#Does NOT look good in the middle of the night

[xylatox]

Out of tune [pt.3] || cbg

I cant believe ive made it to part 3 :::((( Its such a bittersweet feeling being here ahhh. Unto my thoughts tho hehe

Except, this time, it wasn’t in a heated argument. It wasn’t in the middle of some stupid, tension-fueled fight where neither of you could tell whether you wanted to kill each other or rip each other’s clothes off. This time, he had kissed you after taking you out. After buying you dinner. After walking you home with his arm wrapped around you, his touch casual, like it belonged there. Like it wasn’t dangerous.

The war really is over oh my god :( 

Again, I just really love mc and Yeonjun’s relationship; they really are best friends ugh

And outside the studio… there’s that. The moments between work. The coffee he wordlessly hands you when he notices you getting too in your head. The way his hand lingers on your back when he leans in to show you something on the soundboard. The nights when he convinces you to take a break, dragging you to the bar near HYBE, ordering rounds of beer and stealing food off your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The nights when, after a few drinks, his fingers tangle in your hoodie, pulling you close, his lips brushing against yours before he really kisses you, slow, lazy, like he knows you won’t pull away. It’s not something you talk about. Not at work, at least.

I love the shift in the relationship. It makes me so warm and cozy :( i love them so much.

Beomgyu grins. “That’s how we work.” And you have a feeling he’s absolutely right.

They fit so well, it makes me so happy

His hand brushed against your lower back, just barely, and then his breath was at your ear. "You look so fucking good tonight." Your body locked up. Beomgyu’s voice was low, meant for only you. His fingers ghosted over your hip, a touch so fleeting it could’ve been accidental. But it wasn’t. "I’ve been trying to focus all night," he murmured. "But you keep walking around looking like that." Your throat went dry. "You enjoying yourself?" he asked, still too close.

I will genuinely pass out

WHY DOES SEUNGCHOEL KEEP FINDING HER IN ODD PLACES EW GET AWAY

"And then I see him—" His jaw clenched. His grip on you tightened. "Talking to you like he fucking owns you, like he has any right to be standing that fucking close—"

Beomgyu like this is actually going to drive me insane

"I should’ve had you like this a long time ago," he muttered, voice darker now, laced with frustration. "Should’ve made you mine the second I realized no one else was ever gonna be enough."

Oh this is a crazy line

Beomgyu is a mess of contradictions.

Oh holy fuck

And then he kisses you. His lips pressing against yours like he’s memorizing the way you taste. His hand cups your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. You melt into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, clinging. By the time he pulls away, you’re breathless. Dazed.

Thats actually so freaking sweet

Not yet. Instead, you let your phone fall back into your lap, exhaling slowly as you turned to the window again. Beomgyu was still standing there, still watching, still waiting for something you didn’t know how to give him.

Please oh my god, more angst?😭(im loving all of this btw)

Your breath caught. Because the thing was— You didn’t know. And that scared you more than anything else.

I just want them to be happy oh my god

“Then tell me what the fuck is going on,” he said, standing now, voice low, but intense. “Because I’m standing here ready to fight for you, and I feel like I’m the only one throwing punches.”

Hes so in love with her oh my gof

“I don’t want your protection,” he said. “I want you.”

I am not okay

How does the mc not realize Cheol has a crush??? Shes so cute 😭

And then he kissed you. Slow. Warm. Sure. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that tried to prove something. It wasn’t frantic or messy or fueled by tension. It was honest. Steady. The kind of kiss that said, I meant everything I said. I’m not going anywhere.

Im so soft I cannot do this

You think about how, for so long, you felt out of tune. Like no matter how hard you worked, something was always off. Too loud in the wrong places. Too soft where you needed strength. Like you were always trying to blend into a harmony that never made space for you.

Oh my god the title reference. 

Ronnie. Fuck. Im so glad I finally read this piece of yours. Your writing style is amazing. I love it so much, I love the world you built, the relationship you curated and just how things unraveled between them. Again, Im so glad I finally got to this piece and I cant wait to read another of your works!

OUT OF TUNE ˖ 🎙◞⋆ (PART 3)

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3 <3

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre:  enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, smut, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c:  22k words warnings: explicit sexual content, mdni!! softdom beomgyu, unprotected sex, drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, petnames.

author's note: hi guys!! i finally finished this fic <3 i hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 i also made a playlist with the songs i mentioned in the fic + a bunch of others that just feel like this story, check it out here <3

Beomgyu had kissed you.

Again. And you had let him. Again.

Except, this time, it wasn’t in a heated argument. It wasn’t in the middle of some stupid, tension-fueled fight where neither of you could tell whether you wanted to kill each other or rip each other’s clothes off. This time, he had kissed you after taking you out. After buying you dinner. After walking you home with his arm wrapped around you, his touch casual, like it belonged there. Like it wasn’t dangerous.

It had been soft. Warm. His lips had brushed against yours like a promise, like something new and terrifying was settling into place between you. And you had kissed him back. Not because you were drunk. Not because you were mad. But because, in that moment, you had wanted to.

Which meant you were completely, irrevocably screwed.

Because Beomgyu had been your rival for months. He had been the thorn in your side, the storm in your sky, the one person in this industry you were convinced you would never— well. Never this. And now, your face was buried in your hands, while Yeonjun grinned at you like he was about to savor every second of this.

Yeonjun grinned, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, watching you like he was about to relish every second of this. "Oh, no, no, no. I need to process this properly." You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, but when you opened them, Yeonjun was still grinning, still watching you like this was the greatest night of his life. "You kissed him," he said, dragging out the words. "Again."

"Shut up," you repeated, but there was no heat in your voice.

Yeonjun ignored you completely, tapping his chin. "And not just anywhere—outside our apartment. Right at the front door. Damn, you guys were desperate."

You groaned again, covering your face with your hands. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, waving a hand. "Now, sit your ass down and start talking."

You sighed but eventually dropped onto the couch, rubbing your temples. "You want the whole story?"

"Obviously."

So, you told him. Not in excruciating detail, but how you and Beomgyu had kissed at work (again), how Seungcheol interrupted, how Yunho and Seungcheol were absolute assholes behind your back, how Beomgyu defended you (which Yeonjun immediately raised an eyebrow at), how you went out for drinks after work, how he walked you home, and finally—

"And then you guys made out in the hallway like a teen drama couple?" Yeonjun finished for you, grinning.

"We didn’t—" you started, then sighed. "Okay, fine, kind of."

Yeonjun cackled. "This is unreal."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Of course I am," he said. "Because this is you—and Beomgyu. Beomgyu. The guy you’ve been complaining about for months. The guy you called your arch-nemesis."

You scowled. "I never called him that."

"You did," he said, smirking. "Twice."

You exhaled, leaning back against the couch. "I don’t know how this happened."

Yeonjun gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "Holy shit. Someone call Baekhyun—this is bigger news than the album drop."

"Yeonjun."

"No, really, we need a press release—‘Y/N admits she likes Beomgyu after months of acting like she wanted to strangle him in the studio’—"

"I still want to strangle him," you muttered.

"Yeah, but now you also want to kiss him," he shot back.

Your face burned. "I regret this conversation."

Yeonjun grinned, then leaned forward, his voice softer now. "Okay, but seriously? I’m happy for you."

You hesitated, glancing at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His expression was warm now, all the teasing fading into something real. "Look, I know he’s an annoying little shit, but he’s also not a bad guy," Yeonjun continued. "And if he makes you happy—"

You swallowed. "I don’t know if he does yet."

Yeonjun gave you a look. "You literally kissed him at your front door."

You sighed. "Fine. He makes me feel something. I don’t know what yet."

Yeonjun hummed. "Well, whatever it is, just make sure he doesn’t fuck it up."

You raised an eyebrow. "And if he does?"

Yeonjun leaned back, smirking. "Then I kick his ass."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Yeah, sure. That’s definitely gonna scare him."

Yeonjun pouted. "Hey, I could be intimidating."

"You’re wearing pajama pants with cartoon bears on them."

"These are very comfortable," he defended. "But fine, point taken. I’ll get Kai to help."

You chuckled. "Kai wouldn’t hurt a fly."

"Okay, maybe not. But he could guilt-trip Beomgyu into oblivion. That’s almost worse." You laughed again, warmth settling into your chest. Yeonjun grinned, nudging your knee with his. "Hey, relax. I think it’s gonna be fine."

You sighed. "I hope so."

He softened. "And if it’s not, I’m here."

Your throat tightened slightly. "Thanks, Junnie."

"Always," he said, stretching. "Now, I desperately need to sleep."

You nodded, getting up from the couch. "Same."

Yeonjun smirked as you turned toward your bedroom. "Don’t dream about Beomgyu too hard."

"Fuck off," you muttered, flipping him off over your shoulder.

His laughter followed you down the hall. And as you crawled into bed, burying yourself under the covers, you realized, tonight hadn’t gone the way you expected. Not even close. But somehow, for the first time in a while, you weren’t mad about it.

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Days bled into nights, hours slipped through your fingers like sand, and before you even realized it, the album had started coming together, really coming together.

The instrumentals were finalized. The production was polished. The members of ENHYPEN had begun recording their vocals, each of them bringing something alive to the tracks that you had spent months obsessing over. Heeseung is a perfectionist, nailing his parts with precision but always wanting one more take. Jungwon is a natural leader, making sure the harmonies sit right. Sunghoon takes direction well, and Jake is full of energy, throwing out ideas between recordings. Sunoo brings emotion into every note, Jay hypes up the others, and Ni-ki—despite being the youngest—picks things up faster than anyone. You spend most of your days in the vocal booth, guiding them through runs, adjusting layers, making sure everything blends the way it’s supposed to.

And Beomgyu? He’s there. Not just physically, but in a way you didn’t expect. You don’t even question it anymore, the way he sits at the back of the room, his presence always in your periphery. The way he occasionally throws out suggestions, most of them annoyingly good. The way he watches you work, like he’s trying to figure you out.

There’s no formal arrangement, no spoken agreement. But at some point, without either of you really acknowledging it, you start to rely on him. And outside the studio… there’s that. The moments between work. The coffee he wordlessly hands you when he notices you getting too in your head. The way his hand lingers on your back when he leans in to show you something on the soundboard. The nights when he convinces you to take a break, dragging you to the bar near HYBE, ordering rounds of beer and stealing food off your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The nights when, after a few drinks, his fingers tangle in your hoodie, pulling you close, his lips brushing against yours before he really kisses you, slow, lazy, like he knows you won’t pull away. It’s not something you talk about. Not at work, at least.

But it’s there. And you don’t mind. Because somehow, between all of this, between studio sessions and late-night drinking, between teasing remarks and stolen kisses, you and Beomgyu fit into each other’s lives like you were always supposed to be there.

And then, a few weeks after that night outside your apartment, you finish the album. The final track is mixed, the final arrangement locked in. You sit back in your chair, staring at the screen, your heart pounding. It’s done.

Beomgyu lets out a low whistle beside you. “Holy shit.”

You turn to him, still half in shock. “We actually finished it.”

He grins, knocking his knee against yours. “You finished it.”

You exhale, shaking your head. You almost don’t believe it. And then, the door swings open. Baekhyun steps inside, looking way too pleased. “Perfect timing. I was just about to call you both for a meeting.”

Beomgyu groans. “A meeting? We should be celebrating.”

Baekhyun smirks. “We will. That’s what the party is for.”

You blink. “Party?”

“The album launch.” Baekhyun crosses his arms. “Label event, media coverage, important people. Big deal.”

Your stomach twists. “Oh.”

Beomgyu perks up. “Is it open bar?”

Baekhyun narrows his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Beomgyu leans toward you, muttering, “It’s totally open bar.”

You snort. Baekhyun claps his hands. “Alright, conference room in five.”

You sigh, powering down your setup. “Guess we’re not celebrating just yet.”

Beomgyu stretches. “Give it time.”

The conference room is packed when you walk in. The ENHYPEN members are already seated, along with some producers, managers, and Seungcheol. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. You haven’t seen much of him since Beomgyu told you everything. You don’t want to think about it now.

You slide into a seat, and moments later, Baekhyun starts running through final updates, the release schedule, the media strategy, the logistics of the launch party. "Romance: Untold," Baekhyun says, nodding toward you and Beomgyu. "Love the name."

A murmur of approval spreads around the table. "It’s perfect," Heeseung agrees.

"I told you it was better than ‘Files of Romance,’" Jay adds.

Baekhyun smirks. “Told you it was just a working title.”

Beomgyu leans toward you, voice low. “You hearing this? We won.”

You shake your head. “Don’t be insufferable about it.”

“I live to be insufferable,” he whispers.

Before you can respond, Seungcheol speaks. "You know," he muses, leaning back in his chair, "I have to say—Y/N, you really outdid yourself with this album." You blink, caught off guard. Seungcheol’s gaze settles on you, his smile smooth, too easy. “The vocal production, the arrangement, the way everything blends—it’s all sharp. Easily some of the best work I’ve seen from you.”

A few heads nod in agreement. Your fingers tighten slightly against your lap. “Uh. Thanks.”

Baekhyun claps his hands together. “Alright, that’s a wrap. Party’s this Friday—be there, look good, and for the love of God, don’t embarrass me.”

People start filing out of the room, but before you can move, Beomgyu leans closer. “You okay?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah.”

He studies you for a second, then nudges your arm. “Good. Because we have a party to dominate.”

You huff. “That’s not how album release parties work.”

Beomgyu grins. “That’s how we work.” And you have a feeling he’s absolutely right.

The venue was nothing short of extravagant. Dim golden lighting, sleek black-and-gold decor, and a curated guest list that ensured the room was filled with the industry’s best. Label executives, producers, other artists, everyone who mattered was here, celebrating your work.

And you looked good. Not just put-together. Not just presentable. Good. Your dress was sleek—black, fitted, with thin straps and a slit up one side that made walking feel like a power move. Understated but striking. The kind of outfit that made you feel in control.

You hadn’t done it for anyone. Not for the photographers, not for the label executives, and not even for Beomgyu. But the second you walked in, his eyes found you. And you knew. You felt the weight of his stare before you even saw him, the way his gaze flickered down, slowly tracing over you before snapping back up. You pretended not to notice. Pretended you didn’t see the way his fingers flexed around the glass in his hand. Pretended it didn’t make your stomach tighten.

Because tonight, the two of you were professionals. No one here knew. No one had any idea what had been happening between you for the last few weeks—the late nights, the stolen kisses, the way his hands had started finding your waist when no one was looking. And that was how it needed to stay.

"Alright," Yeonjun hummed beside you, adjusting his blazer. "Where’s the champagne?"

