meet him halfway, lips finding each other in a kiss that feels like coming home. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer, and you go willingly, heart hammering against your ribs.

When you part, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours. "This won't be easy," he murmurs. "I'm not an easy man to love."

"And I'm not an easy woman," you reply with a soft laugh. "But maybe that's the point. Maybe the best things never are."

Around you, the park continues its Saturday rhythm, oblivious to the seismic shift that's just occurred between you and the man who once bought your time but now holds your heart. There will be challenges ahead: his possessiveness, your need for independence, both of your stubbornness, the delicate balance of power between you. But for now, with his hand warm in yours and the sun dappling the lake before you, those challenges feel manageable.

You lean against his shoulder, feeling his arm wrap securely around you. For the first time, the embrace doesn't feel like ownership; it feels like belonging. To him, to yourself, to the complicated, beautiful thing growing between you.

"Take me home," you say softly, and Christopher's arm tightens around you, understanding all the layers of meaning in those three simple words.

The two of you stand, hands still linked, and begin the walk back through the park. With each step, the future unfolds before you. It’s uncertain, imperfect, but yours to create together.

By the time you make it to your penthouse, you're breathless, having barely contained the fire simmering between you. His mouth is on yours before the door finishes swinging shut, an urgency there you haven't felt before. You pull him toward the sofa, but he sweeps you into his arms, carrying you to your bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. This time you're both laughing, giddy, lightheaded with this new possibility.

The bed is a mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes before you even hit the mattress, and you can see the hunger in his eyes, in the way his hands claim your body like he's never tasted you before. But this time is different; this time you're not afraid to let yourself go, not afraid to give in entirely. It's not something he bought or demanded; it's something you are finally ready to share.

He pins you to the bed, lips tracing the length of your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. Each touch is a promise, each kiss an unspoken vow. You arch against him, breath catching in your throat as he moves lower, lower. "Mine?" he asks in a groan against your skin, and for the first time, the word doesn't feel like a demand, a threat, or a trap. It feels like a choice, a gift.

"Yours," you answer, pulling his head back up to meet your eyes, to catch the look on his face as he slides into you, deep and overwhelming. You hold his gaze, unguarded, vulnerable in a way you’ve never been, surrendering to everything he makes you feel. Your nails rake down his back, and he grinds into you harder, swallowing the sound of your pleasure with his mouth, taking you to the edge and back again. He rolls, pulling you on top of him, wanting you in control, in charge. Your hands brace on his chest as you ride him, unrestrained and unreserved.

His gaze is fixed on you, drinking in every inch of your body in motion above him. His hands grip your hips, guiding your motion. With each rotation of your hips, you teeter on the edge until finally succumbing to an outcry of unadulterated bliss as your climax crashes over you like a tempestuous wave. Christopher soon follows suit, uttering your name with fervor as he finds release within you.

But it doesn’t stop there. Christopher clearly wants to make up for lost time as he flips your bodies once again to continue fucking you. You lose track of how many times you cum, together and apart, until you collapse against him, both of you spent and satisfied, bodies slick with sweat and limbs inextricably tangled. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you close, and your heart feels raw in your chest. There’s no space between you now. No distance, no walls. Just a man and a woman, both finally unafraid to let go completely.

For a timeless moment, you linger there, immersed in the euphoria of your union. Christopher’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. The soft rhythm is mesmerizing, comforting, familiar, against your ear.

“When did you know?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence in the room. The words escape your lips with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of vulnerability.

“Hmmm?” Christopher asked, confused as he gently combed his fingers through your hair.

You shift the position of your head on his chest to look up at him, capturing his eyes. You need to know. "When did you realize it was more than just sex? When did you know you were in love with me?" These questions have danced around the edge of your consciousness for the past twenty-four hours, begging for clarity. Some part of you suspects you already know the answer, but you need to hear it from him. You need him to spell it out, to give voice to the things that have remained unspoken between you for so long.

His eyes meet yours, and you brace yourself for the possibility that he might dodge the question altogether. It's the sort of thing Christopher would sidestep, leaving you to piece together the fragments on your own. But then something beautiful and unexpected happens. His gaze shifts, softens, and in that instant, you see the unmistakable traces of everything he’s been holding back: the passion simmering beneath the surface, the hesitation that once kept him at a distance, the sheer vulnerability that he’s risked now by opening himself to you.

Christopher’s fingers still in your hair as he draws in a deep breath, like he’s unsure of where to start or how to open the door you’ve cracked with your question. His lips part, forming something that never quite makes it out into words, and you think, just for a moment, that he will definitely retreat. The anticipation is thick between you, and you barely realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks.

“I think I knew it the first time you told me ‘no’,” he confesses, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The words tumble out, ragged and so unexpectedly vulnerable that they leave you momentarily stunned.

You feel a laugh rise in your throat, the sound bright and full of surprise. "Seriously?"

He nods, his expression softening as if the memory lingers just beneath the surface. "Nobody, other than Jin, had ever done that before. Not to me. Not since I became this version of Christopher Bahng. Not the way you did. You said no and walked out, and I thought I'd let it go. But then I just… couldn't. It drove me insane; a beautiful woman, much less an escort, who didn't need me or my money. I wasn't prepared for you, Baby Girl. I wasn't prepared for how much you had unintentionally fucked with my head."

You think back to that night. It was your third time meeting with him. He had asked if you could spend the night, but that wasn’t part of the original engagement and you had plans the following morning that you weren’t interested in cancelling. The disbelief on his face when you refused his offer to triple your pay, the way he had watched you leave, like he couldn't quite believe it was happening. Who knew that something so simple could affect him so deeply?

You let his confession sink in, savoring each word and the weight they carry. "It didn't seem like love then," you say softly. "It seemed like you were pissed."

"I was," he admits with a low chuckle. "God, I was pissed. But underneath that, underneath everything, I realized what I really felt was..." He pauses, as though he still can't quite believe it himself. "Scared. Scared of how much I wanted you, even after just three appointments. Scared that you'd slip through my fingers."

Your heart skips, the admission resonating deep within you. "Chris…"

"A few dates later you called me ‘Chris’ and it did something to me.” That was your fifth meeting. He had fucked you so good, you slipped up and moaned the name Chris. You noticed him react to it, but he hadn’t said anything at the time. “And then you accepted the arrangement," he continues, his eyes never leaving yours. "I thought I'd won. That you were mine. But you kept me at arm's length, added all those extra protections and boundaries and time away from me and the house. It drove me fucking crazy.”

You remember how he barely contained his surprise at the extensive changes you requested to the contract, particularly having a separate bedroom and three days outside the mansion.

"I couldn't stand it," he says, his voice gaining intensity, emotion spilling over the edges. “Having you, but not really having you. I wanted you to love me. But I was too much of a fucking coward to admit it." He brushes a strand of hair from your face, the tenderness in his touch a contrast to the rawness in his words. "I didn't know for sure until I told you about my scar, my dad."

A jolt of something, recognition or maybe relief, sparks inside you, your mind racing through the months you've just lived. The fight in your penthouse. The aching silence when you asked him to leave. The desperate plea in his eyes when he turned back, urging you to consider him.

"Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why wait?" There’s no accusation in your tone, just a genuine need to understand. It’s a need he hears, he feels, because he pulls you even closer, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

"Because I thought I could do it," he admits, his voice hoarse with sincerity. "I thought I could keep it professional. I thought I could have you on my terms. But you ruined me, Baby Girl. Ruined me for anything less."

His words wrap around your heart, squeezing, releasing, leaving you raw and filled with a joy you weren't sure you'd ever feel when you first met him.

"What about you?" he asks, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. “When did you know you were head over heels in love with me?” he inquires with a smirk.

You laugh loudly, unsure how to put words to what you're feeling or to the journey that brought you here. Then, you start to consider it, the question piercing straight through you. God, when did you know? You look off to the side, the memories flooding back, each one demanding a different kind of attention. 

Surely not at the start, not when you had everything planned out so perfectly.

The truth is, you've known for a while now, maybe much longer than you care to admit. But it crept in somewhere, sometime, despite all your efforts to keep it at bay. It caught you off guard, a slow unraveling that you didn't notice until it was too late. You wrack your brain, letting the months and moments unravel like an old film reel, flickering behind your eyes. 

Suddenly, a single point in time stands out.

The night he fell apart in your arms, the night you held him through his grief and something shifted inside you. The night you almost let hope ruin everything you believed about yourself.

You look back up at him, seeing the anticipation in his face, the mixture of curiosity and affection that colors his expression. "I felt a connection blooming between us when I learned that our backgrounds were similar. Then when Julia warned me about you, I was confused as to why what she shared about you had affected me so deeply. Paris was certainly a turning point; I felt that we could have something real after we went to the club. But really… I think it was when you told me about your mom," you confess softly, drawing patterns on his chest with the tip of your finger.

He gives you a curious look, and you smile despite the ache of remembering. "When you cried in my arms and let me hold you. When you showed me a side of yourself I never thought I'd see. It terrified me, how much I wanted to hold on to you. How much I wanted to keep you. How much I wanted it to be real."

“So it was real,” he murmurs, relief and something deeper, lighting his eyes. “Even then.”

"Even then," you confirm, brushing your lips against his. "Especially then. You broke my heart that night with how vulnerable you were. How fucking brave you were to be so open about that. And I was so fucking scared of what it meant for both of us."

“And then I fucking ruined it,” he said with a sigh, “by withdrawing, by pushing you away.” After a brief pause he adds, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you reply.

He rolls you onto your back, pressing his body against yours. You can feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours beat for beat. "Promise me you won't run again," he says, the plea rough against your neck. "Promise me you'll stay."

"I promise, daddy," you whisper, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him deeper into this new, uncertain, beautiful life together. "I'm yours, Chris. Yours."

It's a promise you intend to keep, no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much he tests your patience, no matter how much you both have to change. Hell, it’s a promise you intend to keep even when it means challenging everything you’ve ever known about yourself. 

You're his. He's yours. 

The rest is just details, working themselves out with each push and pull, with each moment spent holding on when it would be easier to let go.

He's yours. You're his.

You're both in so fucking deep that the idea of escaping is the real impossibility now.

There's no contract this time, no countdown to the finish line or safety net to catch you if it all goes sideways. Just desire and commitment and the hope that what you have is strong enough to withstand everything you've thrown away to get here. 

How did it come to this? How did you go from a perfectly orchestrated life to this beautiful, terrifying mess of a relationship?

It's addictive, all-consuming, terrifying, and my god… exactly what you both want now.

Beyond you and Christopher, it's a whole new world to navigate. And the challenges are very fucking real. Gossip. Friends. Family. Staying out of the public eye. And maybe the biggest challenge of all: admitting you might actually be afraid of the future.

But for now, for right here, as his lips press softly against yours, you don’t think you’ve ever been this happy.

The contract may have ended, but this… this thing between you and Christopher is only the beginning.

A/N: Thanks so much for coming along for the emotional ride on this story. And also for the great comments, which got me excited about posting and talking with y'all (more so than the likes).

When I first started posting Thank You, Daddy, I was pretty sure this would be the last fic I posted to Tumblr because no one ever commented or shared their thoughts about anything, so I wasn't sure if any of these stories were resonating with folks. Don't take for granted that your engagement is what encourages us authors to continue sharing our work. Otherwise, I'm just writing for myself.

Anyway, let me know you're final thoughts.

Hope to see the comments/engagement keep rolling in for additional fics. I have a one-shot coming probably on Friday or Saturday, and then a new darker story starting next week. Hope to see you there!

[midnightfict]

Back in Our Days.

— 𓆩𓆪 —

𓆩 Lee Byung-Hun x F!reader 𓆪

Summary — When two, now estranged friends get caught in an unexpected encounter which triggers a feeling one thought was lost.

A/N — This story is loosely inspired by the song "Who Are You?" - Saga Faye. Please give me story requests, I get story inspirations from songs and/or real-life situations, and I'm currently up for a new challenge.

read pt. 2 here

— 𓆩𓆪 —

The streets of Seoul were bustling as usual. People hurried past, umbrellas shielding them from a faint drizzle. On opposite sides of the road, two figures unknowingly walked in parallel paths. You clutched your bag nervously, trying to avoid the water from ruining your belongings, while on the other side, a tall man in a sleek black coat walked confidently, his face partially hidden by a baseball cap.

As the traffic lights turned red, you stepped onto the crosswalk, and your eyes caught his. Something about him felt achingly familiar, but the thought slipped away as the two of you passed each other. Just as you reached the other side, an unexplainable tug made you glance back. You saw him turn too, his eyes meeting yours for a short moment.

“Byung-hun?” you murmured under your breath.

Gathering your courage, you waved with a bright smile, the kind you always used to greet him with back in the day. But instead of the warm recognition you expected, his expression remained monotone. He looked away and continued walking.

Your hand fell slowly, your smile fading. Hurt pricked at your chest, but you shook it off, convincing yourself there must be some explanation. You couldn't help but remember the joyful times you spent with him.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The bell rang, signaling the start of class, but the seat next to you was still empty. You tapped your pencil against your desk, glancing out the window. Moments later, Byung-hun slipped into the classroom, his hair slightly disheveled, a mischievous grin plastered on his face.