You snorted. "Can you at least pretend you’re here for the album?"

Yeonjun grinned. "Oh, I’m definitely here for the album. But I’m also here for free alcohol."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Come on, let’s find the others."

The three of you wove through the crowd, stopping for brief congratulations from a few producers and label reps. And then, you spotted the ENHYPEN members near the bar.

"Y/N!" Heeseung waved you over, grinning. "We were just talking about you."

You raised an eyebrow, stepping up beside him. "Good things, I hope."

Jay smirked. "Very good things. You did produce our album, after all."

Ni-ki grinned. "I think she deserves a toast."

You laughed. "You just want an excuse to drink more."

Jake nudged you playfully. "Maybe. But you do deserve it."

Your chest warmed at the praise. You had spent so much time working on this album that you had barely stopped to consider what it actually meant, not just to you, but to them. You exhaled, reaching for a glass of champagne from the bar. "Fine. A toast, then."

The guys all lifted their glasses, and Heeseung smirked. "To the best producer we could’ve asked for." The glasses clinked, and you took a sip, letting the bubbles fizz against your tongue. The conversation carried on easily, laughter and congratulations blending into the hum of the party.

And throughout it all, you felt him. Felt his presence across the room, the weight of his gaze every time you so much as moved. Beomgyu was talking to Soobin, but his attention wasn’t fully there. Not when you shifted your weight. Not when you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Not when you laughed at something Jay said, tilting your head back just enough to expose your throat. His grip on his glass tightened.

And you smirked to yourself, barely resisting the urge to glance at him. If he wanted to play it cool, fine. So would you.

An hour passed. The room had filled out even more, the energy shifting as people relaxed, drinks flowed, and the excitement of the album’s release finally settled in. You had long since drifted from the bar, making rounds, stopping for brief conversations, keeping up exactly the level of professional distance you were supposed to.

And Beomgyu had too. Until now. Because one moment, you were standing by one of the lounge tables, listening to Taehyun say something about the press coverage. And the next, Beomgyu was there, too close.

His hand brushed against your lower back, just barely, and then his breath was at your ear. "You look so fucking good tonight." Your body locked up. Beomgyu’s voice was low, meant for only you. His fingers ghosted over your hip, a touch so fleeting it could’ve been accidental. But it wasn’t. "I’ve been trying to focus all night," he murmured. "But you keep walking around looking like that." Your throat went dry. "You enjoying yourself?" he asked, still too close.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your posture to stay straight. "I was."

He hummed. "Then I won’t keep you."

And just like that, he pulled away. Left you standing there, heart hammering, skin warm where his breath had touched it. Like he hadn’t just completely unraveled you with two fucking sentences. You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus on the conversation.

Taehyun smirked. "You okay?"

You shot him a look. "Fine."

Yeonjun grinned, sipping his drink. "Uh-huh. Sure."

You ignored them both. But as you glanced across the room, catching sight of Beomgyu’s smirk as he raised his glass to you. You weren’t making it through this party unscathed.

The bathroom was quiet. A rare moment of stillness amid the overwhelming noise of the party. You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself before stepping back out into the chaos. But the second you did—

"Hey." You barely had time to register the voice before Seungcheol appeared beside you, his usual easy smile in place. "Didn’t think I’d get a chance to talk to you tonight," he said, tilting his head. "You’ve been busy."

You exhaled. "Yeah, well, it’s a big night."

"It is." His gaze flickered over you, lingering in a way that made your stomach twist. "And you’re looking— good." The way he said it, too familiar, too confident, made something in you prickle.

"Thanks," you said, keeping your tone even. "Hope you’re enjoying the party."

"Oh, I am." Seungcheol’s smirk deepened. "More now that we’re talking."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "We see each other at work, you know."

"Yeah, but work isn’t exactly the place to have fun, is it?" He took a slow sip of his drink, gaze still fixed on you. "I was serious about what I said in the meeting. You really killed it on this album."

"I appreciate that."

"I mean it." His voice dipped, his body shifting slightly closer. "It’s impressive. You’re impressive."

You forced a polite smile. "Thank you."

"You know—" he mused, "you don’t have to be stuck at HYBE forever. You’ve got talent. People notice."

You stiffened slightly. "I’m fine where I am."

"Are you?" He hummed. "Because I keep thinking about how someone like you deserves better than some minor group’s project. You could be working with bigger names."

Your stomach turned. "ENHYPEN’s album is a big deal."

"Sure." He smiled. "But I bet you could be doing bigger things. Better things. Maybe with better people." There it was. The way his words twisted, the implication lurking just beneath the surface.

Your jaw tightened. "I’m good where I am, Seungcheol."

"Of course," he said smoothly, unfazed. "Just saying—if you ever want to get out of there, I’d be happy to—"

"She’s fine where she is."

The interruption was sharp and familiar. Your breath hitched before you even turned your head. Because suddenly, Beomgyu was there. He wasn’t just standing beside you, he was between you and Seungcheol, his body angled slightly, his expression unreadable. But his eyes were sharp, dark, not teasing, not playful.

Seungcheol sighed, exhaling through his nose. "Ah, Beomgyu."

"Seungcheol," Beomgyu said flatly. "Didn’t realize you were so interested in Y/N’s career path."

Seungcheol shrugged. "Just making conversation."

"Right." Beomgyu’s lips twitched, mocking. "Well, we were actually in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind—"

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. "In the middle of what, exactly?"

Beomgyu smiled. "Leaving."

And before Seungcheol could say another word, Beomgyu’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm. And then, he pulled you away. You barely had time to register it, barely had time to breathe before he was leading you across the venue, weaving through the crowd with purpose, his grip never loosening.

"Beomgyu—" you started.

"Not here," he muttered. He pushed open a door. A small, empty lounge. Dimly lit, tucked away from the main event. The second the door closed behind you, he turned. And the energy in the room shifted. His jaw was clenched, his breathing uneven, his fingers still curled around your wrist like he couldn’t let go.

Your breath was uneven, your pulse erratic, and the air in the small, dimly lit lounge was thick, too thick, pressing against your skin like a second layer. The bass from the party outside throbbed faintly through the walls, but in here, it was silent. Beomgyu stood in front of you, his chest rising and falling with controlled, shallow breaths. His fingers were still curled around your wrist, firm, warm, like he wasn’t ready to let go. The look in his eyes was unreadable, dark, searching, brimming with something that made your stomach twist and your throat go dry.

"What the hell was that?" you asked, voice sharper than intended, trying to ground yourself.

Beomgyu let out a humorless scoff, raking a hand through his dark hair, making it fall messily over his forehead. "Are you serious?"

You crossed your arms, standing your ground. "He wasn’t doing anything—"

"He was fucking testing you," Beomgyu snapped. His voice was rough, his jaw tight. "Just seeing how much he could get away with." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Your heart pounded. "It’s not your problem, Beomgyu."

His eyes flashed. "Like hell it’s not."

And suddenly, he was too close. His hand was still on you, his fingers now sliding down, tracing the inside of your wrist like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin. His breath was uneven, his pupils blown wide, and the air between you was buzzing.

"Do you have any idea," he muttered, voice lower now, almost a growl, "how fucking insane you make me?" Your breath hitched. His fingers twitched, like he was holding himself back. Like he was trying so hard not to do something reckless. "I saw you the second you walked into this party," he murmured. "I haven’t stopped looking at you since."

A shiver ran down your spine. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "Beomgyu—"

"And then I see him—" His jaw clenched. His grip on you tightened. "Talking to you like he fucking owns you, like he has any right to be standing that fucking close—"

"He doesn’t," you cut in, your voice softer this time. Beomgyu’s gaze flicked to yours. Something inside him shifted. And then he stepped closer. So close you could feel the warmth of his skin. So close that if you moved even an inch, your lips would touch.

His next breath fanned against your cheek. His voice was a whisper, but it wrecked you. "I can’t fucking focus when you’re around," he muttered.

Your stomach flipped. A smirk ghosted over your lips before you could stop it. "Good."

Beomgyu’s eyes darkened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And that was all it took. A sharp inhale. A flicker of something dangerous in his gaze. And then he was kissing you. Not soft. Not careful. Desperate. His hands moved to your waist, gripping you like he needed to feel every inch of you against him. His lips parted against yours, deepening the kiss instantly, his tongue teasing along your bottom lip, demanding more. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound eagerly, pressing himself closer.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, his voice ragged, "you taste good."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his blazer, clinging to him as heat rolled through you. "We—"

"Not stopping," he cut in, tilting your chin up with his fingers before kissing you again, harder, more possessive. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and the sharp sting sent a spark straight to your stomach. His hands slid lower, gripping your hips firmly, and then, he pressed his leg between yours. Your breath hitched. The pressure made you let out a small, helpless sound escaping you before you could stop it, your fingers curling tighter into his jacket. Beomgyu froze. Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

And his expression changed. The arrogance was gone. The playfulness was gone. His gaze dropped to your lips, still swollen from his kisses, then flickered back up to your eyes. "Oh," he murmured, voice dropping to something dangerous. "Did you just moan for me?"

Your face burned. "I—"

"Fuck." His grip on your waist tightened, his forehead pressing against yours as he exhaled sharply. "That was the hottest thing I’ve ever heard."

Your entire body buzzed. "Beomgyu—"

"Say my name again," he murmured against your lips, voice thick with something else, something darker. "Say it while I make you feel good."

And then he moved his leg. A slow, deliberate shift, just enough to press against the heat between your thighs. Your lips parted, a choked noise escaping before you could stop it. Beomgyu groaned. "Fuck, baby," he muttered, his grip turning bruising. "You like that, don’t you?"

Your fingers dug into his arms. "Beomgyu—"

"That’s it," he praised, his mouth trailing down, along your jaw, to your throat. His teeth nipped at your skin before his lips soothed over the mark, sucking lightly. You whimpered, your head tilting back on instinct. Beomgyu chuckled against your skin, pleased. "So sensitive." He kissed down, past your collarbone, murmuring against your skin, "I bet I could get you falling apart from just this, huh?"

Your stomach twisted at the thought. "We—we’re at a party—"

"I don’t give a shit," he growled, nipping at your collarbone, his hands sliding over your thighs, gripping you like he needed to touch you. "I should. I should be worried about someone walking in, but fuck—" He kissed your neck again, hungrier, more reckless. "I can’t stop touching you."

The world outside ceased to exist. The music from the party became a distant hum, swallowed by the heat wrapping around you both. The dim lighting barely illuminated the outline of Beomgyu’s face, his sharp jawline, the messy strands of black hair falling over his forehead. His fingers were still gripping your waist, his breath shallow, his pupils blown wide. His lips were red from kissing you.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his again, slower this time, testing. But Beomgyu didn’t hesitate, his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his mouth parting against yours, deepening the kiss like he needed it. Your fingers found the lapels of his blazer, gripping tightly as he walked you backward, lips still moving against yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of a small couch. And then, with one swift motion, Beomgyu’s hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them firmly. Before you could process it, he lifted you. A startled gasp escaped against his mouth, but he just smirked, effortlessly pulling you onto his lap as he turned around and sat down, settling you exactly where he wanted you, straddling him.

Your dress rode up your thighs with the movement, exposing the soft skin beneath. Beomgyu’s hands immediately found their place there, fingers pressing into the flesh, holding you tight. His touch was burning. Everything was burning. "You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured against your lips, his voice low, almost wrecked.

You shivered, hands sliding up to cup his face, tilting his chin up slightly before diving back in, kissing him harder this time. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers flexing against your skin before one hand slid up to your back, pressing you closer.

His lips left yours just long enough to move to your jaw, trailing down slowly, deliberately, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him more access, and Beomgyu took it, sucking lightly against your skin before soothing the mark with his tongue.

"Fuck," he exhaled, his grip on your waist tightening as you shifted slightly, adjusting your position. The friction made his breath hitch, his hands dig into your thighs. You felt the effect you had on him. And it made something ignite in you. Slowly, deliberately, you rolled your hips against him. The reaction was immediate. Beomgyu let out a low, strangled moan, his fingers gripping you harder. "Shit—"

A slow smirk curled on your lips. "You like that?"

His head tipped back against the couch for a second, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a shaky breath. "You’re gonna fucking kill me," he muttered.

You leaned in, pressing soft, teasing kisses along his jawline, down the column of his throat, feeling the way his pulse pounded under your lips. Beomgyu swallowed hard, his hands roaming up and down your back, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you there or pull you impossibly closer. "You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice raw, almost desperate. "So pretty, so fucking good—"

You kissed along the edge of his jaw, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath you. "You talk too much," you whispered, nipping lightly at his skin.

Beomgyu growled, one hand tangling in your hair as he pulled you back down for another kiss. This one was messy, hungrier, his tongue teasing against yours, his hands gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go. You rolled your hips again, feeling the way he shuddered beneath you. And then, with a frustrated groan, he shrugged off his blazer, tossing it to the side without a second thought. You took the opportunity immediately.

Before he could do anything else, you leaned in, pressing your lips to the newly exposed skin, kissing down the side of his neck, letting your teeth graze over his pulse point before sucking lightly. Beomgyu let out a sharp breath, his hands gripping you tighter. "Fuck," he muttered, tilting his head back, letting you ruin him.

You kissed down his throat, down to the hollow between his collarbones, listening to the way his breath hitched, feeling the way his body tensed beneath you. When you pulled back slightly to look at him, his eyes were hooded, lips swollen, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. And fuck, he had never looked better. He looked wrecked. All because of you.

His hands slid up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheek before tilting your chin, making you look at him. Beomgyu’s thumb brushed over your bottom lip, his dark eyes locked onto yours, gaze molten, burning. He held your chin in place for a second longer, like he was savoring the moment, the way you looked, the way your breath trembled against his skin.

And then his hand moved lower. Fingers trailing down the line of your throat, slow, deliberate, like he was testing how far he could go. When his fingers wrapped around your neck, his palm warm against your skin, you felt your pulse stutter. And then, a light squeeze. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control. Beomgyu smirked when he felt the sharp intake of your breath.

"You like that, huh?" he murmured, voice dripping with amusement, his grip firm but teasing. Your lips parted, and before you could even think of responding, he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek. "Of course, you do." Your stomach flipped. You weren’t sure when it had happened, when you had lost yourself so completely to him, but at this point, it didn’t matter. Because his lips were on yours again, and this time, the kiss was even hungrier.

He tilted your head back slightly with his hand still around your throat, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your entire body ache. You felt his other hand travel up your side, fingers ghosting over your waist, up to your ribs, higher, until his palm was covering your chest, fingers splaying over the fabric of your dress.

A quiet whimper escaped you, and Beomgyu groaned, pressing his forehead against yours as he squeezed lightly, his thumb teasing over your covered skin. "Fuck," he breathed, "you feel even better than I imagined."

Your brain short-circuited. "Imagined?"

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "Oh, you have no idea." His lips brushed against your jaw as he spoke, his words dripping into your skin, each one sending heat straight through you. "How many nights I’ve thought about this. About you, sitting on my lap like this. About how fucking perfect you’d feel pressed against me."

Your fingers trembled slightly as they reached for the buttons of his shirt, your breath uneven. "Beomgyu—"

"I should’ve had you like this a long time ago," he muttered, voice darker now, laced with frustration. "Should’ve made you mine the second I realized no one else was ever gonna be enough."

Your fingers worked through the buttons of his shirt with slow precision, the fabric parting inch by inch, revealing golden skin, firm muscle, evidence of how strong he really was, how much restraint he had been holding onto. Beomgyu’s breath was heavy, ragged, his chest rising and falling with each undone button. His hands stayed firm on your hips, his grip bruising, grounding himself, like he was trying to stay in control.

"Fuck," he muttered as your fingers ghosted over his collarbone, your touch featherlight, teasing. "You’re killing me."

A smirk curled at your lips. "Am I?"

You leaned in, your lips brushing against the sharp edge of his jawline, then lower, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down his throat. You felt the way his pulse pounded against your lips, erratic, betraying the composure he was desperately trying to hold onto. "Yes, and I'll make you fucking mine." His voice was rough, dark with something possessive, something unshakable.

Beomgyu ripped the rest of his shirt off, tossing it aside like it meant nothing. And fuck, you had seen glimpses before, the way his shirts fit him, the way he carried himself, but this—this was something else entirely. His body was lean, defined, sculpted by years of muscle memory, of practice, of control. His skin was smooth, warm under your fingertips, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you traced your hands down, over his collarbones, over the faint lines of his abdomen.

"You like what you see, mhm?" he teased, voice dripping with amusement, but his tone was strained, like he wanted to keep up the cocky act but was barely hanging on.

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your lips to his collarbone, then lower. Beomgyu sucked in a sharp breath, his hands trembling against you. You kissed down the center of his chest, slow, teasing, feeling the muscles beneath your lips tense as you moved lower, your hands gliding over his stomach. His breath hitched when you sank to your knees.

Still between his legs, still so perfectly in his space, your hands sliding over his thighs as you settled in front of him. Beomgyu let out a shaky exhale, his head tipping back for a second before he forced himself to look at you.

And fuck, the way he looked at you. Like you were a prayer. Like you were the thing he had been craving forever. His fingers found your hair, curling around the strands at the base of your skull, holding you there, his grip firm but controlled. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something between reverence and ruin. "So fucking pretty on your knees for me."

A shiver ran down your spine. "Beomgyu—"

"Ask, baby." Beomgyu’s grip on your hair tightens slightly, his fingers threading through the strands, keeping you exactly where he wants you. His touch isn’t rough but it’s firm enough to make your breath hitch. His dark eyes watch you carefully, taking in the way your lips part, the way your fingers twitch against his thighs, craving more.

He hums, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his smirk lazy, knowing. "You want this, don’t you?" You swallow, nodding instinctively, your throat dry with anticipation. Beomgyu clicks his tongue, shaking his head slightly, amused. "Use your words."

You exhale shakily, your grip tightening against the fabric of his pants, your pulse hammering beneath your skin. He’s toying with you, loving the power he holds, and you know it. But you refuse to let the moment swallow you whole. "I want this."

His lips curl slightly, that signature cocky smirk dancing at the edges of his mouth. "Say it properly, baby."

Your stomach tightens. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the control he wields so effortlessly, the sheer enjoyment flickering in his eyes as he watches you squirm. You lick your lips, steadying your voice as you meet his gaze head-on. "I want you, Beomgyu. Please."

Beomgyu exhales sharply, his hand sliding down to cup your chin, his fingers pressing into your jaw just enough to make you tilt your head up to him. His expression shifts—less teasing, more raw, like your words just hit him somewhere deep. "Fuck," he mutters, his voice rasping with unfiltered need. His grip on your chin tightens just slightly before he lets go. "Go on then," he says, voice low, thick. "Take my pants off."

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers move to the button of his pants, undoing them slowly, feeling the heat radiating off his body as you tug the zipper down. You push the fabric down his hips, your hands brushing against the firm muscles of his thighs as you strip him, leaving him in just his underwear.

And then, you kneel back, taking in the sight before you. Beomgyu is a mess of contradictions. He’s laid back against the couch, his arm resting over the back like he’s relaxed, in control—but the way his chest rises and falls a little too fast, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, betray him. His body is tense with anticipation, with barely restrained desire, and the way he looks at you, like he wants to devour you whole, sends a wave of heat straight through you.

Your hands skim up his thighs, slow, teasing, as you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin just above his knee. His breath catches, his fingers flexing against the cushion beside him. "Please…" you whimper, your voice a delicate plea against his skin.

Beomgyu’s eyes darken, his head tilting down to meet your gaze as his hand moves to stroke your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Please what, princess?" His voice is nothing but a husky murmur, but it sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t answer right away, you let your lips trail higher, kissing along his inner thigh, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath you, his breath shuddering as you tease him.

"Let me…" You murmur, your fingers sliding up to grip his thighs, spreading them wider for you. The sheer power shift, the way he lets you take control, yet still holds all the dominance in his touch, makes you dizzy. You glance up at him through your lashes, your expression caught between innocence and temptation. "Let me… please."

Beomgyu's pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his body trembling slightly with restraint. And then, his smirk returns, slower this time, almost predatory. "Yes, princess…" His voice is a breathless rasp. "Take what you want."

You don’t need to be told twice. Your fingers hook into the waistband of his underwear, tugging it down with excruciating slowness, your nails grazing along his hips as you strip him completely. Your movements falter for just a second as your eyes take him in, fully bare before you. Heat blooms across your skin, your pulse stuttering as the sight of him renders you momentarily speechless. He’s beautiful.

Not just in the way you always knew, sharp jaw, plush lips, tousled hair falling into his dark, expectant eyes, but like this. Completely exposed, all golden skin and defined lines, every inch of him sculpted to perfection. And big. Your stomach tightens at the realization, heat rushing between your thighs as your gaze instinctively trails down, taking in the sheer size of him. Your lips part slightly, your fingers hovering over his skin, hesitant, almost reverent, like you’re still processing just how much of him there is.

Beomgyu notices. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips, his chest rising and falling with steady, controlled breaths as he watches you. His voice is low, teasing, laced with amusement. "Speechless?"

You nod softly as you lean in, your lips brushing his lower abdomen, pressing wet, teasing kisses along the dips and curves of his pelvis. You feel the way his breath stutters, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides, his self-control slipping with every touch of your mouth.

"Fuck," he groans, his hand flying to your hair, fingers curling into the strands, not pushing—just holding. "You’re playing a dangerous game, baby."

You hum softly, feigning innocence as you trail lower, your lips brushing just beside where he wants you the most. You can feel him tense beneath you, his thighs clenching, his breathing uneven. You look up at him again, your tongue peeking out slightly as you hover just close enough to make him ache. "Yeah?" you whisper, teasing. "What do you want, Gyu?"

Beomgyu curses under his breath, his head rolling back before he drags his eyes back down to you, gaze sharp and burning. His fingers tighten in your hair, his grip firm but not yet forcing, just holding, reminding you exactly who’s in charge. His head tilts down, dark eyes watching you, unreadable yet burning with something wild, something barely restrained. "Use that pretty mouth on me," he rasps, voice rough, commanding. "Show me how bad you want it."

You don’t hesitate. Leaning in, you press slow, deliberate kisses along his length, your tongue flicking out to taste him, teasing, testing. You hear the sharp breath he sucks in, feel the way his thighs tense under your touch. And then, you take him into your mouth. Beomgyu exhales harshly, his head rolling back for just a moment, his fingers flexing in your hair before his gaze snaps back to you, completely fixated on the sight of your lips wrapped around him.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice thick with pleasure. His free hand clenches into a fist against the couch, trying to keep himself grounded. "Look at you… so fucking good for me. On your knees, taking me like so well."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine, making you moan softly around him. The vibration of it rips another groan from his throat, his hips twitching slightly in response. "Shit—" he grits out, his grip in your hair tightening as you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, gripping onto his thighs for support.

You love how he reacts to you, how his breath stutters, how his muscles tense every time your tongue glides over him. You let your eyes flutter open, glancing up at him through your lashes, letting him see the way you’re completely lost in pleasing him.

And he does. His jaw clenches, his lips part slightly as he watches you, his pupils dark and blown wide with hunger. His entire body is strung tight with restraint, like he’s one second away from completely losing control. "Fuck, take it," he groans, his voice nothing but raw need.

Your response is to moan around him again, sending another delicious vibration up his spine. Beomgyu curses under his breath, his hand tugging slightly at your hair in warning. You pull away just slightly, your lips gliding lower, pressing wet, teasing kisses along his base, then trailing further down. Beomgyu shudders the second your tongue flicks against his balls, his head snapping down to look at you. His reaction is primal.

"Shit—baby—" His breath is ragged, his body jerking at the sensation. His grip tightens, his fingers threading deeper into your hair as he exhales a shaky, desperate groan. "God, you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind."

You smirk up at him, licking slowly, teasing, watching the way his expression twists in pleasure, the way he struggles to keep himself from completely losing control. "Good," you murmur against his skin, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Beomgyu lets out a breathless laugh, but it’s broken by another sharp inhale as you take him back into your mouth, this time moving faster, deeper. His head falls back against the couch, his chest heaving as he fights to hold himself together. But you can tell, he’s unraveling.

"Fuck, princess—" His voice is hoarse, breathless, his control slipping with every passing second. He yanks your hair back slightly, just enough to make you look up at him, just enough to remind you who’s in charge. "You wanna make me come, baby?" he growls, his fingers tangling deeper into your hair, his hips starting to twitch up into your mouth. "Then don’t fucking stop."

Your nails dig into his thighs as you obey, quickening your pace, taking him deeper, sucking harder. The sounds spilling from his lips grow rougher, filthier, his body trembling beneath you. "That’s it—fuck, that’s it, princess—" His voice is wrecked now, completely desperate, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.

You can feel it. The way he’s holding back, the way he’s teetering on the edge, barely holding himself together. "I’m so close," he groans, his grip on your hair tightening, his thighs clenching beneath your fingers. His dark, lust-blown eyes lock onto yours, and his next words come out in a low, sinful command—

"Take it, baby. Take every fucking drop." A deep, broken moan rips from Beomgyu’s throat as his body shudders, unraveling completely in your mouth. His grip in your hair tightens for a fleeting second before it relaxes, his breath stuttering as he watches you, watches the way you take it all, how you swallow every last drop without hesitation.

And then you look up at him. Your lips are slightly parted, your tongue flicking out to catch the remnants of him, your eyes filled with something that makes his stomach twist—devotion, submission, something entirely yours.

His head falls back against the couch, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, the aftershocks still coursing through him. One hand slides down to your jaw, fingers tracing the edge of your lips, his thumb pressing lightly against your lower one, just enough to part them again. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice still thick, still wrecked. "You were made for this, weren’t you?"

He doesn’t let you answer. Instead, he pulls you up effortlessly, lifting you onto his lap, pressing your body against his. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, his grip firm, possessive, as if the idea of letting you go is unbearable.

"You took care of me so well, baby… " he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your temple before trailing down to your jawline. You feel him smile slightly against your skin as your hands clutch at his shoulders, your body still trembling from the sheer intensity of the moment.

His hands slide down your back, gripping your waist, his thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles into your skin. "So good," he praises again, his voice softer now, dripping with satisfaction. Your lips press against his jawline in response, a soft, lingering kiss, and his chest tightens at the gesture. Beomgyu’s fingers move to your chin, tilting your head up so you can’t look anywhere but at him. His grip is firm, a silent reminder of who’s in control. His gaze burns into yours, something dark and unreadable swirling in his expression. "I told you I would make you mine," he murmurs, his voice dipping into a low, almost predatory growl.

A soft whimper escapes you, and Beomgyu smirks, pleased. He sees the way your thighs twitch in response, the way your fingers tighten against his shoulders, as if you need more, need him. "Gyu—"

"Aww…" He tuts, his tone dripping with amusement. "My eager little princess." His fingers trail down your body, slow, teasing, ghosting over your waist before resting on your thigh. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin just above your knee, his touch featherlight, too light. "You want me that bad, huh?" He teases, his smirk deepening as he watches you squirm under his touch. "You just can’t help yourself, can you?"

His hand moves higher, creeping up your thigh, his fingers a slow, torturous promise. His other hand rests against your lower back, keeping you pressed against him, making sure you feel every inch of his growing need for you. "Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Are you going to listen to everything I say?"

You nod quickly, breathless, eager and Beomgyu groans at the sight of you like this, so willing, so obedient for him. "Good girl," he praises, his voice softer now, but no less dominant. His fingers finally slide higher, his palm pressing between your legs, feeling the heat radiating from your core. His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk against your skin. "Let’s see how badly you want it."

You never imagined Beomgyu would be like this. Dominant. Gentle. Dangerous. From the beginning, you thought you knew exactly who he was—the carefree boy with easy laughter, quick-witted jokes, always playful, always teasing you. But now, here, with his darkened gaze filled with hunger, his touch both possessive and reverent, his voice thick with unrestrained desire, you realize you maybe never really knew him at all.

Not like this. Not the way he strips you down with slow, deliberate hands, unzipping your dress and letting it slip off your shoulders before tossing it carelessly to the floor. Not the way his breath catches at the sight of you in nothing but black lace, his lips parting slightly, his tongue darting out to wet them as if he’s already imagining the taste of you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself, his fingers tracing along your waist, pressing into your skin like he’s grounding himself. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His words sink into you, warm and dizzying, as his lips find your collarbone, kissing, sucking, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. Every praise, every whispered “perfect,” every quiet groan of appreciation makes your head spin.

And then, your bra joins your dress on the floor, and he loses it. His mouth is eager, starving as he trails wet, open-mouthed kisses down your chest, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucks, his hands gripping your waist like he needs to hold onto something. His hands wander lower, gliding down your stomach, mapping out the curves of your hips, his touch featherlight as he slides over your thighs. He teases, fingers barely grazing where you need him most, making you whimper in frustration.

And then, everything shifts. In one swift motion, he pulls you back against him, your back colliding with his chest as he leans into the couch, trapping you in his hold. His arms lock around you, forearms pressing into your ribcage, his legs framing yours, keeping you caged.