“You’re late,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“And you’re still here? I thought you’d be bored to death already,” he shot back with a chuckle.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. Byung-hun leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Wanna ditch?”

“What?” you whispered, eyes widening. “We can’t just—”

“C’mon, we're seniors. They won't bat an eye!” he said, grabbing your hand and pulling you out of your seat.

The two of you sneaked out through the back gate, muffling your laughter as the wind rushed past. The afternoon was spent at a nearby arcade, battling each other in games, eating street food, and talking about dreams that seemed so big back then.

"I want to be a famous actor," He proudly claimed.

"One day, I'm going to write a movie, and I'll make you the biggest actor in the world," You replied, supporting his dream.

As the sun began to set, you both sat by the riverbank, the golden light reflecting on the water.

“Promise me,” he said suddenly, turning to face you.

“Promise you what?”

“That no matter what happens, we’ll always stick together. Okay?”

You smiled, holding out your pinky. “Promise.”

He hooked his pinky with yours, his grin wide and genuine. “Promise.”

Later that evening, you both parted ways. Your grin and wave brought out a giggle from him. It was a small moment, but it stayed with you. You had no idea how much that promise would mean for him.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The memory faded as you found yourself back in the present, the bustling streets of Seoul grounding you once more. The ache in your chest deepened. What had changed? Why did he act like he didn’t know you?

A few days passed and he still lingers in your mind. You were scrolling through your phone when a message from your sister popped up. It was a video link accompanied by a single question:

Doesn't he used to go to your school?

You clicked on the link, your heart skipping a beat as a familiar face appeared on the screen. Lee Byung-hun. The caption read: “Rising Star Lee Byung-hun Shares His Story.”

In the video, he was seated on a sleek couch, his polished demeanor worlds away from the carefree boy you once knew. The interviewer asked about his childhood, and his response hit like a punch to the gut.

“Honestly, I never really felt like I belonged anywhere,” he said, his voice calm and composed. “High school was a lonely time for me. I didn't have any close relations.”

Your heart clenched. How could he say that? The boy who had once sworn to always be there for you—the boy you had shared countless memories with—now claimed he had no friends?

You replayed the clip, hoping you had misunderstood. But the words stayed the same. Each repetition felt like another crack in the foundation of your cherished memories. You closed the video and sat back, staring at the ceiling, the weight of confusion and hurt pressing heavily on your chest. Trying to distract yourself, you grabbed a random book to read. But fate seemed to have other plans.

A picture from your early high school days fell off the shelf. It was the two of you, grinning widely as you held up a trophy from a group project competition. The memory behind that photo stirred something deep inside you. You remembered how you had to practically drag him to the stage when he was too embarrassed to go up, telling him, “You did just as much as I did. If I’m going up, so are you.”

Your fingers hovered over the picture, and as you stared at it, the emotions bubbling within pulled you back further into another memory—your first encounter with Byung-hun. It was so vivid, as though the years separating then and now had disappeared entirely.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The classroom was crowded with chatter as the new student was introduced. Lee Byung-hun stood at the front, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“You can take the seat next to her,” the teacher said, pointing toward you.

He shuffled over, barely sparing you a glance as he sat down.

“Hi! How are you?” you said brightly.

He looked at you, surprised. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“Nice to meet you, Byung-hun. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. From that day on, the two of you were inseparable. Whether it was group projects, lunch breaks, or late-night phone calls, you had each other’s backs. You remembered the way he had slowly opened up, sharing stories about his old school and how he always felt like an outsider.

“Not anymore,” you had told him with a grin. “You belong here now.”

His smile had been shy but grateful. “Thank you,”

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

Had those moments meant nothing to him? You felt tears sting your eyes, the hurt bubbling up uncontrollably. But almost immediately, you wiped your face, taking a deep, shuddering breath. This wasn’t you. You weren’t going to let these feelings drown you.

Needing to clear your head, you grabbed your house keys and slipped on your shoes. Fresh air would help, you told yourself. You stepped out into the cool evening, the faint rain lingering in the air. Without thinking, you began walking, letting your feet guide you as your mind remained tangled in memories.

At some point, you found yourself standing at the same crosswalk where you had seen Byung-hun just days ago. You froze for a moment, staring at the spot where you had smiled and waved, only to be met with his indifference. The pang of that memory made you glance down, biting your lip, before you continued walking.

Lost in thought, you didn’t realize how far you had gone until you stopped in front of a building that made you blink in surprise. It was the old arcade you and Byung-hun used to visit whenever you ditched school. The bright, flashing neon lights seemed almost out of place among the modern cityscape, but there it was—still standing after all these years.

Curiosity and nostalgia drew you in. The familiar jingle of the entrance bell brought a flood of memories. You wandered the aisles, eyes scanning the games you used to play together, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. It felt surreal, being back here after so long.

“Excuse me,” a voice called out, pulling you from your thoughts. An older man, likely one of the long-time workers, approached you with a curious expression. “You look familiar… Weren’t you a regular here back in the day? Always hanging out with that tall boy…”

You blinked, surprised that he remembered. “Uh, yeah. That was me,” you said with a sheepish smile.

“What was his name again? Byung-something, right?” the man asked, snapping his fingers as he tried to recall.

“Byung-hun,” you supplied softly, the name tasting bittersweet on your tongue.

“Ah, that’s right! Byung-hun! You two were always together. How’s he doing? Are you still in touch?”

The question made your heart twist. “I… no. We're not,” you admitted, averting your gaze.

The man’s face softened. “That’s a shame. You know, I could always tell he cared about you a lot. That boy… he liked you from the very beginning. Said so himself once.”

You froze, your breath catching. “What?”

The man chuckled, clearly unaware of the impact his words had. “Yeah, he mentioned it when you two came in here for the first time. He was so shy about it, though. Just kept watching you out of the corner of his eye, like you were the best thing he’d ever seen. But the last time I saw him, he was a mess. He said you left the country and he wasn't sure if you were going to come back. One thing he said he knew for sure though is that he lost you forever,”

Your mind reeled, the revelation hitting you like a train. All the memories you had shared with Byung-hun suddenly carried a new weight, a new meaning. To you, your goodbye meant a new chapter being written. But to him, it meant losing you—losing everything. Before you could process it further, the man was called away by another customer, leaving you standing there, stunned.

And then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife, your thoughts shifted—to him. From his perspective, starting from the moment he had seen you again at that crosswalk.

— 𓆩Byung-Hun𓆪 —

Byung-hun adjusted the brim of his baseball cap as he walked briskly down the bustling street. He was on his way to a meeting for his upcoming film, the one everyone was talking about. His agent had reminded him—yet again—how important this role was for his rising career. But none of that was on his mind when he stopped at the crosswalk.

The moment he saw her, his heart stuttered. There she was, on the opposite side of the road, clutching her bag tightly like she always used to when she was nervous. His feet rooted to the ground, his breath catching in his chest. It had been years, but she hadn’t changed much. The same eyes, the same demeanor—still as beautiful as he remembered.

For a second, he thought about calling out to her, but the words died in his throat. How could he? He wasn’t the same person she used to know, and seeing her so cheerful, so bright—it hurt. She looked like she’d moved on, like she’d left their memories behind. And him? He had spent years trying to forget her, but here she was, undoing all of it with just a glance.

As they crossed paths, he saw her wave and smile at him, the same smile she used to give him back in high school. It took everything in him to keep walking, to pretend he didn’t know her. He wasn’t ready to face her, not when all the unresolved emotions threatened to spill over.

He forced his legs to keep moving, his jaw tightening as he left her behind. Once he was out of sight, he paused, leaning against a wall to catch his breath. His hands trembled as he adjusted his coat, but he shook his head and pushed himself forward. He had a meeting to attend.

Hours passed by, and Byung-hun sat at the long table, nodding along as the director explained the plot of his next project—a romance with a bittersweet ending. He should have been focused, taking notes, asking questions. But his mind was elsewhere.

“Byung-hun?” the director’s voice snapped him back to reality. “What do you think?”

He cleared his throat, straightening in his seat. “It’s… an intriguing story,” he replied, forcing a professional tone.

The plot they had described, two people brought together by fate, only to be torn apart by circumstances, felt uncomfortably familiar. It made him think of her, of the promises they had made back in high school. Promises that, in the end, neither of them could keep.

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

The days leading up to graduation were supposed to be exciting, full of plans and dreams for the future. But something had shifted between you and Byung-hun. You had been distant, avoiding his questions and brushing off his attempts to talk.

“Y/N,” he finally cornered you after class one day, his tone firm. “What’s going on? You’ve been acting weird.”

You hesitated, looking anywhere but at him. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled.

“It’s not nothing,” he pressed. “Just tell me.”

Before you could answer, a classmate approached, grinning. “Hey, Y/N! Congrats on the acceptance letter! How’s the prep for moving abroad going?”

Byung-hun froze, his eyes snapping to you. “Abroad?”

You winced, guilt written all over your face. “I was going to tell you…”

“When?” he demanded, his voice rising. “After you left? Or were you just never going to say anything?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” he repeated, his laugh bitter. “Do you even realize what this feels like? We promised we’d always be there for each other. And now you’re just leaving?”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Byung-hun shook his head, his jaw clenching. “Do I even mean anything to you?”

The argument ended with no resolution. The days that followed were filled with silence, both of you too hurt to bridge the gap. But on the day of your flight, Byung-hun showed up at the airport.

“I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye,” he said, his voice soft but strained. “I… I had to see you.”

You hugged him tightly, whispering apologies and promises to stay in touch. He hugged you back, but deep down, he knew things would never be the same.

"I'm chasing my dreams, Byung-hun. Dreams that I had never even thought were possible. I hope you'll understand and I know you will. You'll always stay in my mind... my best friend. And when I'm back, I better see your face plastered on every movie poster in town," You lightly joked.

He couldn't even crack a chuckle at her. Just tears and hiccups.

As he watched your plane take off, he wondered if you knew. If you knew, would you still go?

⋆｡𖦹° ⏾ ˚｡⋆

Sitting in that conference room, Byung-hun felt the weight of those memories pressing down on him. The question that had haunted him for years resurfaced. Had she ever loved him the way he loved her? And if she did… was it too late to find out?

[malavera]

The Babysitter, pt. 2 (18+) — Logan Howlett

summary: When Logan says he doesn't want you with anyone else, he really doesn't want you to be with anyone else, but him. After a failed attempt to unwrapped yourself around his fingers, you thought the situation would change, but you thought wrong, it's still the same. At night, he'd want you around, but at noon, it would feel like he doesn't know you at all. Too drown in his own work, but what happens when you're off the clock, and Logan catches you on a date with a boy your age?

an: can be read as a standalone!

pairing: origins!logan x female reader

warnings: 18+ Content, MDNI. Set in alternative universe where logan isn't a mutant, angst, no use of y/n, jealous logan, dark logan, naive reader, logan loves to call her with "dollface" legal age gap (logan is around 30 while reader is 22 pursuing a bachelor degree), SMUT; fingering, slight choking, dirty talking, daddykink, foul language

previous part here | logan masterlist here | support me here 🤍

♡ divider creds, cafekitsune

♡ tags: @velvrei @bpmiranda @joelsgoldrush @kholdkill @fictionalmen-dilflover @marellabyr @superhoeva @yawnetu @thefreakcliche @rottenbabyfawn @milesjeon11 @bobateababe @wildlyobsessive @looking1016

The memory was vague in your head, it's like you were already born into this. It's like you're not someone who moved out of her family's home, in search for something promising out there to give food and shelter for the people back home while fighting for a much higher education, a bachelor's degree, in a foreign city. Your parents had sent you off with hopes bundled tightly into the folds of your suitcase—dreams of a bachelor's degree that would one day deliver you into the hands of a secure, well-paying future. They believed in that dream for you, and so you believed in it too. But reality never plays out as neatly as the promises whispered before you left.

You've caught yourself short on money, in a city full of strangers. The part-time jobs are scattered, inconsistent, fleeting. And just when you think the struggle might drown you, there’s a whisper. A friend of a friend of a friend, the kind of connection that feels like it’s made of smoke, tells you about a job. It pays well, they say. But there’s a catch. It always comes with a catch.

The catch is the little boy's 30 something year old father, who's gotten you dazed from the moment he opens the door to greet you and welcomed you inside his humble abode. The whiff of his body odor let alone could send you in a trance. But when the sun shone down, your eyes narrowed to where it's shooting, a flash of his gold wedding ring that's hugging around his ring finger. And of course, he is married.

And it was most likely started around three months ago. Now you're here, still trying to catch your breath as your chest heaves up and down, your back leaning against the wooden door of your apartment. As you brought your head up, you're instantly greeted with a girl that has her hair disheveled, her shirt slightly ruffled, and although she still looks pretty as ever, you always came home frowning.

And you wondered why you frowned, once you unlocked your door, got yourself in, and be greeted by the reflection of your disheveled looking. Weren't you smiling, three months ago since you started? The smile always faded once you stepped foot in the hallway and inching closer to your room at the end of the hall.