His breath is hot against your ear as his lips ghost along your jaw, your earlobe, teasing before his teeth sink into the sensitive skin, making you shiver. He hums, satisfied with your reaction, his voice a low rasp against your skin. “I picture you like this…” His hands trail lower, fingers dancing just above the waistband of your underwear, barely touching. Teasing. “Touching yourself when you think of me.”

A shudder rips through you, your stomach tightening, thighs clenching around nothing. His fingers finally slip inside your underwear, dragging through your slick heat before circling your clit, slow, deliberate, just enough to make you whimper. He lets out a breathy chuckle, lips brushing against your temple. “Is it like this?”

You can’t even answer, your breath stutters as his fingers move, lazy and unhurried, his free hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread open over him. His hard length presses against your lower back, and the thought of him like this, as desperate as you, makes you whine.

“You like it when I talk about you like this, don’t you?” He whispers against your neck, nipping at the skin before soothing it with his tongue. “When I tell you how fucking good you are for me?”

You nod, words are impossible, lost in the haze of him, in the way he’s playing you like he knows your body better than you do. His fingers work you open, his pace torturously slow. “You’re soaking,” he murmurs, his tone almost in awe, his fingers gliding through your wetness with ease. He presses a slow, teasing circle over your clit, his lips curving into a smirk against your jaw. “Fuck, baby. All this for me?”

You whimper, hips twitching in search of more friction, but he takes his time, dragging his fingers through your slick with excruciating patience. He sinks one finger inside you, slow and deliberate, his breath hitching at the way you immediately tighten around him, moaning softly. “Yes, fuck—”

“There you go,” he hums, voice rich with praise. Your head falls back against his shoulder, a breathless moan slipping past your lips as he moves inside you, curling his finger just right before adding another. He sets a steady, unhurried rhythm, pumping into you, his palm pressing firmly against your clit every time he thrusts deeper.

The pleasure builds steadily, an unbearable coil tightening in your stomach as he continues, fingers fucking you open with perfect precision. His lips stay on your neck, murmuring praises, coaxing out every little sound from you like he’s memorizing them. “So wet, baby,” he groans, his voice raspier now, his own breathing uneven. “Dripping down my fingers—fuck, I could do this all night.”

Your thighs start to tremble, pleasure winding tighter, higher, every brush of his fingers sending sparks through you. “You gonna come for me?” he murmurs, biting down on your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna fall apart just like this?”

You nod frantically, hands clutching at his forearm, desperate for something to hold onto as the pressure inside you nears its breaking point. And then he stops. A broken whine rips from your throat as he pulls his fingers away, leaving you throbbing, aching for release. Your hips jerk, searching for friction, but he tightens his grip on your waist, holding you still.

His lips are back at your ear, dark amusement lacing his voice. “You wanna come, baby?” You nod desperately, frustration clear in the way you squirm against him. His smirk is evident in his tone, teasing, full of control. “Then beg for it.”

A desperate whimper leaves your lips as you try to push back against his hand, chasing your release, but his grip tightens around your waist, holding you in place. You shudder, your pride warring with your need, but the ache between your legs is unbearable, your body throbbing with want. “Please,” you whisper, your voice barely there, breathless.

His fingers ghost over your clit, just enough to make you whimper. “Louder.”

“Please,” you repeat, more desperate now, shifting in his hold, but he keeps you still, his restraint only making you needier.

He chuckles, low and dark, his free hand sliding up to cup your throat, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His lips brush against your jaw, featherlight. “I know you can do better than that, princess.”

You swallow hard, your skin burning under his touch, under his dominance, and finally, you let go. “Please, Beomgyu,” you beg, voice trembling, raw with want. “I need it. I need you.”

His grip tightens just enough to make your breath hitch, a satisfied hum vibrating in his chest. “That’s my good girl.”

And then, he gives you exactly what you want. His fingers find your clit again, rubbing firm, deliberate circles, before slipping back inside you, fucking you open with a pace that has you arching against him, gasping his name like it’s the only word you know. “Careful, baby,” he warns, voice low and taunting. “If you’re not quiet, everybody’s gonna hear how good my fingers are fucking you.”

The realization sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. The muffled bass of the music vibrates through the walls, laughter and conversation hum in the background—but none of it matters. You’re drowning in him, in the way he’s looking at you, in the way he’s holding you like he owns you.

Beomgyu smirks. “Unless you want them to hear,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. “Wanna let them know who’s making you feel this good?”

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body burning with both embarrassment and excitement. He chuckles, dragging his lips down your jaw, your neck, nipping at your skin before whispering against it. “Go on, then,” he taunts, voice thick with desire. “You gonna scream for me, princess? Come hard for me—tell me who owns you.”

Your only response is a broken moan as the coil in your stomach tightens, every nerve in your body wound impossibly tight. His fingers curl just right, stroking over that perfect spot inside you, his palm pressing against your clit with every movement, dragging you higher, closer.

“Beomgyu—” You choke out his name, legs trembling as the pleasure crashes over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your entire body clenches around him, a sharp cry spilling from your lips as you come undone in his arms.

He groans, feeling you pulse around his fingers, his own need surging at the way you fall apart for him. “That’s right, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, hungry. “All mine.”

His fingers don’t stop, drawing out every aftershock, making sure you feel every last bit of pleasure. He watches you with a satisfied smirk, loving the way your body shudders against him, the way your chest rises and falls as you struggle to catch your breath.

“You did so good, princess,” he whispers, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his fingers still tracing lazy circles over your overstimulated clit, just enough to make your thighs twitch. “So fucking good for me.”

His touch lingers, his fingers gliding over your flushed skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He leans in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the promise in his voice. Slowly, he pulls his fingers from you, bringing them up to his lips, his gaze locked onto yours as he sucks them into his mouth, groaning at the taste of you. “Fuck,” he breathes, his tongue flicking over his fingers before releasing them with a wet pop. “You’re so sweet, baby.”

His hands find your waist again, flipping you effortlessly so that you’re straddling his lap now, facing him. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with need as he runs his hands down your sides, over your thighs, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

“I need more,” he confesses, his voice low, rough. “I need to feel you completely.” His hands slide to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel him—hard, straining, aching for you. “You want that too, don’t you, princess?” he murmurs, his fingers digging into your hips. “Want me to fill you up, make you mine?”

His lips find yours, his kiss deep and all-consuming, stealing your breath, your thoughts, everything. He’s still teasing you, rolling his hips up against yours, the friction deliciously torturous, but not enough. You whimper into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. “Please.” His lips curl into a smirk against yours.

He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through you, his breath was shallow, his eyes half-lidded, heavy with need. His hands gripped your waist like they couldn’t bear to let go. "Ride me, princess," he murmured, voice hoarse, laced with the kind of desire that made your stomach tighten. "I want to watch you fall apart for me."

You shivered, heart pounding in your ears as you shifted your hips. The stretch as you sank down onto him was slow, deliberate, breathtaking. His head dropped back slightly, a deep curse escaping his lips as your body took him in inch by inch. You bit your lip at the sensation, your nails digging into his shoulders to keep yourself grounded.

Beomgyu’s hands slid up your thighs, firm and reverent, as though he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to worship you or completely ruin you. "God, baby," he groaned. "You feel so tight."

You moved gently at first, adjusting to the rhythm, the feel of him so deep inside you. But the tension built quickly, each roll of your hips sparking a fire in your belly. It wasn’t just the friction, the heat, the way your bodies fit together like they were made for this. It was the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that had ever made sense to him.

"Faster," he rasped, his fingers tightening on your hips. "Let go, baby, fuck—"

You obeyed. The sound of skin against skin filled the room as you picked up pace, riding him harder now, chasing the release that curled in your spine. His hands roamed your body like he was trying to memorize you, palms smoothing over your waist, thumbs brushing your nipples, fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you down for another kiss.

"You’re so fucking beautiful," he whispered into your mouth, like it was the only truth he knew. You leaned into him, your hands braced against his chest, your forehead resting against his. His eyes never left yours, even when the pleasure threatened to overwhelm him, even when your moans turned into cries, and his own control began to slip.

"That’s it," he growled, thrusting up to meet you, his voice rough with desperation. "Show me how good it feels. Let me hear you, baby."

And you did. You cried out his name, your body trembling as your orgasm tore through you. Your walls clenched around him, and that was all it took—Beomgyu cursed, his grip bruising as he followed you over the edge, his body shuddering against yours.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Your bodies were tangled, your breaths uneven, your heartbeats frantic. Then, slowly, you collapsed forward into his chest, your forehead resting against the curve of his neck. And then—

The doorknob rattles.

Your entire body tenses, your breath hitching as your eyes snap open, panic shooting through you. Beomgyu freezes too, his hands still gripping your waist as you both turn toward the door, hearts pounding in unison.

Someone trying to come in. You swallow hard, your mind racing. Shit. Then, voices. Someone outside the door, their footsteps heavy against the floor. “Wait, why’s this locked?” A muffled voice, followed by the sound of someone rattling the handle.

Beomgyu looks back at you, his brows raised slightly, waiting for your call. His lips are parted, his chest rising and falling fast with his still-unspent desire, but his grip on you loosens slightly, giving you an out. You hesitate, your body still buzzing, still needing him. But reality crashes back in like a cold wave, if you stay here any longer, someone will figure it out. You shake your head, exhaling shakily. “We should go back.”

Beomgyu groans, tilting his head back against the couch in frustration. “You’re kidding.”

You bite your lip, already knowing he’s going to make this difficult. “If we don’t, someone’s going to know, Gyu.”

He lets out a deep, exasperated sigh, his hands flexing against your hips. Then, he leans in, lips brushing against your jaw, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You know I’m not done with you,” he murmurs, nipping lightly at your earlobe before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “And you owe me for this.”

Your stomach tightens at the promise in his voice, at the way his fingers trail one last lingering touch down your thigh before he finally releases you. He watches as you scramble to collect your clothes, his smirk growing when he sees how shaken you still are. He doesn’t move right away, instead, he leans back against the couch, legs spread lazily apart, watching you with dark amusement as he runs a hand through his messy hair. He’s still catching his breath, his lips still swollen from kissing you, his body still burning with the ghost of your touch. And he loves it.

He finally moves, pushing himself up from the couch, stretching slightly before reaching for his clothes. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as if he’s in no rush to leave the little world you two just created. He grabs his shirt first, then his fingers work at his belt, refastening his pants with ease, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. Except, it wasn’t. Not even close.

Beomgyu's jaw clenches slightly as he tugs his jacket back on, shaking his head like he can somehow rid himself of the frustration pooling deep in his gut. Meanwhile, you move toward the door, pressing your ear against it, holding your breath as you listen for any movement on the other side. Your fingers tighten around the handle, hesitating before slowly cracking it open just enough to peek through.

The hallway is empty. You exhale in relief, throwing one last glance over your shoulder at him. "I’m going first," you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. "Wait a minute before you come out."

Beomgyu tilts his head, studying you, his lips curving into something smug. "Scared someone’s gonna find out what a mess you are for me?"

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. "Shut up."

He chuckles, low and knowing, his eyes still dark with amusement. But just as you turn toward the door, reaching for the handle, his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. Before you can react, he tugs you back, firm but gentle, until you’re flush against his chest.

He’s looking at you now, really looking, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, something unreadable swirling in the depths of his expression. There’s no teasing smirk, no playful remark. Just the weight of everything unsaid, everything still buzzing between you like a live wire.

And then he kisses you. His lips pressing against yours like he’s memorizing the way you taste. His hand cups your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. You melt into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, clinging. By the time he pulls away, you’re breathless. Dazed.

His forehead rests against yours, his lips still brushing yours as he murmurs, “I’m not done with you.” His voice is low, rough, thick with something dangerous. Your stomach flips, your knees nearly giving out at the sheer promise in his words. But then, he steps back, releasing you, his smirk returning as he watches you struggle to steady yourself. “Now you can go,” he says, voice laced with amusement.

You blink up at him, still caught in the haze of his kiss, before shaking yourself back to reality. With one last glance, one last moment of hesitation, you turn and slip out of the room, carefully closing the door behind you.

Beomgyu exhales sharply, his body finally relaxing as he leans against the door, his forehead pressing against the wood. His fingers drag through his already-messy hair, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment. Fuck. He’s so fucked.

He licks his lips, still tasting you, still feeling the warmth of your body against his. His heart is still racing, his skin still burning, and all he can think about is you.

With a quiet groan, he pushes off the door, shaking his head, trying to collect himself. But as he reaches for the handle, ready to step back into the party, there’s only one thought looping through his mind— He needs more. And next time, he’s going to take it.

You stepped back into the party like nothing had happened. Like your entire world hadn’t just shifted in the span of a few stolen moments behind closed doors. Laughter spilled over conversations, and people moved around you, blissfully unaware that your hands were still unsteady, that your lips were still tingling, that your heartbeat was still uneven.

You exhaled slowly, smoothing down your dress, forcing yourself to shake off the lingering haze of him. Then, without hesitation, you made your way toward the bar. A drink. You needed a drink.

The bartender barely glanced at you as he slid a glass across the counter, and you took a sip, letting the cold burn of alcohol ground you. Your fingers tapped against the side of the glass, your mind replaying the last few minutes over and over like a song stuck on loop, his hands, his voice, the weight of his body against yours, the way he had looked at you.

You straightened your shoulders, pushing the thought aside. You had just started convincing yourself that maybe you could pull this off.

"There you are." You barely had time to react before Yeonjun appeared beside you, his presence as effortless as always. He leaned against the counter, eyes scanning your face before narrowing slightly. "You disappeared."

You took another sip of your drink, pretending to be unbothered. “I didn’t disappear. I was just—” You waved a hand vaguely. “Talking.”

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “Talking?”

"Yes, talking," you repeated, maybe a little too quickly.

He studied you for a second, then his lips curled slightly, his gaze flickering over your face before settling somewhere lower. "Then why does your lipstick look like that?"

Your stomach dropped. Shit. Your hand shot up to your lips on instinct. Yeonjun just watched, amusement growing by the second as realization dawned on him. "Oh my god," he breathed, eyes widening before he full-on cackled. "Oh my fucking god—"

"No," you blurted, already turning on your heel, "Nope. Absolutely not."

But it was too late. Yeonjun was already following, laughter spilling out of him like he had just uncovered the world’s greatest mystery. "Wait—" He grabbed your wrist, doubling over slightly. "Wait, wait, wait. Oh my fucking god. You were with Beomgyu, weren’t you?"

"Shut up," you hissed, wrenching your arm free, heat creeping up your neck. "People can hear you."

Yeonjun ignored you completely, still laughing as you beelined for the bathroom. "Oh my god, I knew it," he called after you. "I fucking knew it!"