A ping from your laptop drew your attention, snapping your head in its direction. Pushing yourself off from the door now, you walked towards your desk and noticed that the sound was to notify a new email just came. It's from a guy you knew, he wasn't a friend, but he wasn't new. He'd asks if you could help him with a subject that he's struggling in and apparently the professor has recommend him to reach for you as you were his star student.

Adjusting your posture before typing your reply, and from that point on, the conversation transitioned to text messages. The two of you agreed to meet at the park after class tomorrow for a study session. It was your day off, so it wouldn’t conflict with your babysitting schedule.

A burst of giggles escaped the little boy’s lips as he chased after the butterfly, his tiny hands reaching for its delicate wings. The old man followed behind with a soft smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he watched the boy’s excitement. He kept a slow, steady pace, but when he saw his son suddenly come to a halt, he quickened his steps, ready to ask what had caught the boy’s attention. Before he could speak, the boy eagerly pointed ahead and shouted,

“Papa, look! It’s Missy Sitter!”

His voice was filled with delight as his small finger directed the man’s gaze toward you, seated at a picnic bench with a laptop open, surrounded by scattered books. The man’s eyes followed the boy’s gesture, taking in the sight of your petite frame, your long hair cascading down your back. For a brief moment, he admired the scene—until he noticed you weren’t alone.

You were sitting too close to someone, closer than he liked.

“C’mere, son,” he called, his voice soft yet firm, a subtle tension creeping into his posture.

“Come on, let’s say hello, Papa!” The boy’s voice bubbled with excitement as he broke into a sprint toward you. His eager footsteps caught you off guard, and you quickly stood up, a warm smile spreading across your face as you bent down to wrap him in a hug.

“James…” The old man’s voice followed, rough and low, his son’s name slipping from his throat like gravel. There was a tension in the way he muttered it, though he stood just a few steps behind, watching the two of you with unreadable eyes.

“Mister Howlett,” you greeted nervously, giving him a small nod as Logan approached. “I didn’t know you liked taking James out to this park,” you added, your voice trailing off, unsure of how to continue.

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smile at the sound of your soft voice, momentarily pushing aside the simmering annoyance that had clouded his mind. For a moment, he almost forgot what had irked him in the first place. Then again, why was he upset?

Ignoring your comment, he glanced toward the bench where your friend sat, observing the scene with an amused smile, clearly charmed by James. “Who’s your friend?” Logan asked, his voice steady, but his eyes narrowing slightly, betraying a hint of curiosity—or perhaps something more.

“Oh, this is Micah, my friend,” you said as you stepped back, gesturing toward your companion. “I’m helping him study for our major’s subject.”

Micah, ever the gentleman, rose from the bench with a polite smile, extending his hand toward Logan. For a brief moment, Logan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, a hesitation that almost made him dismiss the gesture. But with James watching curiously from beside you, he grudgingly took Micah’s hand, giving it a firm shake. His grip was strong, maybe a touch too strong, as if silently reminding Micah who he was dealing with.

Logan’s lips curved slightly in acknowledgment, though his eyes remained guarded. “Good to meet you,” he muttered, his voice cool and measured. Then, without missing a beat, he shifted his attention back to you and James, his posture still protective, as if assessing the situation.

“So, when are you coming back home?” Logan’s voice cut through the moment, leaving you blinking in confusion. Your eyebrows knit together as you quickly reached into your purse, pulling out your phone. You swiped through your calendar, certain today was your day off.

“Um, but it’s—”

“Yeah,” Logan interrupted, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. “I meant to text you. Got an emergency errand to run. James needed sitting.”

The way he said it was direct, almost too casual for the sudden shift in responsibility, and it left a strange tension in the air. Logan’s gaze never wavered as he spoke, but there was a certain weight to his words, like he expected you to just step in without hesitation.

"Oh, uh— we could wrap this up in maybe 30 minutes, if that’s okay with you, Micah?" you asked, turning to your friend, trying to navigate the sudden shift.

Micah nodded, offering an understanding smile. "Oh yeah, that’d be fine. Actually, I wasn’t planning to stay much longer anyway. There’s a family issue back home I need to take care of. We can always set up another study session later."

Logan’s lips twitched into a subtle, victorious smile at the turn of events, clearly pleased that things were aligning in his favor. But you noticed it—his barely contained satisfaction—and couldn’t help but frown slightly as you glanced at him. There was something in the way he silently claimed this small win that rubbed you the wrong way.

“Great, I’ll see you back home, Doll,” Logan said, his voice casual but laced with something more. The nickname caught you completely off-guard, leaving you momentarily speechless as you watched him reach for James’s small hand.

Your eyes followed them, still processing the unexpected term of endearment. Logan’s smirk didn’t escape your notice, a hint of smugness flashing across his face as he glanced back at you briefly. Then, just as quickly, he looked down at James, his expression softening before they walked away, leaving you standing there, the weight of that single word lingering in the air between you.

The Howlett residence wasn’t far from the park, so after finishing up with Micah, you felt relieved knowing you could make it back easily. Just as you were about to leave, Micah caught you off guard with a question.

“Hey, before you go, how about another study session sometime? And maybe… dinner afterward?” His tone was casual, but there was a hint of nervousness beneath his words.

You blinked, surprised by the invitation. It wasn’t that Micah wasn’t attractive—he was perfectly decent, even charming in his own quiet way. But it wasn’t just about looks. He was the kind of guy who checked all the right boxes: kind, respectful, smart. Maybe too decent, you thought. Yet the surprise wasn’t in him asking, but in him choosing you.

You were always the quiet one in class, keeping to yourself, never standing out or being vocal like some of the other girls. Popularity wasn’t something you chased, and yet, here he was, showing interest. It left you momentarily stunned, unsure how to respond to the idea that someone like Micah would actually want to take you out.

Which you politely accepted, his invitation.

Was the smile on your face too obvious? You hadn’t realized it until you stepped into the Howlett household and heard Logan’s voice cut through the air.

“What’s got you all smiling, Dollface?” he asked, catching you completely off guard. You gasped, stopping dead in your tracks as your eyes found him standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his hands gripping the edges, his gaze steady on you.

You quickly gathered yourself, fixing your composure as you made your way toward him, hugging your laptop bag and books tightly to your chest. "N-nothing, Lo—"

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his head tilting slightly to the side as his eyes bore into you, his expression unreadable. His voice was flat, but the way he watched you made it clear he wasn’t buying your excuse.

You frowned, setting your things down on the small dining table across from him, keeping a couple of steps between you, an invisible barrier. His presence was palpable, and you weren’t sure if it was the tension or something else that kept you from moving closer.

“C’mere.” His voice dropped an octave, carrying that quiet intensity that only surfaced when he felt the need to assert control. It wasn’t a request—it never was when he used that tone. He knew how to use it to keep you just within his reach, and somehow, you always felt compelled to follow.

You forced down a swallow before cautiously making your way toward him. The moment you were within reach, Logan’s hand shot out, gripping your hips with an iron-like hold. In one swift motion, he turned you around, pressing you firmly against the counter. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as your back met the hard edge, the cool surface biting into your skin. The sudden closeness left you breathless, his presence overwhelming as his body crowded yours, trapping you between him and the counter.

“I want you to stop seeing him,” Logan said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Logan—I can’t. He needs me, and I need the bonus for—”

“What, more money? Doll, I could get you however much you need. Just tell me, and stop seeing him.” He cut you off, and your eyes shot up to glare at him.

“It’s not about the money; it’s for my grades! And not everything is about money, Logan!” you shot back, frustration boiling beneath the surface. You gasped as you feel his hand flew to grab you by the throat, slightly squeezing it.

"Don't ever use that tone with me, Doll. Remember who you belong to." Logan hissed, glaring at you. He thought with him showing authority might bring your anger boil down, be he thought wrong, instead you shot back again.

"Who? You? As far as I know, after I attempted to tap out, you wouldn't let me and you promised me more. But what, Logan? You still treated me like no one during the day, but a whore at your mercy at night?" The end of your empowering statement came out more like a question. In which you continued, "You knew how I felt about you," Emotion welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over like a dam about to break.

Logan's expression softened, his grip on you loosen as he watched your lips tremble. "I only want you, Logan. But you treated me like trash, I—I tried to get out, you wouldn't let me. And now, you finding me out with a boy that didn't mean no harm to me, all of a sudden I'm somewhat precious to you? Too precious to be seen with anyone but you?" Each word felt heavy in the air, laced with frustration and hurt, as you confronted him with the tangled mess of emotions that had been building between you.

Logan sighed, shushing you gently as you began to sob, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. As your body collided with his warmth, a wave of instinctual comfort washed over you, causing your entire demeanor to melt into his arms. The anger that had been simmering within you, ready to boil over, gradually cooled, leaving you feeling vulnerable and frustrated.

You hated this feeling, this surrender. You hated that you couldn’t fight him, that the fierce resolve you’d built up seemed to dissolve the moment he held you close. It was infuriating how easily he could draw you in, making it hard to remember why you were so upset in the first place. The warmth of his body against yours brought a conflicting sense of safety that only deepened your inner turmoil.

“I—I love you… Logan,” you whispered against his chest, the confession escaping your lips like a fragile secret. He shushed you gently, rocking the two of you side to side, creating a cocoon of warmth and comfort. The weight of your words hung in the air, and you realized what you had just spilled; you had poured your heart out to him, and now you were finally ready to confront the truth.

You didn’t care that he was married, that he had a son. All that mattered was the undeniable pull you felt toward him. You pulled away slightly, searching his eyes as you repeated, “I love you, Logan. I really do. I really, really love you.” The urgency in your voice was palpable, and you needed him to understand the depth of your feelings.

But Logan didn’t say anything in response, and his expression was unreadable. Confusion and uncertainty flickered across his features, making your heart race. Instead of answering, he cupped your face in his hands, his touch both tender and commanding. Then, without warning, he connected his lips to yours.

The kiss was indescribable—electric and intoxicating. It sent a rush through your entire being, leaving you breathless and momentarily lost in the moment. You couldn’t tell if he was kissing you to acknowledge your confession or if he simply wanted to silence you, to avoid confronting the strange reality that a young girl had fallen for his old-married-ass.

In that heartbeat, everything else faded away. The doubts, the complications, and the chaos of your emotions blended into the background, leaving only the taste of him lingering on your lips and the warmth of his body pressing against yours.

"You belong to me," Logan murmured in between the kiss as you softly moan with your eyes closed. His thumb softly caressing your cheeks while both of your lips are fighting in the battle. "No one else, but me," His words sounded like a vow.

His hands found their way to your waist as he lifted you up to set you down on the kitchen counter. Your legs spread open automatically to welcome him in between them before you both proceeded to tangled each other's lips.

You whimpered when his teeth slightly nib on your bottom lip, as Logan smirked before forcing his tongue down your throat. His right hand comfortably wrapped around your throat, the cold sensation of his wedding finger kept you from melting furthermore into his touch. Logan sensed you're not fully enjoying this as he convinced you to fully succumbed to him by wrapping his hand tighter around your throat earning a moan from your lips.

His right hand then slowly unwrapped as it goes down, lingering freely across your body, caressing your chest down to the hem of your sundress. Logan broke the kiss to move down connecting his lips to your neck as you tossed your head back, rolling your eyes shut moaning his name. His left hand placed comfortable behind your back, as his right hand travels down caressing your soft skin of your thighs.

"Please, please, please..." You whimpered, chills ran down your spine when you felt his warm tongue gliding against the skin of your neck.

"Please what, Dollface?"

"Please touch me."

"I am touching you aren't I?" Logan pulls his face away from your neck to fixated his gaze upon your eyes, darkened by needs and raw, aching longing. A smirked appears on his face, "What are you talking about, doll? Aren't I touching you?" Logan teased, as his right hand caress your thigh up and down, his thumb slipping towards your inner thigh, almost reaching your heat.

"Not there." You murmured with your lips trembling, your head feels heavy as Logan kept on teasing you with his touch.

"Where, doll?" Logan scrunched his eyebrows together, pretending to not understand what you're saying as his right hand finally goes to reach your throbbing heat, clothed with your white laced panties. "Here?" Logan inched his face closer to you as he nudged his nose against yours, his hot breath fanned against your lips.

"Use your words, Dollface." He commanded, as you whimpered while you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Yes,"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, daddy." You whispered.

Logan's laugh erupted, cold and mocking, like a predator toying with its prey, "Good girl." And with that, by ease, he ripped your panties off as you automatically leaned back, spreading your legs wider. Logan's hands went underneath both of your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the kitchen counter.

His left hand went to your back, snaking its way up to nestle at your nape to push your body upwards, connecting your forehead against his. "Open up," He demanded, and by default, you opened your mouth to welcome his two fingers inside. Your tongue swirling and coating his fingers with your saliva, a faint, salty tang lingers on your tongue, mixed with the warmth of his skin and Logan watched you being a good girl, sucking on his two digits. He gently pulls away once he's satisfied and went down to reach your heat.

He gently plays with your clit as you tossed your head back, letting out a moan. "Angh..." When his fingers slowly go down to reach your tiny hole. He teased your hole a little, collecting your moist, before pushing two fingers inside your needy cunt. Another loud moan earned from you, as Logan kept pushing his two digits inside.

"This what you want?" Logan mumbled, glancing down to his fingers inside your pussy before glancing back up to watch your face contorted into pleasure. He rolled his fingers slowly, feeling the spongey walls of your cunt against his pad. "I don't think that boy's fingers can get you this desperate, right?" You only moaned out loud for him, opening your eyes watching his sharp ones.

"Come on, Doll. Y'know who you belong to." Logan smirked and with that he started to flick his fingers inside your cunt, increasing his pace.

"Ah, shit! Daddy!" You shrieked, throwing your head back, your hands resting back to support your weight.

"I know, doll. So good, huh?" Logan mumbled, watching his fingers doing his work. "It's just my fingers inside your cunt, you forgot how it feels when it's my cock?" Logan breathed, his heartbeat increasing from excitement watching you vulnerable on his fingers. He started to thrust his fingers in and out of you, without hurting you, whilst flicking here and there.

"Come on, doll. Cum for me," His left hand went to your back, pushing your body upwards with force. "Open your eyes, I wanna see you shatter." Logan growled, connecting his forehead with yours.

You whimpered, tears stream down your cheeks as you slowly opened your eyes. "There we go, come on, baby, cum for me. Cum for daddy, I know you want to."

"D-daddy..." You whimpered and with that, you reached your high, gushing down his fingers while he kept working it inside you, emptying your fluid.

"Thaaaat's ittt... Good girl, good girl, baby." He whispered as he gently pulls out his fingers. You small smiled, your chest heaves up and down trying to catch your breath.

"About what you said before," He started, you forced down your saliva, mentally embracing yourself to receive his answer. Your once calmed heartbeat now raced back. as his mouth went agape to say something, you both jumped in surprised when the front door sounded open and closed.

"Momma's home boys!"

[pinkbowsxo]

Corrupted Innocence - Part 7

Choi Su-bong x F!Reader

Corrupted Innocence Masterlist

summary: going to the nightclub with the group, you hoped to spend some more time with se-mi, then you hear that thanos was with another girl as you got upset, he told you nothing happened and quickly took you back to his place as you ditched se-mi completely

warnings: swearing, mention of smoking and drugs, p in v, fingering, choking, manipulation, dom thanos

comments: mdni!!

a/n: hey everyone! i haven’t posted in so long omg i’m so sorry😩 i was so busy but here is finally chapter 7, it’s pretty late here so i hope i didn’t make any mistakes, anyway enjoy!! kisses xx

The next day, you went to the nightclub with the group, as planned. Nam-gyu currently works there, so he and Thanos would often come here, and sometimes you and Se-mi would join in too.

You all arrive at the nightclub, the music already blaring. Thanos and Nam-gyu are the first to enter and are greeted by a few familiar faces. Se-mi grabs your hand and pulls you along, her heels clicking on the pavement. "Come on, slowpoke!"

Thanos and Nam-gyu said they were going to the VIP lounge to hang out and do their thing. Se-mi rolls her eyes playfully. "Typical guys, always doing their ‘thing’." She laughs and leads you through the crowded dance floor to the bar. “Let's get some drinks and have some fun before they come back all spaced out."

Se-mi orders her rum and coke while you choose a vodka and cranberry. The bartender serves your drinks quickly, the crowd at the bar gradually thinning as the night goes on.

Se-mi narrows her eyes playfully as she leans against the bar and takes a sip of her rum and coke. "You never drink hard liquor. And when was the last time we hung out alone like this? Without those two idiots around?"

“I really need this drink,” you said, chuckling as you took a sip. “And yes, it’s been a while,” you said, looking down at your lap, looking awkward somehow.

Se-mi's smile fades a little as she notices your distant attitude. She puts down her drink and turns to you with concern. “Hey, what's going on with you? You've been a little distant lately. More distant than usual."

How could you tell her you were fucking Thanos? You didn't know how to act around her, while you were hiding it from her, and on top of that you were so stressed out. "It's nothing," you said, looking at her to make it seem believable.

Se-mi’s eyes scan your face, searching for any hint that you’re telling the truth. She can tell something’s off, but she can’t put her finger on it. She picks up her drink again and swirls the ice around it. “Nothing? Really?”

You nodded. “Nothing, really,” you said with a smile on your face as you took another sip.

Se-mi's eyes narrow as she studies you, trying to read your expression. She doesn't buy it, but she doesn't press the issue any further. She takes another sip of her drink. “If you say so. But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything."

“I know and I will, thank you,” you said, appreciating her words. Se-mi nods, her expression softening slightly. She looks toward the VIP lounge. “I wonder what those two are doing. Probably getting high of their asses." She chuckles and shakes her head before turning back to you.

Suddenly, Nam-gyu stumbles out of the VIP lounge, looking disheveled and slightly off balance. He walks straight up to you and Se-mi, waving theatrically. “Yo! There you two are!” He swallows softly, clearly off the hook.

Se-mi rolls her eyes, but can't help but laugh at Nam-gyu's plight. She leans against the bar and crosses her arms. "Looks like someone had a good time in there." She calls out to him, grinning. “Where's Thanos?"

Nam-gyu bursts out laughing. “Thanos? Oh man, he must be upstairs getting lucky with that hot chick from the VIP room." He winks exaggeratedly, clearly enjoying the gossip.

You felt a pang in your chest. You weren’t in a relationship or anything, he could do whatever he wanted, but it hurt you that he was with someone else. You felt your face burn and jealousy gnaw at your chest.

Se-mi notices your sudden silence and the slight blush on your cheeks. She looks at you curiously, but before she can say anything, Nam-gyu continues his drunken ramblings. "Yeah, man, he’s really hitting it off with her."

You told them you were going to the restroom. Se-mi watches you go, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. She glances between your retreating form and Nam-gyu, who is still chatting.

On your way to the restroom you saw Thanos, he called your name. You looked at him once and just kept walking.

Thanos sees you walk by without stopping and immediately knows something’s off. “Yo, wait up.” He calls out, catching up to you as you reach the restroom door. “What’s your problem?”

He blocked the way to the restroom. “I don’t have a problem,” you said, without even looking at him.

He frowns and studies your face intently. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” His voice is determined and commanding. He lifts your chin with his finger, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You met his gaze. “It’s nothing, Su-bong. I hope you had a nice time in the VIP lounge.”

Thanos' eyes widen slightly at your sarcasm, realizing the possible cause of your attitude. He slides his hand from your chin, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension. "Are you jealous or something?" He tilts his head, his expression mixing amusement and curiosity.

“I’m not jealous.” He laughs, his grin widening. “You’re so bad at lying.” Thanos chuckles softly, his breath caressing your ear as he leans in closer. “Hey, relax. I was just teasing you, alright? Nothing happened with that girl.” He gently tilts your chin up with his finger, forcing you to meet his playful gaze again.

“Nam-gyu made it sound like-“ Thanos rolls his eyes dramatically and waves his hand dismissively as he cuts you off. "Nam-gyu talks shit.”

You believed him, he made you believe him. Thanos sees your expression soften and your jealousy disappear. He smiles inwardly, knowing he’s successfully manipulated you. “Baby, you know I’d never touch another girl right?” he adds sweetly, placing a hand on your cheek. Your expression relaxes even more, and you fall for it completely.

Thanos returns your smile with a charming smirk, pleased that his manipulation has worked so smoothly. He reaches out and playfully tugs on a strand of hair as he leans toward you conspiratorially. “Next time Nam-gyu starts gossiping, come straight to the source, yeah?”

You nod at him, smiling. Thanos’ smile turns into a satisfied smirk as he watches you nod and smile obediently. He knows he has you exactly where he wants you: trusting and believing every word. “Good girl.”

“So, do you have any plans after we wrap up here?” he asks casually, his tone light and nonchalant. He leans back against the wall, hands in his pockets, and acts like it’s no big deal. “I thought you could come back to my place with me for a bit.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” You said looking at him. Thanos smiles, satisfied with your answer. He pushes himself off the wall, his hand gripping your arm. “Good. Let’s tell the others we’re leaving then.”

You looked at him in surprise. “Right now? I thought you said-” Thanos cuts you off with a nonchalant shrug, his grip on your arm tightening slightly. “I changed my mind. Why wait, right? Let’s bounce.”

"Uh, yeah, okay. I'll just text Se-mi and say I wasn't feeling well and went home or something." Thanos watches as you quickly type out a message, his expression unreadable. He pulls you closer to him as he pushes through the crowd, ready to leave. "Perfect," he mumbles, pulling his car keys from his pocket. "Let's go."

You haven't spent much time in the club or with Se-mi, but you have enjoyed some alone time with Thanos, so that's okay. "Are you sure it's a good idea to drive now?" Thanos laughs, "Baby, I've only had two drinks. I'm as sober as a judge." He winks.

“I thought you and Nam-gyu smoked or maybe took pills.” He laughs again, "Smart girl. Yeah, we did smoke, but no pills. I'm serious though. I'm completely sober." He studies your face and finds your concern quite cute. "You're like a mom."

You chuckled when he said that. You didn't know whether to take it as a compliment. You opened the passenger door as Se-mi texted you back.

Se-mi

"Babe, You good? You're acting weird. And now you're leaving without saying bye?"

You got into his car as he drove back to his house. The car ride was silent as you felt guilty. Once there, you walked upstairs with him as he opened the front door to his apartment. He took off his shoes and walked into the kitchen.

He pops the cap off the beer bottle and takes a long drink as he leans against the counter. He watches you follow him inside and sees your guilty look. "You're sulking," he says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Do you want one?” He holds up his beer bottle and looks at your face for an answer. “You’re quiet,” he adds softly. He’s starting to realize that maybe you’re brooding again, like you always do. “Yeah, uh, no, thank you, I don't like beer.”

“Right, right. You’re more of a wine girl.” He chuckles, remembering your preferences. He takes another sip of beer, his eyes never leaving you as you stand there awkwardly in his living room. “So… you gonna just stand there all night?”

He placed his beer bottle on the counter, he walked over to you as he placed his hand on your cheek, making you look up at him. “Angel,” he says, his thumb caressing your cheek. His other hand moves to your waist, pulling you a little closer. “You’re thinking too much.” He catches your gaze, a small grin playing on his lips. “Why are you so tense?” His voice is tender but also teasing.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, sultry tone. “You know I can help you relax.” His thumb strokes your jawline gently.

He grabbed your arm as he led you upstairs, his hand steady on your arm. He pulled you into his room and closed the door behind him. He turned to you, his eyes filled with a different look than before. “Sit,” he instructed, pointing to his bed.

He slowly pushes you back onto the bed, his hands moving to your legs as he spreads them and kneels between them. A mischievous smirk plays on his lips as he begins to pull up your dress. “Let’s get you out of this dress,”

“Arms up,” he commands, his hands gripping the hem of your dress. He pulls it off in one swift motion and tosses it aside. You’re now lying on his bed, in nothing but your pink lace bra and panties. “You changed your piercing,” he says, his eyes focused on your belly

"It's cute," he says with a grin, running his fingers over the new piercing. "I like it better than the old one," he leans over and presses a kiss just above the piercing.

You were glad he liked it when you smiled. He leaned in again and kissed you hungrily. He unbuckled his belt with one hand, not breaking the intense kiss. His other hand moved to your face, deepening the kiss as he pressed his body against yours. You could feel the heat radiating off of him and his breathing was ragged as he pulled back a little to unbutton his pants.

He makes quick work of your bra and tosses it aside. His hands then hook into your waistband and slowly pull your panties down. He steps out of his pants and boxers and stands naked before you. He kicks his clothes aside and crawls back onto the bed, pulling you against him.

He kisses you roughly, his fingers immediately finding your wetness. He moans into your mouth, his fingers spreading your pussy lips to find your clitoris. He starts to circle it, feeling how wet and swollen you are. "Fuck," he mumbles against your lips, "you’re so fucking wet."

He breaks the kiss and slides his mouth down your neck, his fingers continuing their rhythmic circles. He feels your hips buck against his hand. He looks down at his fingers glistening with your wetness. He curls his fingers inside you, searching for that spot that drives you crazy.

He grins into your neck, feeling your urge. He quickly reaches for a condom from the drawer of his nightstand. He tears the package open with his teeth and rolls the condom around his hard length. He pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine from the sudden emptiness.

He positions himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “I’m not going to waste time teasing you,” he says in a low, husky voice. “I’m going to fuck you hard and fast, just like you need it.”

He rams into you without warning, filling you completely with one brutal thrust. You feel every inch of him as he pounds into you, his hips bucking forward again and again. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls your legs up to his chest, taking you deeper. “Fuck!”

“Damn, you’re so loud,” he says with a smirk, watching your mouth open in a silent scream as he hits that deep spot inside you. “You always make such noisy sounds,” he tightens his grip on your hips, “Like you can’t get enough.” He quickens his pace.