You slammed the door behind you. Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, lips slightly smudged, hair a little messier than before. You let out a slow breath, gripping the sink. You let out a slow breath, gripping the sink, trying to steady yourself. What the fuck just happened?

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your lipstick, twisting the tube up with a quiet click. You applied it carefully, slow and methodical, as if fixing your makeup could somehow fix the way your heart was still racing, the way your entire body felt like it was buzzing. But it didn’t. Not when your mind kept circling back to him.

To the way he had looked at you. To the way he had touched you. To the way he had sounded, breathless, wrecked, whispering your name like it was something sacred. God. How had you even ended up here? It had always been like this with Beomgyu, hadn’t it? The back-and-forth, the push and pull. The constant teasing, the relentless competition, the stupid banter that never seemed to stop.

And now? Now, you could still feel him, his hands, his lips, the warmth of his breath against your skin. You swallowed hard, dabbing the corner of your mouth where your lipstick had smudged. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This shouldn’t have happened. And yet, when you closed your eyes, all you could see was him.

The party eventually began to wind down. You let yourself blend into the crowd, trying to push away the mess of thoughts cluttering your mind, focusing on the conversations happening around you instead. Yeonjun had reappeared at some point, entirely too pleased with himself, and Taehyun had joined him, both of them now perched on one of the couches, drinks in hand. "You good?" Taehyun asked, raising an eyebrow as you dropped down beside them.

You nodded, even though you didn’t really feel good at all. "Yeah, just tired."

Yeonjun snorted. "Tired, huh?"

You shot him a look. He just grinned, leaning closer. "You were gone for a while—"

"Yeonjun," you warned. He threw his hands up in mock surrender, but the smirk never left his face.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. The music had quieted a little, the energy in the room beginning to fizzle out. People were leaving in waves, slipping out the doors in pairs or groups, laughter and quiet goodbyes trailing after them.

You should go too. And judging by the way Yeonjun was now half-asleep against the armrest, you weren’t the only one ready to call it a night. It took both you and Taehyun to practically carry Yeonjun outside. "He’s not that heavy," Taehyun grumbled, adjusting his grip under Yeonjun’s arm.

You huffed. "Says the guy using me as leverage."

Yeonjun, for his part, was completely useless, mumbling incoherent nonsense as you finally managed to get him to stand on his own two feet. Your taxi would be here any minute. You pulled out your phone, glancing at the time.

That’s when you heard your name. You looked up, spotting Baekhyun a few feet away, standing near the curb, engaged in conversation with another man from the industry. When his eyes met yours, he gave you a knowing smile.

"Get home safe," he said smoothly. Then, after a brief pause, "We’ll have a lot to talk about on Monday."

You blinked. Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. But before you could even begin to decipher what he meant, he was already turning back to his conversation. You frowned slightly, but exhaustion was already pulling at your limbs. Whatever it was, you could deal with it later.

Your taxi pulled up to the curb. You helped Yeonjun into the car, settling into the seat beside him, finally letting yourself breathe. You sank back, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

And then, a feeling. Like someone was watching. You turned your head toward the window. And there he was. Beomgyu. Standing on the curb, hands in his pockets, waiting for his own ride. But his eyes were on you. Your breath caught slightly. He didn’t look away. Instead, his hand moved, slipping into his pocket, pulling out his phone. A second later, your own phone buzzed in your lap. You swallowed, pulse unsteady as you glanced down at the screen.

A message. From him.

[beomgyu]: lmk when you get home

Your chest tightened. You stared at the words for a long moment, lips pressing together. You stared at the screen, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, but you didn’t type anything. Not yet. Instead, you let your phone fall back into your lap, exhaling slowly as you turned to the window again. Beomgyu was still standing there, still watching, still waiting for something you didn’t know how to give him.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, slumping slightly against the seat as the city lights blurred past the window. The weight of the night settled over you. The way Beomgyu had looked at you. The way his voice had felt against your skin. The way he had pulled you in, and then, just as quickly, pushed you away.

You didn’t know what to make of it. Of him. Of anything. So you didn’t think about it. Not now. Instead, you closed your eyes and let the hum of the car lull you into something close to peace, if only for a moment.

You woke up to the sound of your phone vibrating against your nightstand. You groaned, rolling over, face half-buried in your pillow as you reached for it blindly. The screen glowed too bright in the early morning light, your vision still hazy with sleep as you blinked at the notifications.

[beomgyu]: i can’t stop thinking about you

Your stomach dropped. Suddenly, you were very awake. You sat up so fast that your blanket slipped from your shoulders, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your fingers tightened around the phone, as if gripping it any harder would somehow make the words disappear.

I can’t stop thinking about you. You swallowed. No way. No fucking way.

You stared at the message, your body frozen, caught between panic and something you weren’t ready to name. What the hell were you supposed to say to that? Your throat was dry. Your fingers twitched over the keyboard, but no words came. Nothing would come.

But even as you moved, even as you tried to shove the thought aside, he was still there. Still lingering. The heat of his hands on your waist, the press of his fingers against your skin, the way his voice had sounded, low, rough, wrecked, against your ear. Do you have any idea how fucking insane you make me?

A shiver ran down your spine. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, trying to push it away, but the memories came crashing down anyway.

So you did the only thing you could do. You ignored it. For now. You tossed the phone onto your nightstand, exhaling sharply as you dragged your hands down your face. No. Not now. You needed a second. You needed coffee.

You pushed yourself out of bed, slipping on a hoodie as you padded out of your room, making a beeline for Yeonjun’s. His door was cracked open, the faint sound of groaning filtering through. You pushed it open with your foot, leaning against the doorway. Yeonjun was sprawled across his bed like he had been thrown there, an arm slung dramatically over his face, his blanket half on the floor. His entire existence looked like a hangover. "You alive?" you asked, voice still raspy from sleep.

Yeonjun let out a painful groan, barely shifting. "Barely."

You snorted, stepping into the room. "You look like death."

"I feel like death," he mumbled, peeking out from under his arm. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair an absolute mess. "What time is it?"

You checked your phone out of habit, and your stomach twisted. Beomgyu’s message still sat there. You locked the screen before you could think about it. "Almost ten," you said, crossing your arms.

Yeonjun just made another noise of suffering. Then, with zero warning, he peeked at you again, his voice shifting. "You gonna tell me what’s got you looking like you’ve seen a ghost, or am I gonna have to guess?"

Your heart stopped. "I—" You forced a scoff, too quick. "I don’t look like I’ve seen a ghost."

Yeonjun stared at you. Then his lips curled. "Ah," he hummed, way too amused now. "So this is a boy thing."

Your entire body flamed. "Oh my god, shut up."

He grinned, slow and dangerous. "Wait—wait, is this a Beomgyu thing?"

"I’m leaving." You turned on your heel immediately, making a break for the door, but Yeonjun was faster.

He grabbed your wrist, yanking you back onto the bed with zero mercy. You yelped as you landed next to him, already struggling to get up, but he just slung an arm over your shoulders, trapping you there. "Spill," he ordered.

You scowled, shoving at his chest. "No."

"Spill."

"No."

Yeonjun narrowed his eyes. Then, with a slow, shit-eating smirk— "I’ll start singing."

Your blood ran cold. "You wouldn’t," you whispered. Yeonjun cleared his throat. "Yeonjun, no."

He inhaled dramatically. "OH, I THINK THAT I FOUND MYSEL—"

"OKAY! OKAY!" You slammed a pillow over his face, groaning. "You’re so fucking annoying."

He laughed, victorious, pushing the pillow away. "That’s what I thought. Now talk."

You hesitated. Your fingers curled around the blanket, heart pounding again as Beomgyu’s message flashed in your mind. I can’t stop thinking about you. You swallowed while you showed your phone to Yeonjun, who immediately gasped. You sighed, looking away. "It’s just—" You stopped, frustration bubbling in your chest. "He’s just confusing."

Yeonjun hummed. "Yeah, well. You’re both idiots, so that checks out."

You shot him a look. "Shut up," you mumbled, pushing yourself up.

Yeonjun let you go this time, watching as you made your way toward the door. "You should probably answer him, you know," he called lazily. You didn’t respond. And as you stepped out into the hallway, you definitely didn’t check your phone again. But the words still sat there. Waiting.

You tried to go about your day like normal. Tried. But no matter what you did, he was there. In your head. Even as you made coffee. Even as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. Even as you curled up on the couch, flipping through Netflix without actually watching anything.

Beomgyu. Beomgyu. Beomgyu. The words on your screen wouldn’t stop echoing. Your stomach twisted every time you thought about it. Because neither could you.

Yeonjun stayed home most of the morning, alternating between dramatically draping himself across the couch and playing games on his phone. But eventually, in the afternoon, he stretched lazily and grabbed his keys.

"I’m going to the gym," he announced, throwing his bag over his shoulder. You hummed in response. You kept your eyes on the TV, even though you weren’t paying attention to a single second of it. "You gonna survive without me?" Yeonjun teased, leaning against the doorframe.

You rolled your eyes. "I think I’ll manage."

He grinned, pushing off the frame. "Alright, if you say so. Try not to combust while I’m gone."

You shot him a glare, but he was already heading out the door, laughing. Your fingers twitched. Your phone was sitting right next to you. Waiting. It would be so easy. You exhaled slowly, staring at it like it might explode. You weren’t the type to text guys. But for some reason, today felt different.

Maybe it was the way he had looked at you before you got into your taxi. Maybe it was the way he had sent that message in the first place. Maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about him too, and it was driving you insane.

Your heart pounded as you grabbed your phone, unlocking it with shaky fingers. You opened your messages. Pulled up his name. Took a deep breath. And typed.

[you]: i can’t stop thinking about you too.

The moment you hit send, your pulse skyrocketed. Seconds passed. The message was read. You held your breath. Waiting. Waiting. But nothing came. Beomgyu didn’t respond. You stared at the screen, heart hammering, but he did nothing. You had no idea what that meant. And somehow, it made you even more restless.

You spent the rest of the weekend pretending you were fine. You weren’t.

Beomgyu had read your message and said nothing, and the longer you went without a response, the worse it got. You tried to distract yourself. Hung out with Yunjin for a bit. Had dinner with Yeonjun. Went on an unnecessary grocery run just to get out of the apartment.

But every free second, he was there. The memory of his hands, his voice, the way he had pulled you so close, like he was scared to let go. And now he was ignoring you? You wanted to scream.

By the time Sunday night rolled around, you had officially given up on getting an answer. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he had just been drunk. Maybe this was just another one of his stupid mind games.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to respond, you weren’t going to chase after him. Not this time.

Your alarm dragged you out of sleep way too soon, and you groaned, rolling over to shut it off. For a brief second, you thought about skipping work. About calling in sick, or lying about having some urgent errand, or just disappearing off the face of the earth. But no. You had an album to release. And unfortunately, you had to be professional, even when your entire brain was occupied by a certain songwriter. With a sigh, you rolled out of bed, forcing yourself to get moving.

Yeonjun was already up when you entered the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his hair still messy from sleep. "Morning," he mumbled, squinting at you. "You look like hell."

"Gee, thanks," you muttered, grabbing a mug and pouring yourself a cup.

Yeonjun snorted, leaning against the counter. "You excited to go back to work?"

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you took a long sip of coffee, staring down into the dark liquid. Excited? Not exactly. Dreading it? Maybe.

Because today was Monday. Which meant you’d have to see Beomgyu. And you had no idea what to expect. How the hell were you supposed to look Beomgyu in the eye after everything? After the way he had touched you, held you, whispered filthy things against your skin like he had been waiting to say them? After the way you had felt underneath him, pinned between his hands, his voice praising you, ruining you, claiming you?

You pressed your fingers to your temples, exhaling sharply. Fuck. This wasn’t good. You weren’t some naive idiot who got attached just because someone touched you the right way. But something about him—about this—had been different. And he knew it too.

Which was exactly why he had ignored your message all weekend. And yet, your stomach tightened at the thought of seeing him today. Not with nerves, not with anger, but with something far, far worse. Anticipation. You hated it. You hated how much you wanted to see him. How much you wanted to know if he was thinking about you, too. How much you wanted to know if he regretted it. Or if he wanted more.

By the time you stepped into the HYBE building, the album was practically finished. All that was left was refining the final details. You told yourself that’s what you should be focusing on. Not Beomgyu. Not his hands. His voice. The way he had looked at you like you were something he wanted to ruin. God. Focus.

You made your way through the hallways, nodding politely at a few people who passed, ignoring the slight pit of anxiety settling in your stomach. You weren’t even sure why, until you stepped into your studio. And saw the coffee sitting on your desk.

You froze. There was no note. No explanation. But you knew. Your heart skipped. It was him. You stared at it for a long moment, a lump forming in your throat. It was the same drink you always got. The exact way you liked it.

It was so stupid, so small, so insignificant. And yet, it wasn’t. Because Beomgyu didn’t do things like this. Beomgyu teased you, provoked you, argued with you until you were ready to strangle him. He didn’t leave quiet gestures like this behind. Not for you. You swallowed, your fingers twitching at your sides. Should you text him? Call him out for it? Say something?

Before you could decide, your phone buzzed. A message from Baekhyun.

[baekhyun]: hey, can we talk for a sec?

You let out a slow breath, grabbing the coffee and taking a sip as you sat down. You ignored the way your stomach fluttered. Ignored the way your skin still felt too hot. And ignored the fact that you knew exactly who was responsible for that. You exhaled slowly, staring at the message on your phone.

[you]: sure. be there in a minute.

Sliding your phone into your pocket, you took another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle in your chest. It didn’t help. Still, you got up, straightened your posture, and made your way to Baekhyun’s office.

When you reached his door, you knocked lightly before stepping inside. "Hey. You wanted to talk?"

Baekhyun glanced up from his desk, motioning for you to close the door behind you. "Yeah. Come in."

You obeyed, taking a seat across from him, studying his face carefully. Something was off. Baekhyun was usually relaxed, even when discussing work, always carrying that effortless charm that made him easy to talk to. But right now, his expression was unreadable, something hovering between serious and hesitant.

Your stomach twisted. "What’s up?"

Baekhyun leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. "Listen… you know I think you’re one of my best employees, right?"

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Uh… thanks?"

"Which is why," he continued, fingers tapping lightly against the desk, "I need to tell you something. And I need you to understand that this is me looking out for you." Your stomach tightened, as you looked at him, letting him continue. He sighed, rolling his shoulders before meeting your gaze. "So, about Seungcheol…"

Your spine stiffened immediately. "What about him?"

Baekhyun hesitated for a second, like he was trying to figure out how to phrase his next words. And then, carefully, he said: "He knows."