“So good.” You moan loudly and needily. “Mhm,” he groans, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he feels you tense around him. “You feel so fucking good,” he praises, his voice strained. He leans down to capture your mouth in a rough kiss, swallowing your moans as he thrusts further into you.

He breaks the kiss and changes his angle to rub your clit firmly with his thumb. “Want to cum on my cock?” He pants, working your clit in tight circles. His hips suck relentlessly, filling you up again and again. “Cum for me, let me feel you squeeze me.”

“I'm gonna cum.” You moan, barely able to get the words out of your mouth. “Fuck, yeah you are,” he hisses, feeling your body tense. He rubs his thumb against your clit. “Cum all over my cock,” he demands, his voice breaking with his own impending release.

As soon as he feels you convulse around him, he throws his head back and finds his own release, filling the condom with his hot seed. He stays there for a moment, panting and wrapped around your quivering body.

He pulls out of you slowly, making you groan in loss. He immediately wraps his hand around your throat and pulls you into a deep, messy kiss. His other hand comes up to tangle in your hair, holding you in place as he dominates your mouth. “You’re a good girl.”

He pulls away, his lips glistening with your saliva. Without a word, he stands up and walks to the bathroom, where he throws away the used condom. He returns a moment later and climbs back into bed.

You were both very tired from the club and the fucking, it was also very late. You couldn't keep your eyes open long enough before you fell asleep, very satisfied.

[deikshen]

Shitty talking with my sister, we can't stop laughing at the: look, Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu's first son decides to court Liu Qingge.

His parents disagree (Shen Qingqiu not so much, he would understand why someone would fall for Liu Qingge after all), of course, but faced with the hypocrisy of their own actions, they just give Liu Qingge a warning and let everything... happen.

Their second daughter, their precious, spoiled and delicate little girl, decides that she doesn't want to be a cultivator, she wants to embrace her demonic side and her role in the court of the demon realm. Shen Qingqiu knows that it's only a matter of time until she ends up tangling with some demon... But he doesn't expect it to be Sha Hualing!!!

Their third daughter, beautiful and more spoiled than the previous one, thank goodness, doesn't get involved with someone twice her age. She has a healthy friendship with Mobei-jun and Shang Qinghua's eldest daughter, just a couple of months older than her, which slowly and sweetly evolves into a first love, first romance and first courtship for both princesses. Very sweet and beautiful.

Their fourth son randomly runs away with a disciple of Bai Zhan and they return after a month married. Well, to be expected honestly, and better than someone twice his age (not that Shen Qingqiu is being hypocritical, but they are their children!! He has the right to be a little protective about that!!!)

Their fifth child (and the last one Shen Qingqiu decided to have given birth; honestly, he doesn't plan on fathering any more children in his body for at least a century, despite his husband's pouting - and the indecent suggestions that Luo Binghe would now be proud to be the one to carry their offspring) doesn't seem interested in anyone yet, which is... slightly disturbing, if compare him to his siblings. He's in his early twenties, and he's a wonderful, charming, skilled, and strong young man; as always, Binghe's heritage is strong, but perhaps too much so in his youngest son, who, except for Shen Qingqiu's hair, seems cloned from his heavenly demon father... Although there is perhaps something firmer in his face when he grows up that can only be similar to Tianlang-jun. He also has a calmer and more relaxed temper, a smooth appearance which distinguishes him very well from his siblings.

... And Shen Qingqiu may be a little worried about him.

Haven't they done things right with him? It's not that he wants his son to have a partner or any kind of romantic relationship, not at all!!! In his eyes he will always be his baby! His youngest son!! But, at that age, his siblings were already in their... eh, personal affairs. So, Shen Qingqiu just... wonders if maybe he screwed up somewhere in his upbringing. Okay, maybe Luo Binghe and him were a little harsh on their sister when she had that surprise wedding with Sha Hualing when their youngest son was like four years old, but those were parental fears!!! That can't traumatize a child into a lifelong single, lonely life, right...??

Then it's one of the monthly meetings of Peak Lords. Shen Qingqiu does not usually arrive early, that is true, but Binghe wasn't at home for a brief emergency at the demon court, his son had also gone out, and with nothing to do, well, maybe he could chat with Qi Qingqi or something while they waited for the meeting to start.

His first warning sign is that the door is closed. Well, that's strange, since usually on days where there are monthly meetings, the doors are wide open. Then he pushes the door and the fan falls from his hands, shocked.

There is his son, like a predator loudly feeding from someone's mouth. Well, Shen Qingqiu doesn't have to worry about his not-so-little younger son's singleness anymore, BUT STILL-

Because the one sitting on the table surrounded by fallen scrolls, blushing like a schoolgirl, completely disheveled and with clear signs of having been kissed for a long time, is Yue Qingyuan.

... Shen Qingqiu closes the door perhaps a little too loudly before leaving as fast as possible. YEA, WELL. HE’S DEFINITELY NOT GOING TO MENTION THAT TO BINGHE. IF POSSIBLE, NEVER.

Out of sight, out of mind. He is not ready for this conversation and will not be anytime soon.

Maybe he should ask Shang Qinghua what to do; a lot time has happened since the wedding of Liu Qingge and his firstborn, and after all, the Shang Qinghua's second daughter decided that she had to court Qi Qingqi (and she is in the process of doing so). Then maybe his friend is more in tune with how to deal with that crisis...

(Shang Qinghua is not. He laughs and cries loudly and begs Shen Qingqiu to please betroth their future children each other before they are born to avoid giving more spouses to the other Peak Lords of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.

With a much-needed gulp of rice wine, Shen Qingqiu agrees.)

[chuubiesl]

chocolate popsicle | clark kent

summary : After an incident involving your best friend Damian and your brother Jon, you retreat to your room, consumed by guilt and frustration. Clark, in an attempt to reconnect with his daughter, shares a story about his own struggles as a young hero, revealing that even Superman faced similar challenges.

warning : it's just fluff and sweet

Clark approaches his daughter's bedroom door with light, almost hesitant steps, and gently knocks on the wood, as if afraid to disturb the silence that seems to have settled between them in the last few days. "Hey," he says, his voice firm but filled with a care only a father can have. He spent the whole day worried, watching his daughter's room from afar, waiting for her to come out, for her to go back to being the girl who used to run to him with open arms. But now, with Lois finally suggesting he check it out, the worry has turned into something thicker, more urgent. "Is everything okay there?"  

He sighs deeply, resting his forehead against the door for a brief moment, as if the wood could convey some kind of comfort or response. They always had a strong, almost palpable connection. From the moment he first held her, still a fragile baby in his arms, he knew he would do anything for her. It was a natural, pure bond between father and daughter. But lately, something has changed. Something he can't name, but feels like an invisible barrier, slowly growing between them. It's as if, suddenly, he no longer knows how to reach her, how to cross this distance that seems to increase every day. The feeling of losing his daughter consumes him inside, a silent pain that he carries without knowing how to express it.  

"We can talk?" suggests Clark, his voice hesitant but filled with fragile hope, as if he's trying to hold on to something that could slip away at any moment. "Or... we can get some popsicles. Remember how we used to do that?" He tries to bring back a happy memory, something that brought them together, something that he hopes still means something to her. It was their ritual, a tradition that started when [Y/n] it was small and Clarkkeeps it like a treasure.  

Then, the door slowly opens, and there she is. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her headphones hung around her neck like a symbolic barrier between her and the outside world. Her lips are pursed slightly, and a heavy sigh escapes, as if she's carrying a weight that Clark can't see. He doesn't need words to understand: she just wants to be alone.

"I don't want any popsicles, Dad," she says, her voice soft but firm, as if she's trying to maintain emotional distance. "And nothing happened, it's just... teenage stuff."  

Clark takes a deep breath, trying not to press. He knows that at this age, emotions can be a whirlwind, and he doesn't want to make things worse. He stands there, standing at the threshold of the room, his heart heavy with worry, trying to decipher what's going on behind those eyes he knows so well. Eyes that he learned to love from the first moment he saw them, small and curious, full of life. Now, they seem distant, filled with a sadness and anger that he doesn't know how to dispel.  

He wants to pull her into a hug, wrap her in his arms and take away all the pain he sees in her. He wants to tell her that he is there, that he will always be there, no matter what. But he knows he can't force it. It needs to respect the space of [Y/n], even if it hurts.  

"Is it okay if I come in?" he asks gently, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "I promise not to barge in. I just... can tell you something you might like to hear. Unless you want to be alone. I'll understand."  

He stands there, waiting, his heart beating faster than normal, waiting for a sign, for anything that shows he can still reach her. Because deep down, all he wants is to make sure she knows he's there, that he'll always be there, no matter what.

[Y/n] doesn't respond immediately, but she also doesn't close the door when she returns to the room, a subtle but significant gesture that indicates she is allowing him to enter. It's as if, even in her silence, she is saying, "You can stay, but don't expect me to talk." She's not completely closing herself off, and that's something. The girl lies down on the bed again, her movements slow and tired, as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. With an almost imperceptible nod of her head, she indicates a space beside her, a silent invitation for him to sit.  

Clark hesitates for a moment, as if he's treading on fragile ground, where one false step could break what little connection he has left. He sits down carefully, keeping a respectful distance but close enough to let her know he's there. The silence between the two is dense, full of unspoken emotions, but Clark respects it. He doesn't try to force a conversation, he doesn't try to fill the void with unnecessary words. Instead, it simply sits there, present, like a safe haven she can reach when she's ready.  

After what seems like an eternity, Clark finally breaks the silence. His voice is soft, almost cautious, as if he's trying not to upset the delicate balance between them.  

"Do you remember the solar storm that happened a few weeks ago?" He asks, carefully observing his daughter's face, so similar to his own, but with softer, younger features. He looks for any sign of attention, any sign that she's listening. "I had to deal with a lot up there. It's always difficult... being away, especially when important things happen here."  

He pauses, choosing his words carefully, as if each one were a piece of a puzzle that he needs to put together with precision. He notices a small movement from his daughter, almost imperceptible, but enough to know that she is paying attention. It's a small sign, but for Clark, it's like a light at the end of the tunnel.  

"While I was there, I found a little boy," he continues, his voice a little firmer now, but still charged with emotion. "He had superpowers, but he couldn't control them. And... he was angry. Angry that he wasn't like his classmates and that he had to hide."  

[Y/n] looks up at him, intrigued. Her gaze is curious, but still cautious, as if she's not entirely sure where he's going with this story.  

"Dad, isn't that your story?" she asks, her voice soft but with a hint of teenage irony.  

Clark smiles slightly, a shy, almost embarrassed smile, as he scratches the back of his head. "Maybe it is," he admits, his voice a little lighter now. "But I'm trying to get to something important... can I continue?"  

[Y/n] nods slowly, almost reluctantly, but still allowing him to continue. It's a small but significant sign, and Clark grasps that opening carefully. He inhales deeply, as if preparing to dive into deep water.  

"This boy was so angry, [Y/n]. And so... alone," he continues, his voice now deeper, charged with an emotion he tries to contain. "He hated himself. He thought he was a monster."  

Clark pauses, fighting the emotion that threatens to take over his voice. He wants so badly to find the right words, the ones that can break through the barrier she has built around herself. He wants her to understand that he is there, that he understands, that he has been in the same place.  

"I helped him," he says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "Not because it was easy, but because I knew what he was feeling."  

He watches his daughter swallow hard, her eyes downcast, but he notices a crack in the wall she had built around herself. It's a small, barely noticeable sign, but to Clark, it's like a crack of light in a dark room.  

And then finally, [Y/n] whispers, his voice so low he almost can't hear it, "I fought with Damian. I hurt him, Father. And if Jon hadn't been there...it could have been so much worse."  

Clark feels his heart tighten, as if an invisible hand is squeezing his chest. He looks at his daughter, so small and fragile at that moment, despite all the strength she carries within her. His large, strong hands, used to holding the weight of the world, now move with an almost reverent delicacy. He reaches for her, his fingers gently touching her back, as if he's afraid any further pressure might break her.  

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice as soft as his touch, trying to comfort her. "I know it was an accident. You lost control, but that doesn't mean you're bad."  

[Y/n] lets out a sob, a sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside her, as if she's been restrained for too long. And then, as if a dam had broken, the words begin to escape, disordered and full of emotion.  

"I hate this, Dad," she says, her voice shaky, filled with an anger that seems directed more at herself than anything else. "I hate these powers. I don't want to be like this. Why wasn't I born normal, like mom? Everything would be easier!"  

The tears begin to fall, slowly at first, but soon turn into a steady stream, running down your face and wetting your cheeks. Clark can't resist. He pulls her into a hug, wrapping her in his arms as if he could protect her from all the evil in the world. He feels a deep pang in his heart, a pain that only a father can feel when he sees his daughter suffering. He wants to correct her, tell her that she is wrong, that she is perfect the way she is, but he knows that this is not the time for that. Now he needs to listen.

"I know it's hard," he says, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as he pats her back with an almost instinctive affection, as if it's a natural reflex of a father trying to comfort his daughter. "But I need you to know that you're amazing. You're stronger than you think. And I will never, ever let you face this alone."  

[Y/n] finally hugs him back, with a strength that surprises even him. Her arms wrap around him, clinging to him as if he were a buoy in the middle of a raging ocean, the only thing stopping her from being swept away by the current. She buries herself in his chest, as if she wants to disappear there, away from everything that scares and confuses her.  

After a while, still hugging him, she murmurs, her voice so low he can barely hear it: "Are you sure? That I'm not... bad?"  

The question breaks Clark's heart in half. He closes his eyes for a moment, fighting the emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. When he opens his eyes again, his gaze is steady, filled with a certainty he hopes she can feel.  

Clark smiles, even though his eyes are shining with emotion, like they're about to overflow. He looks at [Y/n], his daughter, and feels a love so deep it almost hurts. "I'm absolutely sure," he says, his voice firm but filled with a tenderness that only a father can have. "You are my daughter. And I know you better than anyone, so I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are the kindest being there is."  

He holds her face for a moment, his fingers large and strong, but incredibly gentle, as if he wants to convey all the certainty he feels through that simple touch. His eyes meet hers, and he hopes she can see the truth in his words, that she can feel how much he believes in her.  

At that moment, the bedroom door slowly opens, breaking some of that intimate and fraternal atmosphere that dominated the environment. Jon appears in the doorway, his face young and familiar, with an air of knowing exactly what just happened there. He looks at the two of them, father and sister, and a light smile appears on his lips, as if he is trying to bring some lightness to the situation.  

"Hey," he says softly, his voice calm and comforting, as if he knows his words could help ease the tension. "Mom said to ask if you guys want popsicles."  

[Y/n] hesitates for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to accept the offer or continue to wallow in that moment of vulnerability. She looks up at Jon, her eyes still a little red from the tears, but there's a glint of curiosity there, a sign that she's allowing herself to get distracted, if only a little.  

"Does it have chocolate popsicle?" she asks, her voice still a little shaky but with a hint of hope.  

Jon doesn't hesitate. "Of course there's chocolate popsicle," he replies, his smile widening, as if he knew that was the right answer.  

Clark laughs softly, a small sound but full of hope. It's a laugh that comes from a deep place inside him, a place that knows that despite everything, the family is still together. He holds [Y/n] once more, a quick but meaningful hug, before saying, "I think we all need popsicles right now."  

And for a moment, as he looks at his two sons, sitting there together, he feels like everything is going to be okay. Not that the problems have gone away, or that the answers have become clearer, but because he knows that, no matter what, they are together. And sometimes, that's enough.

[vvinterr]

Satoru Gojo x Reader

Angst, cheating, JJK

Chapter 1

He was your first love, and you hoped the last one. He was not only handsome but kind and made you laugh all the time. Honestly, you couldn't believe you had such an amazing boyfriend. It was overwhelming how much you loved him. You really thought this fairytale would last forever. Until something shifted, changed, and crumbled in your relationship. You didn't notice at first the cracks on the surface of your relationship. Missed call one evening, ignored message on morning after. Maybe he was busy, you thought. Then cracks started getting bigger. You only see him in the mornings now because of sudden tasks at work.

You refuse to let yourself believe that your loving husband could betray you. So you try to ignore cold and ugly feeling of loneliness, which grows day by day. And now you are sitting in the kitchen waiting for him to return home. It is already past midnight, dinner cold and untouched. You were together five years by now. When you met him the first time, you thought he was too loud, his presence a bit overwhelming, not to mention he also looked like someone who might break your heart. But Satoru was persistent in pursuing you, and eventually, you gave in. The sound of turning key pulls you out of your memories. You flinch and wait for him to come in. His quiet steps stop when he sees you in the kitchen.

- Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing this late? - he asks you with a surprised look on his face, hair disheveled.

- Waited for you, though we could have a dinner together - you simply said, shifting your gaze to the wooden surface of the table.

- Why are you so late, Satoru? - you say with quite voice.

- I got caught in work, sorry I should have warned you I would be late. There is so much stuff going on in the office, - he says, trying to soun nonchalantly. Like everything is fine, like there is no growing distance between you.

- Again? Satoru, it has been months since we had dinner together, I barely see you now, and we live together - you say, sudden rage grabbing you by the throat.

- Babe, let's not do this now again. We can talk about it tomorrow, I promise - he says, running hand over his hair. He sounded slightly irritated, like you were unreasonable. The same thing happened a week ago when you tried to talk to him.

- When, Satoru? Let's talk now, tell me what's going on - your voice cracked.

Your loving boyfriend sighs heavily and sits beside you. For a while, none of you says a word. You patiently look at him, urging, begging with your eyes to open up, explain, apologize - to do anything so you both could solve this and back to how you used to be.

But Satoru doesn't see your watery gaze, doesn't react right away. Then he takes your hands in his, cradling them, like he is trying to sooze you.

- It just, I am tired, you know. Everything is hectic right now at the office, our company is preparing for the big deal, and I can't slack on it. And I am sorry for making you feel neglected, I promise I will make up for it - he looks at you finally, seeking understanding, his cerulean eyes piercing with guilt.

- I don't know Satoru. You have been so distant lately, I can't even imagine what's going on in your head right now. If there's something you want to tell me, something I should know, please tell me now - your eyes shining with tears, threatening to fall, as you search your boyfriend eyes to reveal hidden truth.

- There is nothing I hid from you, you can trust me - Satoru says with reassuringly squeezing your hands.

- I promise I will fix everything, you don't need to worry - he says.

You really want to believe him, so after your teary outburst, he is cradling you in bed until you fall asleep peacefully for the first time in a while. In the morning, you both have breakfast together, first one in a while too. Your aching heart starts to calm down. You will be alright, it's just a faze, you say to yourself, feeling energetic now. Maybe you should stop by him at lunchtime and surprise him, you think.

You decide to do so, and now you are at the Satoru's office, with lunch in hand. Usually, Satoru always had his lunch in the office, so this time sure wasn't an exception. At the reception you are greeted by the secretary, Satoru's coworker, Ichiji. He informs you that Satoru is occupied with visitors and suggest to wait for him. You sat by his cabinet, from where you hear faint voices. A few minutes after the door opens and you see your boyfriend accompanied by an aged man and young woman. They were laughing at something. At first, they didn't notice you engaged in conversation.

- I am glad we came to an agreement. Everything should go smoothly from no on - with a satisfied smile said unknown man.

- I am glad too, we should celebrate our deal, after all regulations of course - politely smiled Satoru.

- Yeah, we totally should! You know Satoru, we could go to that restaurant we discovered last time - beamed a young woman.

Satoru smiled in response, and then his gaze stopped on you, his smile faltering.

- Oh, it's already a lunchtime. We will catch up later, Mr. Sakana, miss - he slightly bowed to the man and woman.

- But I thought we could have lunch together, - said she with a pout on a pretty face.

- Hello, Satoru, - you decided to reveal yourself, eyes catching intently watching your boyfriend.

- Hello, sweetheart, - Satoru answered with an awkward smile.

Woman's mouth made an 'o' figure as her eyes were darting between you two.

[ninii-winchester]

Behind Closed Doors (Part 5)

Pairing : Boss! Dean Winchester X Assistant! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: angst, slight violence (a well deserved punch), language, John and Mary Winchester, not proofread.

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY MY WORK, TRANSLATE IT OR POST IT TO ANY OTHER PLATFORM. REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED.

Y/n emerged from the women's room and went back to her work space. She knew she looked like a mess even after putting her best efforts to look presentable. With a deep breath she sat back on her desk, thankful Dean was in a meeting. She had zoned out and hadn't realised how much time had passed until a knock on her desk pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked up to see a pair of blue eyes staring at her.

"Earth to Y/n." Cas grinned but his grin faltered the minute he saw her eyes, puffy and red, the sight made him furrow his brows.

"Cas! What're you doing here?" She asked happily getting up from her chair and rounding the desk to greet him with a hug. "I thought you were in France." She said wrapping her arms around his torso. The man didn't hesitate to return the embrace.

"I was, but the event wrapped up early so I came back." He replied pulling away slightly so he could look at her better. "What happened?" He questioned. His gaze fell to her hand where he was expecting to see a ring on her finger but the vacant finger confused him even more. Dean had told him over the phone that he'd proposed and you'd said yes. So why on earth is your finger empty and your eyes red.

Dean stepped out of the elevator after he was done with the meeting and he watched Cas and Y/n talking outside his office. He took in her disheveled appearance and his heart clenched in his chest. She looked so small, and broken, all because of him. He'd promised to never hurt her and that's what he ended up doing. He could tell she'd cried, her puffy and red eyes had given that away.

"Y/n? Where's your ring?" Dean heard Cas ask and his gaze fell to her hand, the sight broke his heart. She'd taken it off. "Didn't Dean propose? He said you said yes." Cas prodded further but she didn't say anything until her gaze fell upon Dean approaching them, not necessarily them, but his office. She watched as he moved past them and reached his office door and that's when she spoke.

"Propose? Cas you've known me since college, I've never been the one they proposed to, I'm the one they 'love' and leave." She sneered and Dean's grip tightened onto the doorknob. He hated hearing her talk about herself like that but shes not even giving him a chance to explain. He felt his anger flaring up and he went inside his office slamming the door behind him.

Cas looked between his two friends feeling completely out of the loop but he felt this was bigger than a petty argument and he's never known Y/n to overreact so if something happened it was big. And most probably Dean's fault. All rationality left his brain when he saw his friend hurt and his best friend being the reason of her tears. He went inside Dean's office, where Dean was pacing back and forth. He grabbed the CEO by his arm and punched him straight in the jaw.

"What the fuck, Cas?" Dean growled holding his jaw.

"What did you do?" Cas glared at his best friend.

"Why do you think I did something?" Dean asked feeling offended his best friend was accusing him.

"Your face says it all so spill, or Lord so help me." Cas threatened. He was gonna beat him to a pulp if he didn't come clean right here, right now. Dean knew Cas was a peaceful person and if he's threatening to choose violence, he will resort to it. He's already lost his fiancée, he doesn't want to lose his best friend too. The two men sat on the chairs placed on the either side of Dean’s desk.

"I went to see mom and dad a week ago." He started.

Dean walked into his childhood house, he was greeted by smiling faces of John, Mary and Sam. It brought a smile to his face as well. Dean teased Sam about how Jess’ not here since they’re always attached to the hip. Mary cleared her throat before speaking,

“There’s something I need to tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d react so I thought it’d be better if it’s just us.” That made Dean tense up. He didn’t like the way this conversation started.

“Is everything okay?” Dean asked looking back and forth between his parents.

“On the surface yeah.” Mary replied. “Dean you’re thirty. You’re not getting any younger and I want you to settle down.” She said getting straight to the point.

“Okay..” Dean trailed off, this isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. He just has to tell them about Y/n and their engagement now.

“And the way you’ve been immersed in work, I don’t see you getting settled anytime soon so we’ve decided to arrange with you someone.” Mary said and Dean’s jaw dropped to the floor. Did his family really think he’s that much of a workaholic that he can’t find a partner for himself? That’s bullshit.

“Excuse me?” Dean growled standing up from his seat.

“She’s the niece of your dad’s old friend. Her name’s Rachel.” Mary said with a finality in her voice.

“Rachel? The one I went to school with? What the fuck is wrong with you all?” Dean yelled.

“She likes you.” Mary added, trying to convince her son.

“I don’t give a fuck. You have no right to meddle in my life.” Dean growled. John who had been quiet all this time finally spoke.

“Dean, don’t talk to your mother like that.” His voice boomed.

“And you’re not hearing what she’s saying?” Dean retorted.

“Dean calm down.” Sam said setting a hand on his brother’s shoulder which the older brother shrugged off.

“Dean this arrangement is for the benefit of the company as well. And your mother wants you to settle down. What’s so wrong in that?” John exclaimed loudly.

“My company is doing great without anyone’s support and what’s wrong with this arrangement is that I have someone in my life and I won’t marry anyone else besides her.” Dean declared.

“Watch your tone, boy. That company is mine, need I remind you I’m still the owner of that company. And you’re the CEO because I made you.” John asserted making Dean scoff.

“You made me CEO because i worked hard for it. You didn’t just give it to me, I earned it.” Dean sneered back at his father.

“The decision has been made. You either marry Rachel or you lose the title of CEO.” John bellowed and the room fell silent. The only sound that could be heard was Dean’s harsh breathing. Without another word Dean left his parent’s house, slamming the door on his way out.

“Dude that’s fucked up.” Cas muttered as Dean finished his story.

“Yeah tell me about it.” Dean rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair.

“Did you tell her?” Castiel asked gesturing outside the door. Dean shook his head staring at the ceiling. “What’re you gonna do now?

“I don’t know, Cas. I love her to death. I don’t want anyone else. But I’ve worked too hard for where I am. It’s so fucking complicated. I don’t even know what to tell her.” He sighed rubbing his face. “How am I going to tell her that I can’t choose between her and my work?”

“You’ve worked hard for this, Dean. Everyone knows that.” Castiel said softly. He felt dejected he couldn’t help his friend. “And I know Y/n. She wouldn’t want you to give it up.” He added.