Your heart stopped. A beat of silence stretched between you. Your fingers curled around the armrest of your chair, knuckles white. "Knows what?" you asked, voice careful.

Baekhyun gave you a pointed look. "You know what."

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Seungcheol knows. About you. About Beomgyu. Fuck. You swallowed, keeping your expression as unreadable as possible. "That’s… my personal business," you said slowly. "I don’t see how it’s relevant to work."

"You’re right," Baekhyun agreed, nodding. "It’s not. But I’m telling you because I need you to be careful."

You crossed your arms, shifting in your seat. "What does that even mean?"

Baekhyun sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning forward, lowering his voice. "Seungcheol is creative director. That means he has a lot of influence in this company. And for whatever reason, he’s got his eye on you."

A chill ran down your spine. "And that means?"

"It means he’s paying attention to things," Baekhyun said. "To you and Beomgyu. To how you work together, to how you interact. And while I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking, I do know one thing—he’s not the type to sit back and do nothing."

Your jaw tightened. "You think he’ll try something?"

Baekhyun didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, gaze steady, unreadable. "I think he doesn’t like Beomgyu," he said carefully. "And I think he has an interest in you."

You inhaled sharply. There it was. That uneasy feeling in your stomach, the one you had pushed down every time Seungcheol spoke to you. The way his words always felt just a little too… pointed. The way his gaze lingered. The way Beomgyu had told you to be careful. You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head. "I don’t—this is insane. Seungcheol can’t just—"

"I know," Baekhyun cut in. "Which is why I’m telling you first. Just be careful. Be smart."

Your fingers tightened in your lap. You hated this. Hated the idea that someone was watching you like this. That Seungcheol was watching you. That Beomgyu had been right. You swallowed down the irritation curling in your chest. "Got it."

Baekhyun studied you for a moment longer before nodding. "Good." Then, just a little softer, "And Y/N?" You met his gaze. "Whatever this is between you and Beomgyu… make sure it’s worth it."

Your breath caught. Because the thing was— You didn’t know. And that scared you more than anything else.

You didn’t realize how tight your chest had gotten until you were out of Baekhyun’s office, walking quickly down the hall with your arms wrapped around yourself. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered too brightly, the sounds of your coworkers echoing faintly in your ears as your thoughts raced. Seungcheol knows.

Your heart pounded with each step, and all you could think about was Beomgyu—his smile, his voice, the way he touched you like he didn’t care who saw. But he should. Because now, someone was watching. Someone powerful. Someone who didn’t like him.

You paused outside your studio door, forcing yourself to take a breath, to steady your hands before you reached for the handle. When you stepped inside, the first thing you saw was him.

Beomgyu was already there, perched on the edge of your couch, his guitar on his lap. His face lit up the second you walked in, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled, really smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Something inside you clenched. The warmth of his expression, the softness in his voice. He had no idea. “I brought you coffee earlier,” he added. “Cause I didn’t know what mood you’d be in, so I just guessed. But, y��know, I’ve been working on my psychic powers.”

You smiled, barely, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Beomgyu tilted his head, watching you. “What?” he asked softly. “What happened?”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “Nothing. Just… long meeting.”

He set the guitar aside and stood, taking a step toward you. “Was it Baekhyun?”

You nodded, lowering your bag to the floor. “Yeah.”

“He say something about the album?” Beomgyu’s brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” you said too quickly. You avoided his eyes, moving to your desk under the guise of organizing the notes you’d left behind. “Everything’s fine. He just wanted to go over some deadlines.”

Beomgyu didn’t respond right away. You felt his eyes on you, sharp and searching. “You’re lying,” he said eventually, voice quieter. You froze. He stepped closer. “Y/N…”

“I said it’s fine,” you replied, sharper than you meant to. You heard the way his breath hitched, just slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you, the softness fading from his face as something more cautious settled there. And that was the worst part.

You didn’t want to push him away. You didn’t want to build walls again. But Baekhyun’s words rang in your ears like a warning bell. Whatever this is between you and Beomgyu… make sure it’s worth it. You weren’t even sure what this was.

Beomgyu stepped back, giving you space. “Did I… do something?”

Your throat tightened. You hated that he asked that. Hated the way he looked almost hurt. “No,” you said, forcing your voice to be gentler. “You didn’t.”

But that didn’t make it better. Because you weren’t pulling away from him, you were pulling away for him. And he could tell. He gave a small nod, eyes flicking away. “Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Let me know if that changes.”

You turned to him then, finally meeting his gaze. “It’s not you.”

His eyes lingered on yours. “Then what is it?”

You didn’t answer. Because how could you tell him that Seungcheol might be waiting for one misstep? That you could handle it, but he might not be so lucky? That you were scared for him in ways you couldn’t say out loud?

So instead, you offered a weak smile and said, “Can we just… work for a while?”

There was a beat of silence. A single breath. And then he nodded, once, slow, as if the word itself cost him something. “Yeah,” he murmured, but his voice was thinner now, stretched tight across something fragile. “If that’s what you want.”

You looked away, unable to meet the flicker in his eyes, the way it dimmed just slightly as he stepped back. The room suddenly felt too quiet. “Guess I’ll head back to my studio,” he said, and this time, there was no teasing in his tone. “Let me know if you need anything.”

And before you could say anything, before you could stop him, he was already at the door. When it clicked shut behind him, the sound echoed louder than it should have. You didn’t move for a long moment. Just sat there, frozen, staring at the coffee cup he’d brought for you, the one you hadn’t touched. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for it, but it had already gone cold. Just like everything else.

The rest of your afternoon passed in a blur of contracts and emails. Finalizing track credits. Budget approvals. Lining up promotional schedules. You barely registered the words anymore, your hand moved, your eyes scanned, your mouth replied when someone entered your office to ask for your signature, but none of it stuck. You were on autopilot.

Because your head wasn’t in the album anymore. It was on him. Beomgyu.

You kept picturing the way his expression had shifted when you pulled away. Not in body, but in presence. Like he felt you slipping. Like he already knew that the warmth between you was being swallowed by fear. And it was. You were terrified.

Terrified of what Seungcheol could do. Terrified of how quickly everything you’d built with Beomgyu—through fights, through tension, through music, through moments—could be taken away just because someone with too much power had decided they didn’t like seeing him happy.

And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? He was happy. With you. And you were ruining it. Because your fear was louder than your hope.

You stared at the screen in front of you, realizing you’d been hovering over the same file for ten minutes without doing anything. You blinked hard, trying to focus, but the words blurred, your thoughts spiraling again. What if he gets fired? What if Seungcheol says something? What if this is all your fault?

You buried your face in your hands, elbows pressed against the desk. You couldn’t protect him. You couldn’t even tell him what was going on. And worst of all: you weren’t sure he’d forgive you if he ever found out you knew and didn’t say anything.

You wanted to keep him safe. But not at the cost of this quiet unraveling between you. Not at the cost of pretending you didn’t care.

You pulled your phone from your pocket, hesitating for a long moment before unlocking it. His name sat at the top of your messages, unread, untouched since the night he told you he couldn’t stop thinking about you. And neither could you. But now you wondered if staying silent had already done the damage for you.

It was late, again. The building had gone quiet, long emptied by interns and execs and artists alike. You sat curled in your office chair, arms wrapped around yourself as your eyes stayed fixed on your phone screen. You’d been staring at it for ten minutes before finally giving in.

[you]: are you still at the company?

The reply came quicker than you expected.

[beomgyu]: yeah. why?

[you]: can we talk?

Another pause. Then:

[beomgyu]: sure. you know where to find me

You hesitated only a second longer before standing. You didn’t bother gathering your things. Just grabbed your hoodie, slipped into your sneakers, and made your way down the hallway. His studio door was cracked open when you arrived. You paused outside for a beat, just long enough to collect your breath, and pushed it open slowly.

He was sitting on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. He looked tired, like the weight of the entire week was pressing down on his shoulders. But when he saw you, he straightened slightly.

Before you could speak, he did.

“Before you say anything,” he said, voice steady but low, “I just want you to know I don’t regret anything.”

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

He scoffed softly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. I mean, I get it. You’re here to break things off, right? Whatever this is.”

You stared at him, mouth parting slightly. “Beomgyu…”

“I mean, technically, we were never even anything, right?” he went on, tone deceptively light, but his eyes were anything but. “So there’s nothing to end. I guess.”

You stepped into the room fully, closing the door behind you. The soft click echoed between you. “Why would you think I’m here to end things?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. “Because you’ve been avoiding me all day,” he said. “Because you look at me like I’ve already done something wrong.” His voice softened. “Because something’s changed. And I don’t know what it is.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” he asked, a little more sharply now. “Because I’m sitting here, trying to keep it together, trying not to push you, and it’s driving me fucking crazy, Y/N. But you’re here. So what is it?”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught in your throat. Because you wanted to tell him. You wanted to say everything: about Seungcheol, about Baekhyun’s warning, about your fear of him getting hurt, losing his job, being targeted just for being with you. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t risk it.

So instead, you said the only thing that came close. “I’m scared.”

Beomgyu’s jaw tensed. “Of what? Me?”

“No!” you said quickly. “God, no. Of everything else.”

“Then tell me,” he said, quieter now. Pleading. “Let me in. Let me help.”

Your arms wrapped tighter around yourself. “I just… I don’t want to do anything that could hurt you.”

“You aren’t hurting me,” he said. “But keeping me in the dark? Not trusting me? That’s what hurts.”

You turned away, pacing a step. “I do trust you.”

“Then tell me what the fuck is going on,” he said, standing now, voice low, but intense. “Because I’m standing here ready to fight for you, and I feel like I’m the only one throwing punches.”

That broke something in you. “I am fighting!” you said, voice cracking. “You just can’t see it.”

“Then show me!” he snapped. “Because right now, it feels like you’re walking away.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. And there he was, raw, open, hurting. For you. Because of you. And for the first time, you saw the vulnerability underneath all the confidence. The boy who had let himself fall, even when he swore he wouldn’t. Even when he thought you were supposed to be just coworkers.

Your voice came out small. “I’m not walking away.”

Beomgyu’s expression flickered. “Then stop acting like you are.”

Silence fell between you. You stepped forward, just a little. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want your protection,” he said. “I want you.”

The words landed heavy between you, honest and unflinching. Your lips parted, eyes burning, heart aching. And even though you still couldn’t say everything, you were closer now. One step closer to crossing that line completely. One step closer to choosing him.

And maybe, he was choosing you too.

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat. Your heart beat so loud it was almost all you could hear. “I want you too,” you said, the words tumbling out so fast they almost didn’t feel real. “God, of course I want you, Beomgyu.”

Something flickered across his face, relief, maybe. But it didn’t last long. “Then what the fuck is stopping you?” he demanded, stepping closer. His voice wasn’t angry, not exactly, it was hurt, raw, urgent. “Because you keep saying you want me, and then you push me away like you don't.”

You swallowed hard, backing up a step, not because you wanted to escape him, but because you needed space to think. “Because I don’t want to be the reason something happens to you,” you admitted, hands clenched at your sides. “Because I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything you’ve worked for.”

His brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?” You hesitated. “Y/N,” he said, voice low now. “Tell me.”

You shook your head once, but Beomgyu moved toward you again, gently but firmly catching your wrist.

“I’m not letting you leave here without telling me,” he said, eyes boring into yours. “I’m not playing these half-truth games anymore. Talk to me. Please.”

You stared at him for a long beat. And then you cracked. “Baekhyun called me into his office this morning,” you said, voice hoarse. “He told me Seungcheol knows.” Beomgyu didn’t move. “He knows about us,” you continued, the word still strange on your tongue. “He’s watching us. And not in a vague way. He’s paying attention. Baekhyun didn’t say it, but it’s obvious—Seungcheol’s pissed. And he’s got power, Gyu. Real power. Enough to make your life hell. Enough to kill your career if he wants.” You finally looked up, eyes shining with barely contained panic. “And I know you think you don’t care, but I do. I care. I care so fucking much it makes me sick. And the thought of being the reason you get hurt—”

“Stop,” Beomgyu cut in. Your mouth snapped shut. His eyes were wild with something sharp and intense, but not at you, never at you. “You think I give a fuck about Seungcheol?” he said, taking a step closer. “You think I’m scared of some overhyped director with a God complex?”

“Beomgyu—”

“No, you need to hear this,” he said, voice lowering. “I’ve worked my ass off to get where I am. I’ve built a name from the ground up. Every credit, every song, every fucking sleepless night—you think I’m going to let him take that from me?” Your breath hitched. “If he tries anything,” Beomgyu said, voice like steel, “I will bury him.”

You stared, stunned. “You can’t say that—”

“I can,” he snapped. “Because he’s not untouchable. And I’m not stupid. I know my worth. And if he so much as breathes in your direction the wrong way again—” He broke off, his jaw tight, breathing hard. Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t get to scare you away from me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him he was being reckless, that this wasn’t just about pride, that the industry was cruel and unfair and it would never be a fair fight, but the words died in your throat. Because he meant it. Every word.

“I’ve never had something like this,” he continued, softer now. “Never had someone who made me want to try. And I’m not about to lose it because some washed-up director has a stick up his ass and a crush he didn’t get over.”

You blinked. “Wait—crush?”

Beomgyu’s mouth curled into a humorless smirk. “You really think he was complimenting your demos because he liked the reverb?” A beat of silence passed. And then you laughed. Just a little. A short, sharp sound that broke some of the tension in your chest. Beomgyu’s gaze softened. “Look… if this gets messy, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You looked at him, something vulnerable cracking through your guarded expression. “You mean that?” you asked, voice small.

He stepped closer, cupping your face with both hands now. “I mean it,” he said, with the kind of certainty that made your stomach flip. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, just breathing him in. Letting yourself believe him. Because you did. God, you did. And even if the world was about to come crashing down around you… at least you wouldn’t be standing in the wreckage alone.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he moved. Slow, deliberate, like a predator who already knew the prey wasn’t going to run. His steps were quiet, but each one pressed the air out of the room a little more. His hand rose to your cheek, fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw. Featherlight, but grounding. Like he needed the reassurance that you were still here.

His thumb swept once beneath your eye, like he could erase everything unspoken. Maybe he didn’t know what to say next. Maybe it didn’t matter. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Not with words.

But the space between you, that thrum of silence packed so tight it felt ready to burst, said everything. You leaned into the touch, just enough. Just so he’d know. And that was all it took. Beomgyu kissed you again. It started slow, like he was still afraid you’d pull away. You didn’t.

Your hands found his shoulders, clutching at the worn cotton of his hoodie. His mouth moved against yours with purpose. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound, one hand moving down to your hip, gripping tight enough to make you gasp again. He pressed forward, guiding you back a step, then another, until your spine met the cool wall of his studio. A quiet noise escaped your throat.

His leg slid between yours. You froze, just for a moment, before the pressure shifted. Your body reacted before your mind could. Hips tilting down, chasing it, mouth parting around a soft, broken sound. One that slipped out too fast to stop. Beomgyu stilled.

The kiss paused. Just long enough for your eyes to meet. And something changed. His gaze sharpened, lit with something feral and tender all at once. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you. "God, you sound so good," he murmured, leaning in to press another kiss—this time, to your neck. "So fucking good."

His leg moved again. Just slightly. Enough to pull another breathy moan from you, one you couldn’t swallow in time. Beomgyu groaned into your skin, and the sound of it, low, rough, wrecked, made your knees threaten to give. He pressed his thigh up again, firmer this time, and you arched, unable to stop yourself. "Look at you," he whispered, trailing his mouth along your jaw. "Unbelievably hot," he continued, dragging his lips along your collarbone. "Unbelievably mine."

The last part slipped out—quiet, rough, like he didn’t even mean to say it. But you felt it.

And you didn’t stop him. Didn’t correct him, didn’t laugh it off, didn’t pull away like you sometimes did when things got too real, too close. You just stayed there, letting the weight of his hands and the heat of his breath settle over your skin. Because maybe, as terrifying as it was, that was what you wanted too. Not a confession shouted across a crowded room. Not a title slapped on something that didn’t need a name. Just this. Him. The feeling of his forehead resting lightly against yours, like you were something he’d been trying to find for longer than he’d admit.

Beomgyu pulled back slightly, just enough to see you clearly. Your lips were parted, your breathing still uneven, and he looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you again or fall to his knees. His gaze softened as he reached up, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face, his fingers slow, reverent.

“I’m not gonna push,” he said, his voice low and steady, like it cost him something to say it. “Not tonight. I just… needed you to know what this feels like for me.”

Your throat felt tight, your pulse erratic beneath your skin. You could only nod, because anything else might have made you unravel completely. But he understood. He always did.

He leaned in again, but slower this time, like he was giving you the space to stop him, to change your mind. You didn’t. And when his lips met yours again, there was no urgency, no hunger, just heat and something deeper. His kiss was soft but intense, all-consuming in its own quiet way. You could feel everything in it, every unsaid word, every fear, every time he’d looked at you across a room and thought I wish I could touch her right now.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, cradling your head like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers. His other hand stayed at your waist, firm and grounding, pressing you just close enough to make your whole body buzz. And when he kissed you again, slower still, deeper, like he wanted to take his time and learn every part of your mouth, your breath hitched against him, and he sighed into you like he was finally getting a piece of peace he hadn’t known how to ask for.

You broke apart only when breathing became necessary, your foreheads resting together, the silence between you thick with everything that had just passed and everything still left to say.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered, barely more than a breath between you. The words felt like they echoed, even in the stillness of the room. Your fingers were still curled in the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself to something you didn’t know how to define.

Beomgyu didn’t open his eyes right away. He just let his forehead rest against yours, breathing you in like he was still steadying himself. Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured, voice soft but steady. “As long as it’s with you.”

You blinked, and the warmth that bloomed in your chest nearly cracked you open. He pulled back just enough to see your face, and the moment his gaze locked with yours, something in him shifted. Your eyes were glassy, lashes clumped together with the weight of held-back tears, and he stilled.

“Hey…” he said, gently cupping your jaw. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, just slightly. “Nothing,” you whispered. “I just…” You swallowed, but the words pushed through anyway. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

The confession cracked open something between you. His thumb swept across your cheek, like he could catch the tear before it fully formed. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he said, firm but impossibly tender. “Okay? Not over this. Not over them. I’m right here.” You let out a quiet, shaky breath, and he leaned in again, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m serious,” you said, pulling back just a little. “This scares me. You scare me. The way I feel about you scares me.”

Beomgyu blinked, but instead of teasing or brushing it off, he nodded. “Good.”

You furrowed your brows. “Good?”

He smiled, brushing his nose against yours. “Means it’s real. Means it’s worth it.”

You stared at him for a long moment. “I think I’m in trouble with you.”

“Same,” he said with a chuckle, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You ruin me.”

You laughed softly through the tightness in your chest, letting your forehead rest against his again. “Then we’re both ruined.”

“Ruined together,” he said, grinning.

You smiled, lips brushing again, slower this time. The kind of kiss that felt like a quiet promise, not a storm. Eventually, he pulled back, his breath still brushing your lips, his thumb still tracing lazy circles against your waist. “We should go,” he murmured, his voice low and a little rough. “Before staying becomes an excuse not to leave.”

You nodded slowly, still processing the way your body buzzed just from standing this close to him. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Probably a good idea.”

As you moved to turn around, his hand reached past you, grabbing your bag off the floor before you could. He didn’t say anything about it, just slung it over his shoulder like it was second nature, like he’d already decided he was carrying it. You blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, cutting you off gently. “Let’s go.”

You followed him out of the studio, steps in sync, your hand brushing against his once before he took it again without thinking. Not possessive. Just quietly his.

The hallway was dim and silent, the hum of electronics behind closed doors the only sound around you. No one else in sight. The world had shrunk to just the two of you, and it felt oddly comforting. When you stepped outside, the air was cooler than you expected, biting lightly at your skin. He handed you your bag as you adjusted your hoodie, his fingers lingering for a beat too long on yours.

You walked side by side through the empty parking structure behind the building, the silence between you calm now, warm in a way that didn’t need to be filled. Streetlights glowed overhead, casting halos onto the concrete. His knuckles brushed against yours every now and then, and eventually, his hand found yours again like it belonged there.

When you reached the main sidewalk that split toward the metro, you slowed. “This is me,” you said quietly.

He stopped beside you. “No, it’s not.”

You turned toward him, one brow raised. “It’s literally right there.”

Beomgyu tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. “You really think I’m letting you take the train this late?”

You narrowed your eyes, playful. “You letting me?”

He just stared at you for a beat. “Come with me.” His voice was different now, not teasing, not pleading. Just simple. Firm. The kind of voice that didn’t push, but didn’t give room for argument either.

You sighed, pretending to be more annoyed than you actually were. “Fine. But only because you’re being dramatic.”

He smirked. “Dramatically thoughtful.”

“You really think you’re charming, huh?”

“I don’t think,” he said, unlocking his car with a click. “I know.” You rolled your eyes, but your lips were already tugging into a smile.

The drive was quiet at first. Not awkward. Just… peaceful. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, his fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm of the song playing low on the stereo. You leaned your head back against the seat, stealing glances at him. The way the city lights shifted over his profile—sharp in some places, soft in others, like the night didn’t know how to settle on him. He looked calm. But there was a tension there too, somewhere in the set of his jaw, in the way he occasionally glanced over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You weren’t sure what you were looking for in his face. Maybe reassurance. Maybe confirmation that whatever was happening between you hadn’t been imagined or inflated in your head. That this, whatever this was, wasn’t a detour for him.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building, he didn’t say anything at first. Just shifted the car into park, exhaled, and stared out through the windshield like he wasn’t quite ready to let the moment end.

You turned toward him slowly, the weight of the silence between you suddenly heavier than it had been all night. “Are you sure this is okay?” you asked, voice quiet. “Everything?”

He didn’t look at you right away, but when he did, there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. An intensity, quiet and unwavering. His hand reached across the console without hesitation, resting lightly on your knee at first, then moving up, brushing along your arm, until he was cupping your face with both hands. His palms were warm, steady.

“I don’t think I’ve been more sure of anything in a long time,” he said, voice low, almost deliberate. “I know what this is. I know what I want.” Your breath caught. “I want this,” he continued, his thumbs brushing your cheeks like he needed the contact to stay grounded. “I want you. And I know I haven’t always made that easy to believe. I’ve been… inconsistent. Confusing. Scared, maybe. But I’m not anymore.”

You stared at him, something tugging at your chest, pressing in from all sides. “I want us,” he said. “Not just in the studio, not just in dark corners or in between deadlines. I want whatever this turns into, whatever it looks like. I want all of it.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed. They weren’t poetic. But they were real. Spoken like someone who had been holding them back for too long. You didn’t respond right away. Just leaned into his touch, closed your eyes for a second. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself believe him.

When you opened your eyes again, he was still looking at you. Still holding you like you were something worth holding onto. And for the first time, you didn’t feel the instinct to back away. You didn’t flinch. You just smiled—soft, small, but true.

And then he leaned in. His hand still cradled your cheek, warm and steady, guiding you toward him like gravity had already made the decision for both of you. His eyes searched yours for half a second longer, like he was still asking for permission, even if he didn’t need to.

And then he kissed you. Slow. Warm. Sure. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that tried to prove something. It wasn’t frantic or messy or fueled by tension. It was honest. Steady. The kind of kiss that said, I meant everything I said. I’m not going anywhere.

Your hand found his jaw, fingers curling gently there, and for a moment, everything outside the car, outside this, just faded. You pulled back first, lips barely brushing as you breathed him in, eyes still closed for just a second longer than necessary. Like you wanted to remember the exact feeling of him, before it got blurred by distance or time.

“Goodnight, Beomgyu,” you whispered, voice quiet but full.

His smile was soft, thumb brushing your cheek one last time before he let his hand fall away. “Goodnight.”

You opened the car door and stepped out into the cool air, the city humming gently around you. The door shut behind you with a muted thud, and you took a few steps toward the building before instinct made you glance over your shoulder.

He was still there. Still watching.

You gave him one last smile.

And when he smiled back, it felt like a promise.

A month and a half passed. And nothing fell apart.

If anything, things settled into place in a way that felt… unfamiliar. In the best way. Not perfect. Not romanticized. Just real.

The album dropped three weeks after that night. It didn’t go viral overnight, didn’t crash any servers or cause mass hysteria. But it grew. Track by track, it moved through the charts with quiet authority. Critics noticed first, pointing out the nuance in the production, the way the songs spoke to each other without sounding formulaic, the restraint in places where others might’ve tried to be louder. And then the fans followed. Not just ENHYPEN’s fanbase, but people outside that world too, people who had no idea who you were a few months ago. Suddenly, they did. And they cared.

They don’t mention you by name right away. But then they do. And then they don’t stop.

You start showing up in places you hadn’t been invited to before. Articles, panels, inboxes. Your name, spoken out loud, attached to the word producer without hesitation. You try not to let it get to your head, but still, something shifts. You stop apologizing for your place in the room. You stop minimizing what you built.

The fans get it, too. Not just the ones who already knew the members and the brand, but others, people who found their way to track three and stayed for the whole album. Messages flood in. Tweets. Edits. Comments. Most of them are kind. A few aren’t. But it doesn’t matter. Because the music worked. You worked.

And Seungcheol is quiet now. Whatever threats he thought he could make, whatever moves he had lined up, none of them stand a chance against the numbers, against Baekhyun’s support, against your name finally meaning something too loud to ignore. After the album release, he tries to slide one snide comment into a meeting. You don’t even have to look up, Baekhyun handles it before you can blink. You never hear another word from him. Not directly.

And through all of it, Beomgyu is there.

He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t push. He never once corners you into a conversation you’re not ready for. But somehow, he’s always there. At the end of a long day, when your brain is fried and your feet ache from standing in the booth too long, he’s there—jacket in hand, keys dangling from his fingers, already unlocking his car before you even ask.

He takes you home every night. It’s not a discussion anymore; it’s routine. He doesn’t even bother saying “let me take you,” not since the second week. You just pack your things, walk out, and find him leaning against the passenger side door like he’s been waiting for you for years. Sometimes you talk during the ride. Sometimes you fall asleep, head tilted toward the window. He never minds. He always waits until you’re inside your building before driving away.

He buys your favorite snacks when he does coffee runs. Knows when you need space before you even realize it yourself. He never makes a scene at company events, never touches you in public beyond brushing his hand against your elbow or leaning in a little too close when he wants to say something only you should hear. But there’s something about him that always feels oriented toward you. Like no matter where he is in the room, some part of him is paying attention.

You don’t define it. Neither does he. Maybe because if you did, it might collapse under the weight of expectation. Or maybe it’s because this, whatever this is, feels strong enough without the scaffolding.

And you don’t ask what it means. You don’t need to.

Until one night, when you're both at a company event.

It’s formal, but not suffocating. A celebration dinner for the division’s latest wins. The ENHYPEN album is still holding steady on the charts, streaming numbers better than anyone projected. You're being introduced to people, smiling politely, answering questions about upcoming projects. Beomgyu is somewhere nearby, talking to someone from publishing, a glass of something dark in his hand, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that way that makes you forget what you were saying for half a second.

Later, you find yourselves standing near each other, sharing the same plate of appetizers like it’s second nature. One of the senior assistants—someone who works more with Baekhyun than you—passes by, gives you both a quick once-over, then smiles, too casual to mean anything serious. “You two are such a cute couple,” she says with a wink, already walking away.

The words hit you differently than they should.

You glance at him. He’s still chewing, eyebrows raised, like he’s not sure he heard it right either. Then he swallows and looks at you. And smiles. Not in a smug way. Not teasing. Just soft. Like maybe he liked the way that sounded. You feel the heat crawl up your neck.

“She didn’t mean anything by it,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.

“I know,” he replies. And then, after a pause, he adds, “Still kind of nice to hear.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you laugh. Quietly. Shake your head like it’s nothing. But your stomach twists a little, and not in a bad way.

When the event wraps up, you both walk out together, the night cool on your skin. He doesn't say anything about the comment again, but when you stop by the curb and he opens the passenger door for you, his hand brushes yours just a little longer than necessary. And later, when you're almost home, he glances at you sideways while stopped at a red light.

“You know,” he says, voice low, careful, “I don’t mind if people think we’re together.”

You turn to him slowly. “Yeah?”

He nods, slower this time, turning to look at you more fully. “It’s not wrong,” he says again, but now there’s no hesitation in his voice. “Actually… it kind of feels right.”

There’s something vulnerable in his tone, bare, honest, but not scared. Just open. The way he’s always been with you, when you really let yourself see it. He isn’t hiding behind charm or sarcasm or the easy smirk he uses when he doesn’t want to say what he’s really thinking. He’s just here, right in front of you, choosing not to hold it in.

You meet his gaze and let yourself soften. Let yourself admit it too. “I think so too,” you say. “It feels right.”

He smiles, slow, wide, unguarded. The kind that starts small but stays longer than it should, like maybe this whole time you were bracing for something that never needed to come.

The rest of the ride is quiet, but no part of it feels uncertain anymore.