“That’s also something which scares me. She’d tell me to choose this.” Dean said gesturing to his office. “She’d put me first and I can’t even imagine to bear the look on her face when she does it.” Dean could feel tears springing in his eyes, just at the thought of loosing her for good. “I thought I’d deal with this mess without her knowing about it. But then Rachel showed up.”

“Dean.” Cas said seriously that made Dean look at him. “You have to tell her. She’s falling down in a deep hole of self doubt.” Dean nodded agreeing with Cas. He knows its going to be hard, but he has to go through with it.

Tags:

@spnfamily-j2 @galway-girlatwork @deangirl96 @queensilber

@s0urw00lf @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deans-baby-momma @fullbelieverheart

@riah1606 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @hobby27

@starkleila @suckitands33 @m3ntally-unstable @kanekilovelove-blog @candy-coated-misery0731

@blackcherrywhiskey @ladysparkles78 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @graywrites5567

@thelittlelightinthedarkess @enamoredwithbella @winchesterwild78 @myuhh8

@10ava01 @jackles010378

[lilbardrhi]

"Broken", Not Stupid - 19: A Morning at Home

Pairing: alpha!Simon "Ghost" Riley x unusual omega!OC (13)

CW: Omegaverse; dehumanization; physical, mental, and emotional abuse committed by an organization; unethical experimentation on humans; cult behavior

Author's Note: Some slice-of-life content for y'all this time around uwu & still a bit short - but, again, trying to get back in the flow of writing/back in this... odd (not cuz Omegaverse) AU LOL

There's nothing here.

Simon searched high and low in the room, in the closet and under the bed, but there's nothing there. The window is even closed. After double checking every nook and cranny of the room, Simon comes to the conclusion that a nightmare must have scared the hell out of her. He expected such, but didn't expect them so soon.

Walking in his room to find 13 in the center of his bed and hidding under his blanket was... a surprise. A - strangely - pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. The way the blanket rested on top of her short, messy hair was... cute. He made no comment on it, though.

Convinced she was alseep and unable to sleep himself, he quietly grabs his phone from his nightstand and begins an email to his therapist.

Jina, I know it's late, and I apologize for that. I needed to reach out as soon as possible to seek help for a friend.

It almost seemed incorrect to call 13 a friend, but that's the best way he had to word it. Is 13 more or less than a friend?

She's just been removed from a strange organization and I can already tell she's in need of help. I'd like to get some options lined up for her as to who she can see, then pitch the idea to her about seeing one of the options. I'm not sure what all she went through while with this organization as she's been struggling to talk about it, but I know it would do her good to try if she's open to doing so. Thank you, Simon

He reads over the email a few times for errors and making sure he's not giving too much detail in a traceable form of contact before sending it off.

After that, he sends a quick message to Price about what happened, that he didn't find anything, and that 13 was already alseep again. Price responded quickly with a thumbs-up emoji then Simon decided to attempt to sleep again.

Sleep still doesn't come easy for Simon. Nor does it seem to want to stay with him for longer than 45 minutes. Each time 13 shifts or makes the quietest of sounds, his eyes open and he's alert.

He doesn't fault her for it; he knows he's just worried about her and her well-being. Making sure he's awake should she need something seems to be the thing for him for the night.

Oh, well.

"No," 13 mumbles suddenly. She repeats it twice before falling silent again.

Simon watches the bed silently for a moment, waiting to see if she'll turn over. When she doesn't, he settles back in and closes his eyes.

Around 6 am, Simon decides he's not sleeping any longer and quietly gets up. Thankfully, the door hinges aren't squeaky - this house is a fairly new build - and he makes his way to the kitchen without waking 13.

Or so he thought.

As Simon is gathering things for breakfast, Selene chirps as she prances into the kitchen. 13 walks up behind her, rubbing sleep from her eyes and looking disheveled as ever.

"Why are you up?" she mutters as she looks at the clock on the stove.

"Restless, I suppose," he offers and prepares the pan to cook eggs in.

13 hums in acknowledgement and slides on a stool at the kitchen island. Over the next couple minutes, while he's cooking, Simon watches 13 gradually slouch over the island counter before eventually her forehead is pressed to her forearm in front of her.

A smile pulls at the corner of Simon's mouth at the sight.

"Didn't sleep well?"

She mumbles something to the counter, but shakes her head then sits up.

"Actually, I slept better than I have in... a long time."

13's head tilts to the side slightly as if she's studying him.

Simon assumes that his scars are what has her attention, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't wear masks for himself - he wears it because it means less horrific looks and probing questions in public. Her gaze isn't horrified, though, and she's yet to say anything about the rough skin marring his left cheek that trails down his neck.

"We have orange juice, right?" 13 asks as she slides off the stool and pads to the fridge.

Simon pauses for a moment, shocked that her question wasn't about the scars. He nods, though, and continues cooking.

They sit and eat in silence when he's done cooking. Simon steals glances at 13, a question bubbling in his chest.

Is there something she'd prefer to be called besides 13?

Is now even the time to ask? Or would it be better to wait until she's had some therapy?

Then Simon's phone chimes, signalling an email.

"Mind if I check this?" he asks, pointing to his phone.

"I don't care," 13 laughs lightly then sips her orange juice.

Simon, Based on what little information you've given, I can't give many reccomendations as I can't determine what she would be seen for. I also can't see her myself as it would be a conflict of interest, given I already see you. However, I would reccomend getting her set up with a primary care provider that you trust so she can be referred somewhere for a therapy. This seems serious, based on the tone in your email, so I will be here to help you both in anyway I can. Below is a link to a list of primary care providers that are accepting new patients within your insurance. While we're chatting, would you like to set up an appointment? If this is serious enough that you would reach out on her behalf before speaking to her about therapy, I can only assume there may be some things you may want to get off of your chest as well. Jina

Simon guesses he should have found a regular doctor for her before seeking other help for her, but he's worried about 13. He quickly sends back an email about his availability over the next few weeks and a thank you for the list. It's been a while since he's had an appointment, but he would like some input on 13's situation - to know if there's anything he can do to help her adjust to a life outside of Salvation.

"How do you feel about doctors?" he asks as he puts his phone aside.

"No particular way. I'm not scared of them, if that's what you're asking. Why?" 13 raises an eyebrow at him in question at his random inquiry.

"When's the last time you saw one outside of one of Salvation's?" he presses a bit.

"Since shortly before Salvation bought me," she answers nonchalantly.

"Would you be opening to me helping you find a primary care provider? I can get you put on my insurance so no one fights you over that," Simon offers.

"Yeah, that's fine," she shrugs and bites off a piece of bacon. "Won't they give you hell about us not being... together in some way or something, though?"

Simon shakes his head.

"No. Price will make sure we get through some loopholes."

She accepts the answer and moves on to finishing her breakfast. Selene chirps in the window at a bird as the kitchen island settles into silence.

Masterlist | CoD Masterlist | Part One

Tag List: @lucienofthelakes @lostintransist @demothers-empty-blog @scaredyspooks @tessakate @one-really-annoying-tree-rat @nerdyphantomtheorist @gazsluckyhat @peanutismynickname @jeanzoriley-cod @avgdestitute @itsvargen

[iheartjohnlennon]

PLEASEE DO A NSFW ALPHABET OMG THE WAY YOU WRITE THE BEATLES IS MY FAV😭😭

The Beatles NSFW Alphabet - John

HAD CO-WRITER HELP WITH THIS THIS, WOULD NOT HAVE DONE ANYTHING WITHOUT HER, BEST BEATLES WRITER (OTHER THAN ME) 😍🩷🎀

A is for Aftercare (How he treats you after sex, what happens after sex, etc...)

• John is an absolute sweetheart.

• After sex he's all quiet, attentive and mellow. He talks to you without really talking to you. 

• He comes down hard from his orgasms, feeling as though you and him are the only ones on planet earth.

• He's definitely a cuddler too - big spoon.

John turned to you, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed. You were the same, though you looked a lot more messy. 

His cock was still slightly hard and in his fist, but he wanted to rest.

"You okay?" He breathed. 

"Yeah," you smiled.

John slowly shifted around to hold you in his arms. His chest warm against your back. Naked and satisfied.

B is for Body part (His favourite body part of yours)

• John loves your legs and your hips and your feet. Every inch, from your hips to your soles. 

• He loves them because he likes interacting with them in various scenarios.

• When he's holding your hips to fuck into you as you ride him...when he lifts you by your legs...when you playfully wrap around each other...when he kisses and licks your toes...

• Yes, your legs are very versatile for him.

C is for Cum (Where and why he likes to cum) 

• Facials are most definitely his go to.

• John loves cumming on your face more than anything, it's degrading yet loving.

• He loves how he can see your eyes looking right at him as he does so.

He usually slaps the tip against your cheek, grinning as he sees his semen dripping to your lips and chin. If he’s feeling caring, he’ll use his thumb to wipe it off, before pressing it to your lips.

How sweet.

D is for Dirty secret (Something filthy that he did/or does/or wants to do behind your back.)

• John takes pictures of you, explicit ones.

• Sometimes he's fooling around. You're both out of it. But you're so out of it you forget he takes them. He doesn't forget though.

• Sometimes he takes them secretly, through a slightly open door as you undress…

• He's your own personal voyeur. You never even notice. 

• He keeps the pictures safe, admires them every so often and rubs himself off to them like the man that he is. It's his collection of sorts. 

• John thinks you're absolutely gorgeous, you are gorgeous. He imagines you being on the cover of Playboy or something, but his jealousy and possessiveness would never allow you to be seen by masses of men.

John turned away to retrieve his camera from the bedside table.

"Let's capture this moment, love," he whispered, his lips grazing against yours. 

Your vision was hazy.

"Oh, that's a bit filthy isn't it, John?" You said, sighing. 

John smirked, the corners of his mouth quivering. He liked you like this. 

"Filthy? Well, that's the whole idea." He whispered, sitting up. 

He pulled your bra down further, your nipples were perfectly exposed now, he laid quick kisses against them. 

You were an absolute vision to him.

Laying on his silk hotel sheets, drinking, smoking and eating yourself blind - all simultaneously.

And he was definitely ready to have you afterwards. 

Your laughter bubbled over as you teased, "I hope you're not planning to sell these to the papers."

He chuckled nervously, he had thought about it before - just a little fantasy.

The camera clicked in one hand, his cock was being rubbed through his boxers in the other. 

"No," he breathed, palming himself harder.

"This is just for our little memory vault. These photos are like all our other photos, right?"

John massaged his balls, eager to cum.

"You're the star here." He groaned. 

You giggled.

"Me, a star? Oh, stop it, you're making me blush."

John grinned, adjusting the camera.

"Blush harder. Now, can you slip out of your skirt for me, lovely?"

You did so, and slowly. It slipped off your hips nicely, leaving your bottom half only in your knickers. 

"You're so demanding, Johnny."

With a sly wink, John retorted, "Demanding? Maybe a bit. But you can handle it, can't you, hm?"

And so the camera clicked, again.

E is for Experience (How experienced is he?) 

• John lost his virginity to some whore in Liverpool well before he was eighteen. So he lost it well before he legally even could. 

• He knows enough, he knows a lot in fact, way more than you do definitely.

• He knows enough to please you more than you can please him.

• He loves teasing you about it, saying how much of a square you used to be.

• Something about your lack of experience is hot, especially because it makes him feel in control. 

F is for Favourite position (How he loves to fuck you.)

• John loves cowgirl. 

• He loves when you ride him, your hands flat on his chest.

• The sight of you on top of him just really does it for him. His hands get to roam every where.

• And though it seems like you're in control, he'll often grab your hips and thrust himself up and down, fucking into you. 

• If he's feeling energetic, sometimes he'll flip you onto your back so he can finish in missionary. His head deep in the crook of your neck as he gets closer.

G is for Goofy (How silly is he during sex?) 

• John likes making jokes here and there. He's funny, even in something as serious as sex.

• You'll moan "Yess" and he'll moan "Yess" right back - mocking you.

John will ask "Just like that?" when he knows he's really hitting the spot. He'll ask you questions he knows you can barely answer as your being fucked.

And when you moan something that isn't his name like, "Oh, God." He'll reply, "My name's John, thanks."

He's just a goofy guy. 

G is also for Goal (What's his goal and/or dream in relation to sex.) 

• John's goal is to have you in as many places as possible, places within reason of course. 

• He'll challenge you as well, whispering into your ear, "Do you think we could fuck here without being heard?" or "You'd look so pretty bent over that, y'know."

• He's had you in the classic places, like a car, a broom closet - but that just isn't enough for him.

• John won't stop until he makes you cum in as many places as possible.

H is for Hair (How well groomed he is, does the carpet match the drapes, etc..)

• John doesn't particularly care for grooming and he can't be bothered to regularly trim, shave or whatever.

• If he ever does do anything to his pubes, just know he was definitely fucking bored. 

I is for Intimacy (How romantic he is during sex, etc..)

• John just isn't the type for candles or music or rose petals. He just wants to get right to it. 

• Though, if it's a special occasion like Valentine's day or your birthday or something, he'll put in the effort to serenade you and fuck you on a bed of roses.

• Though he may say some things that are sweet and fluffy, the only thing he needs to show you is his cock, that's his romantic gesture. 

J is for Jack off (Masturbation headcanon) 

• John occasionally rubs himself off when he doesn't have access to a cunt.

• He thinks of you deeply whenever he does so, cumming hard all over his fist. 

• It’s annoying to do, because nothing feels better than your vagina- but if he uses his imagination ( or those dirty photos he’s taken ) jacking off is the best feeling ever.

K is for Kink (One or more of their kinks in relation to you) 

• John has a moderate pain kink and he's definitely the sadist in most situations, the giver.

• If you ask him to hit you (erotically) he'll do it, hesitantly but happily.

• John has a mommy kink (duh).

• He'll suck your tits and get you to cradle his head whilst he does so. Sometimes he calls you the m-word...mother.

• John has feet kink...

• He likes when you paint your toe nails nice colours. He's like massaging your feet. He's taken your toes into his mouth a lot of times.

L is for Location (Favourite places to do the deed) 

• John loves obscure and semi-public places way more than a mere bed. 

• So places like broom closets, a car, a park - all that jazz.

• He enjoys the risk and the fun involved in those places. 

M is for Motivation (What turns them on about you, gets him hard, makes him cum, etc..) 

• Your voice turns him on the most, before and during sex. Especially when he knows you want it bad.

• Your little moans before your orgasm, those get him there. 

N is for No (Turn offs, what pisses him off, etc..) 

• When you argue earlier in the day, like a proper bad argument, that turns him off for the rest of the day.

• When you can't resolve your issues he doesn't even look at you. He feels detached from you almost.

O is for Oral sex (Does he prefer giving or receiving? How does he give, how does he receive?) 

• John 100% prefers both, he just can't choose between the two. Both bring him immense joy and pleasure.

• He eats you out nicely, enthusiastically. He usually doesn't make you orgasm with just that, it's just a fun, little extra to him.

• Prepare to have your mouth absolutely run through when you're sucking John's cock. No part of his cock is left unlicked or unsucked or untouched by you.

P is for Pace (Fast or slow? Rough or sensual?) 

• His pace is gradual and building.

• He starts slow, then gets faster when he's about to make the both of you cum.

• John leaves being rough for when he's hate or jealous fucking you.

Q is for Quickie (His opinion on quickies, how often they happen, etc..)

• He's not opposed to them, he quite enjoys them actually, but of course he'd prefer having you all by himself with all the time in the world. 

• They happen when you're both drunk or high, it's a moment of irresponsibility. 

• Or they happen when you both haven't seen each other in a while and you just can't wait.

R is for Risk (What kind of risks will they take)

• He'll take public risks, so sex in public. He finds it thrilling, you know, the thought of getting heard and caught. 

• He gets off on someone hearing, someone being a voyeur. 

S is for Stamina (How many rounds he can last, how quickly can they cum, etc..)

• John can last one round but it's a nice length, 20 minutes minimum. 

• He doesn't cum too quick, well, depending on the situation, if he has to cum quick he will, so if you're having a quickie.

• But yeah, he doesn't cum too quickly, so expect that twenty minutes of that cock.

T is for Toys (Does he own toys, use them, what kind of toys, etc?) 

• John personally doesn't own toys because he wouldn't be able to get over the embarrassment of buying and owning them.

• He does try to coax you into buying them for yourself though, he would like watching you use them on yourself.

U is for Unfair (How much does he like to tease you, how does he tease you, etc..) 

• John isn't that unfair. He's not the type to edge you or delay orgasm. 

• Verbal teasing 100% though. 

• And he teases you before he fucks you anyways. So by kissing and rubbing you in areas that make you want more...neck...clit.

V is for Volume (How loud is he, what noises does he make, what does he say, etc..) 

• John groans like a wild animal, he's talkative as well, loves making little comments before and during and after. 

• People can definitely hear him through the walls.

W is for Wildcard (Random sexual headcanon) 

• Lennon loves a good roleplay situation - anything sexy. Nurse and patient, teacher and student, etc…

• He has such a big ego, so he particularly likes when you pretend to be some beatlemaniac.

• Yeah, he always cums so fucking hard during your little role plays.

“Oh my GOD! IS THAT JOHN LENNON?”

You screeched, feet stomping in place as you jump and giggle like a virgin schoolgirl.

John can’t help but look annoyed, his brows lowering as he quickly looks around. 

You just blew his fucking cover with your high pitched squeals and your bouncing up and down.

Oh, how he hated these types of fans.

“Yes! Yes! It is, oh my GOD.” 

You all but scream, throwing yourself on the man.

He doesn’t stifle the annoyed groan that leaves his mouth, sounding like some primal snarl deep in his throat. 

“If I fuck you in the bathroom will you leave me alone and stay quiet?”

X is for X-ray (His cock) 

• A bit above average, so...6 inches and he's not circumcised and his balls are massive.

• He has a good girth as well. John's penis is quite proportionate!! 

• He has a bush because he very rarely shaves or cuts.

 

Uuuuuurgghhh, I want him and his cock so horrendously. 

Y is for Yearning (His sex drive, how much do they want you?) 

• He wants you whenever you're both most available, both physically and emotionally. 

• John most definitely has a high libido. Sex and you occupy his mind at the same time, everywhere.

Z is for Zzz (Sleep afterwards?)

• John doesn't get excessively tired but he does feel it. 

• His after sex sleep depends on you. If you're sleepy, he'll settle and sleep, if you want to stay up, then he's good with that as well.

OTHER BEATLES ALPHABETS COMING SOON XOXO

PAUL

GEORGE

RINGO

[kyokutsu-sama]

Hear me out .. Friends with benefits with Kenpachi, Shunsui , Jushrio & Byakuya. 😩 Down bad for all of them & 🥰 Obsessed your writing!

A/n: Hi!! I'm grateful that you like my writings. Here is your request and I hope you like it ❤️

Tw: Nsfw, Suggestive content

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

Kenpachi :

I mean, he's the type that if he gets involved with someone, that person will necessarily be his property, especially because the marks he leaves leave no doubt. At first it's a little confusing because he thinks: Who the hell would fuck their best friend and then act completely normal? However, he didn't mind having a slightly more "intimate" friendship with you, something that only the two of you know. Even if it's just a few nights where you and him take a little escape from the world and visit each other's rooms from time to time, there is no fixed love relationship. However, he doesn't stop getting jealous when someone is talking to you or too close, he doesn't admit it but his eyes speak for themselves. You're still his even outside his bedroom. He is the one who takes you to his room several times, not only because you are someone who is very close to him, something that applies to few people, but also because if he is not in a good mood he turns to you to talk about something less pleasant than happened to him. Not only does he like having you lying underneath him, he also likes to rest his head on your chest to get some rest. Okay I definitely want this man now

Shunsui :

It's more common than it seems with this man. Firstly because he is not satisfied with just one woman because he is a pervert and a womanizer and secondly for the same reason as the first. He and you have been friends for some time and this concept came about when he invited you out for a drink one night and things started to get out of control and before you knew it you were already involved with him, more than you had planned but didn't regret it. But who could blame you for that? That man's charm is a danger You two try to appear discreet but everyone in the room already knows what's going on between you two, he doesn't even try to hide it, especially when he has the habit of holding your hand in the middle of the hallway or when he peeks under your skirt. He's the one who usually knocks on your bedroom door on some nights and with a silly smile and winks at you and you realize what he's coming for. He knows that despite everything, you are just two beautiful friends outside of your bedroom *cough* his bedroom *cough* the office *cough* among other places... He's going to have to contain himself a lot of times so he doesn't act stupid and kiss you in front of everyone, in the middle of the street.

Jushiro :

In his case, we can no longer say that it is something common. I don't see him being the type who would want a friend with benefits but it also wouldn't be something he would say no to. He finds it easy to talk to you and be close to you without mentioning this topic, unlike Shunsui who always seems to be trying something. Above all, he is a great friend and respects you a lot. Here you are the one who usually starts things just to see that pretty face change into something a little different from the usual innocent and smiling one. You loved seeing him lose his composure and blush. He won't tell anyone about it, and besides, he can't assume something that doesn't really exist. Just a few nights here and there. He will only do it if you agree. He would really like to have something with you and would be happy if you wanted it too.

Byakuya :

So, he never thought about being in a position like this of having a friend who isn't just a friend. At least he's good at keeping the situation confidential and following the rules, given his serious personality. He's the best at doing it and no one finds out that you two have something, not even Renji who found you in the hallway with your hair disheveled and your clothes a little ill-fitting. Byakuya knows what he's doing. It may not seem like it but he trusts you a lot as a friend and subordinate in his division, even having a certain higher level in relation to the others, something that he tries to control but sometimes it escapes him. In most cases, it's you coming into the office late at night and "giving him a break". He, in turn, only invites you to go to his room to punish you for doing it, even if he loves it but doesn't admit it. There are no bonds and he is good at controlling his emotions, these are just secret nights between both of you, no one needs to know. In my opinion I don't think I would be as good at controlling myself around him as he does.

[irksomeartie]

ok so i'm being extremely good and not starting to post the Secret Migueli Fic yet (despite how VERY EASY AND TEMPTING it would be bc 5 of 9 chapters are just.. ready to go but i'm trying to learn from iwbs and have the whole thing completed this time) but that doesn't mean i can't post some little snippets from it here.

under the cut for some suggestive implications

---

Trudging through his friend’s apartment to hunt down his lost clothing, he was distracted when he heard the faint noises coming from the kitchen. Hawk was sat at the counter, long hair left unstyled and messy for once, but looking far more awake than Miguel felt. He glanced over to him the second Miguel poked his head around the corner, giving him a greeting nod before swallowing the mouthful of toast in his mouth.

“’Sup dude.”

Amazing how fast things could go back to normal, even after having your back so thoroughly blown out the previous night.

Sighing and staggering over to lean heavily against the counter – because he wasn’t stupid enough to try sitting down just yet – he ignored the greeting and stared hard at his friend’s plate. “Didn’t make any breakfast for me?” he asked, going for a light and jokey tone but immediately wincing at how rough his voice sounded. And felt. Jesus, that was like speaking through a throatful of razor blades.

“Figured you’d be knocked out for a while,” Hawk said with a shrug.

The silence that briefly descended upon them at the unspoken implication was crushing. It was a reasonable assumption – he could really go for passing out for another ten hours right now – but if either of them acknowledged why exactly he was so exhausted and then they might actually have to sit down and talk about their shit. Which was something that absolutely did not happen. Ever.

Miguel still found himself holding his breath anyway, half hoping and half dreading that maybe this time would be different. Maybe they actually would finally discuss this weird thing between them, figure out what the hell it all meant.

Hawk coughed, taking another bite out of his toast and mumbling, “I mean, you were pretty drunk last night-”

Good save.

“-how’s the hangover?”

---

Ignoring Aisha’s attempts to call him back, Miguel marched out of the bar and paused for a second to take a steadying breath, misting the air just slightly as he exhaled. Then, shaking his head, he continued walking away.

He was nearly at his car when he heard the door slam open behind him and heavy footsteps slap down on the concrete.

“Stop running away just because you know I’m right!”

Growling under his breath, Miguel refused to turn around, digging through his pockets for his keys, though he did shout back, “Fuck off, Hawk.”

Suddenly his best friend was at his side, leaning in close enough that Miguel couldn’t avoid his heated stare and deliberately blocking access to his car. “What, are you really gonna act like we don’t both already know how this ends?”

With you, in my bed, begging me to make you feel better.

Eli didn’t need to say it out loud, the thought was clear as day in his expression.

---

Scowling at his phone as he scrolled further and further through the profile, his brows only kept furrowing deeper at every picture of Miguel and his partner grinning at the camera; arms wrapped around shoulders, waists; lips being pressed to cheeks; one picture of Miguel in bed having clearly only just woken up, with the sun painting him in gold, looking dishevelled but cute and beautiful and happy and-

It was only when Aisha’s head snapped up to face him that he realised he’d been practically growling and forced himself to stop.

“Dude.” She sighed heavily, dropping her pen on the table and turning to glare at him instead of the table plans that had been frustrating her up until now. “What’s your problem?”

He wanted to try and play his reaction off, but one look at her face and he knew she wouldn’t accept any bullshit from him. And he wanted the excuse to vent anyway. “It’s fucked up, right?” he asked, scrolling to a slightly less devastating picture of Miguel giving his partner a bear hug strong enough to lift him off the ground and flipping his phone around to show Aisha.

She stared at the screen for a good ten seconds with a blank look, before turning back to him. “What?”

“Miguel’s boyfriend-” he kept swiping down, feeling a little stab of irritation at each new picture coming into view “-don’t you think it’s weird how almost every photo he’s posted since getting with Miguel has him in it? It’s kinda obsessive.”

Aisha narrowed her eyes at him, before groaning and dropping her head into her hand. “You of all people have no right to be saying that about anyone else.”

He narrowed his eyes back at her. “I’m not obsessive.”

“You’re going through the Insta of a guy you’ve never even met just because he’s dating your friend and you’re looking for reasons to be mad about it.”

---