When he pulls up in front of your building, the car slows to a gentle stop. You undo your seatbelt, expecting the usual goodnight, the steady little ritual you’ve settled into without saying. But before your hand can reach the door, his fingers curl around your wrist, light but purposeful. You glance back at him.

His expression is unreadable for half a second. And then he tilts his head, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. “We make such a cute couple,” he says, tone casual, but it lands somewhere deeper. Before you can react, he leans in and kisses you. Just once. Just a press of lips to yours, soft and full of the kind of warmth that makes your heart ache a little.

Then, as he pulls back, he adds, more softly now, like it’s just for you—

“Because you’re such a cute girlfriend.”

You don’t respond right away. Just stare at him, blinking, the words settling over you like sunlight through a window. And strangely, it doesn’t feel like anything changes. It just clicks into place. Like the word had already been there this whole time, quietly waiting its turn.

You smile, then laugh under your breath, because of course that’s how he’d do it, slipping the label in with a kiss and a grin, like he knew you'd say yes before you even said anything at all. “Okay,” you whisper, still smiling. “Okay.”

But when you move to say goodbye, his hand catches yours again. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans across the console and kisses you once more. And then again. And again. Not deep, not rushed, just soft little presses of his lips against yours, like he’s making up for all the kisses he hadn’t known he was allowed to give until now. One lands at the corner of your mouth. Another against your cheek. Then your jaw.

You laugh again, quiet and warm, and he just keeps going, brushing his nose lightly against yours like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.

“I’m happy,” he says, suddenly. It’s not dramatic. Not a confession. Just a truth he needed to say out loud. “I’m really fucking happy.”

You look at him, blinking slowly, your heart doing something unsteady inside your chest. “Me too,” you say, and you mean it. Every syllable. “I didn’t think I would be. Not like this.”

He smiles, so softly you think you might forget how to breathe. You glance out the window for a second, then back at him. The night’s quiet, and the street’s empty, and something inside you doesn’t want to let this end yet. “You wanna come up?” you ask, voice low. Then, a little lighter, “Yeonjun’s not home. He’s out tonight.”

Beomgyu blinks once. Then grins. “Are you inviting me to a sleepover?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling again. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he says, already reaching for the door handle, “you keep saying yes.”

The two of you step out into the cool air together. This time, when he grabs your hand, it’s not cautious or quiet. It’s natural. Like it’s always been there.

You lead him toward your building, and the silence between you feels full, not of tension, not of hesitation, but of all the moments that got you here. Steps that built slowly, carefully. A connection that never needed to be rushed to mean something. He walks a little closer than he needs to. His thumb brushes over your knuckles every few seconds like he’s still making sure you’re real. And you let him. You don’t say anything, don’t tease him for it. Because honestly, you kind of need to make sure he’s real too.

You unlock your door. Let him in. And in the minutes that follow, when he drops his bag by the couch and toes off his shoes and wraps his arms around you in your kitchen like it’s the most normal thing in the world, you realize something. You genuinely liked Beomgyu.

It didn’t happen all at once. That’s what you keep thinking. It wasn’t a spark or a kiss or a single moment that flipped everything. It was a slow shift. A gradual realignment. Like something quietly tuning itself inside you, one frequency at a time. And now, lying in bed next to him, watching the way his lashes rest against his cheeks as he sleeps, peaceful, unaware, you realize just how far from the beginning you are. And how far you’ve come.

You think about how it started. The tension. The miscommunication. The friction of two people trying not to see each other too clearly. You think about the late nights, the studio lights buzzing overhead, the silence between you and him, how it used to feel heavy, and now it just feels safe. You think about how many times you almost said too much. How many times you stopped yourself. How many times he didn’t. And then, how he did.

You think about the way he whispered the word girlfriend like it was a natural conclusion, not a surprise. Like the truth had already existed between you, and he was just giving it a name. Because by then, it didn’t scare you anymore. Because by then, you’d stopped questioning what it meant, or how fast it happened, or whether it was supposed to look a certain way.

Because by then, it just felt right.

He shifts beside you, barely awake, and instinctively reaches for your hand. His fingers find yours without hesitation, even in sleep. You smile into the darkness. Because it’s not about the label. It never was. It’s about the feeling. The choosing. The quiet knowing.

You think about how, for so long, you felt out of tune. Like no matter how hard you worked, something was always off. Too loud in the wrong places. Too soft where you needed strength. Like you were always trying to blend into a harmony that never made space for you.

But now, with him, there’s no effort. No strain. Just this quiet, steady rhythm—imperfect, unpolished, but undeniably yours.

author's note: hi 🫶 i finally finished this fic. honestly, thought it was gonna live in the “part 2 and never more” graveyard forever lmao. but here we are. if you’ve been reading since the beginning, thank you!! really. i know this one took its time, had its messy timeline and all, but if you made it to the end, just know i love you a little extra now.

thank you to everyone who read, liked, commented, messaged me about part 1 and part 2. you made me want to come back to this story and give it the ending it deserved 🥹 i also made a playlist with the songs i mentioned in the fic + a bunch of others that just feel like this story, check it out here <3

i hope the ending made your heart feel warm. or at the very least made you want to kiss a problematic but kind-hearted music producer called choi beomgyu.

until the next story 💿

taglist: @czennieszn @iyoonjh @shycreationdreamland @beomsdoll @whatblop @cbgtopia @enhaloveeee @hyunj00 @jnysaln @woncheecks @soobinslvr13 @kejingken @v1shwa-xo @yeovnjin @c1eod1n3 @etherealid7 @naeyerys @stwq2349 @gaonashi @usuallyunlikelyfox @jisungooner @bluecaet@i-am-not-dal @human-misery @jungkooks-right-toe @shihoinyoruichifan-blog @taeandpuppies @90steele @femaleetitan @c-ssiop0eia @beomgyusluver @gumjun @starbear15

[rueclfer]

FOR THE JOB EVENT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE BOUNCER AIZAWA WITH ABSOLUTE MENACE READER who definitely should be banned by now but aizawa cannot help how much fun he has seeing you come back…. Oh and mister bouncer aizawa rides a motorcycle EHEHEHEHEHEH

for the sake of this event i rlly could not make this as long as i wanted im sssooorrrrryyyyyy but ON GOD i will be making a part 2 after i finish all these submissions. bc i just. MEOW? -> aizawa putting the bike helmet on you.... taking you back to his apartment bc its closer.... helping u sober up..... please. PLEASE.

bouncer!aizawa // job fair

event m.list

you’re late. 

you’re late and rumi is in the front seat of your taxi with her torso turned all the way around to face you to make sure you know exactly what you had cost your friend group tonight.

“i hope you got enough cash in that tiny purse of yours to get our cover charges,” she huffs, an air of her boozy breath brushing past you in the middle seat.

you could only roll your eyes in response. you’d rather spend twenty dollars to get through the doors than seventy-five on drinks tonight. if that meant you’d have to spend the whole night a step behind black-out, then you’d just have to find a way to burn off some of the alcohol.

“if man-bun is working the front tonight, we’ll be fine,” keigo quips from your left.

“the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you cock an eyebrow, your words almost slurring in an incoherent run.

“you know what i mean,” he scoffs out a laugh, “you guys know who i’m talking ‘bout?”

“i think we all know mister five-o’clock-shadow,” fuyumi chuckles from your right.

“stop it,” you whine, “no ganging up on me when i’m two sniffs of alcohol away from blacking out.”

“and whose fault is that?” rumi sings, “you’re the one who wanted to pre game so hard.”

you lean back into the middle seat with a huff. it wasn’t your fault that rumi decided at the last minute that you had to go out this friday instead of your usual saturdays. if you’re anything, you’re a supportive friend.

i had a shitty day at work and i need to get drunk. now.

and yet, somehow it felt like you were the only one who had been working on the handle of vodka passed around the four of you.

you don’t remember stumbling out of the uber until the clack of your boots hitting the pavement. now that you were standing upright, the alcohol had moved its way to your head.

“you okay?” rumi asks, placing a hand on your elbow.

“duh.” you shake off the nauseating feeling in your stomach.

once your group makes its way around the corner, shouta nearly misses you. this club rarely charges a cover fee on friday nights, so he lets hizashi check your ids without a second glance.

“what, you're not gonna check my bag?”

with a cigarette resting in between his lips, his attention turns to you with furrowed brows and a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“just when i thought i was going to have a good night," he chuckles a breath of smoke out, "the fuck are you doing here?"

you gesture for the others to go on once your eyes meet with theirs for you to follow them into the crowd of people filtered at the entrance 

go ahead. i’ll catch up later, you silently say with a nod.

rumi wiggles her brows at you as the others chuckle to themselves, pushing their way through the masses.

“gonna go inside and read a book,” you roll your eyes, “what does it look like i’m doing here?”

“you’re drunk.” he ashes off the cigarette on the wall behind him. “which means you’re trouble. which means more work for me. isn’t that right?”

“it’s a friday night, shouta, i’m on angel hours.” you smile up at him, "promise."

‘you know, i don’t usually work fridays. how lucky am i?” there was a lace of playful sarcasm in his tone, “because i’m assuming i won’t be seeing you tomorrow night.”

you hold your hand up to your chest, faking hurt, “you don’t think i can rally two nights in a row? who do you think i am?”

shouta leans down towards you, pushing the stray strands of hair behind the shell of your ear.

“i think your night’s gonna end early if you don’t go inside and grab a cup of water from oboro right now.”

"you have no faith in me," you pout.

he places a hand at the small of your back, pulling you closer to him and out of the way from the line of people entering the bar.

"prove me wrong then." he shrugs, "behave for one night."

shouta gives you a daring look. he knows how you are- it’ll be one accidental bump from the wrong person for you to get in their face or the right song for you to climb on top of the bar. you’re already swaying under his light touch hovering over the bare skin of your lower back. 

“well, shou,” you lean in, almost grazing his nose with your own, “you know i love being right.”

[cherry-coffees]

Caitlyn x jealous!reader ♡

cw: 1.7K words | jealousy, best friends to lovers, social media references, a few suggestive comments but nothing crazy

You shouldn't be jealous. You know you shouldn't be jealous. Caitlyn is your best friend — has been for years — but, despite your massive crush on her, nothing had ever happened between the two of you. As despairing as it is, you have no claim over her.

And yet...

Feelings of envy can't help but develop in your chest, coiling around your heart to squeeze it painfully.

Caitlyn spends most of her days tucked away in her office, dealing with all sorts of important things that keep Piltover up and running. And her downtime? It's all spent with you, getting brunch at cute cafes or going out to bars some nights. During the few times she goes out to shop or get her mind off things, you're the one who has to drag her outside of the Kiramman manor, claiming that fresh air is healthy and whatnot.

You shouldn't care about the girls that swarm like bees to a honeypot whenever she goes out. You shouldn't care about the way they giggle, batting their lashes at her as they ask for help reaching something on a tall shelf. They fawn over her height, her position as Commander of Piltover, and wow, I bet she'd be so good in bed.

Not that you can blame them, really. Caitlyn's eyes are a weapon: one flash of blue would have any girl on her knees. It's just—

You're the one who Caitlyn calls in the middle of the night, who gets the privilege of being her best friend and, consequently, smothered in affection. Her fangirls don't have her love, not like you do.

You're curled up at your desk one afternoon, a blanket strewn across your lap and your face illuminated by the glow of your laptop. Oh, how much better it would be if you were in Caitlyn's lap right now. But she's out, gone to some event that had requested her presence. Normally, you'd have gone with her, but the idea of getting out of bed this morning had seemed so unappealing at the time. Caitlyn, wanting you to be rested, had excused it with a wave of her hand and an "I'll see you tomorrow for dinner."

You exhale, chin resting on your palm as you scroll through the various emails in your inbox. As much as you didn't want to leave the house, you miss her. Your sweet, lovely best friend who you've been hopelessly pining after for ages now. You can't help but wonder what she's doing right now.

Thus, the fastest way to find out is through social media.

Caitlyn's social media is dry, containing only a few posts of very practical things. One of her training routine, a few of events she'd been to recently, and another of a meal she was particularly proud of cooking a few weeks ago. To no surprise, there's no updates to be found. You roll your eyes, navigating to her tagged photos. Surely someone had to have posted about her being at the event today.

Your heart sinks at the first one.

It's a recent post: uploaded only a few minutes ago. The location tagged is the same event Caitlyn's at, and sure enough, Caitlyn is front and center, smiling politely at the camera. The girl next to her is beaming, almost glued to Caitlyn's side. When you swipe to the second photo, it shows the same girl hugging her. Caitlyn looks respectful, like she's just greeting someone, but the girl's hand placement draws your eyes. Her arms are wrapped around Caitlyn, her hands finding her waist and completely pressing up against her.

And the caption?

Finally met my wife!!

Oh, fuck no.

You grit your teeth, blinded by seething hot rage. Who is this girl? Or, more accurately, who does she think she is? She has no right to be hanging off Caitlyn's arm like she's flaunting her.

You can't help but click on the girl's account, scrolling through her story posts. She's recently posted a few more photos of Caitlyn, one flooded with comments like:

omg i can't believe i'm meeting Caitlyn Kiramman

she's so hot nghh need her in my bed

she could bend me over and i'd take it

You have no claim over Caitlyn. You know this. She's perfectly capable of flirting with whoever she wants, being with whoever she wants. But that small, ugly feeling in your chest tugs on your heartstrings, whispering possessive thoughts that cloud your mind.

That's your Caitlyn. Yours.

Suddenly, you're feeling a lot less tired than you were this morning. Jaw clenched and irritation coursing through your body, you barely pause to yank on a dress and grab your keys on the way out.

Maybe you should go to that event after all.

|------» ~~~ «------| 

Caitlyn's the picture of elegance at the event: dressed to match in navy blue and tipping her bubbling champagne glass to a few Noxian aristocrats in greeting. She doesn't like formalities, never has. She'd much rather be at the sharpshooting range, her trusted rifle in hand, running through the trees like a bird glides through air. These events were her mother's thing — not hers.

She waves politely at an Ionian ambassador from across the room, a forced smile drawn across her pretty features, when she feels a tap on her shoulder. Eyebrows contorting in surprise, Caitlyn turns, expecting to find another noble or fangirl of hers. The former, she hopes.

Much to her confused amusement, it's you.

You stand with your arms crossed, fierce gaze meeting her shocked stare. You're wearing the nearest formal attire you could find in your closet: a fitted, crimson red dress that falls to the tops of your knees. Your hair is slightly tousled from your (admittedly fast) walk over to the event location. You don't acknowledge it. Instead, you blink up at her, your expression completely blank. "Hi."

"Oh," Caitlyn's breath catches in her throat. Despite your slightly rushed appearance, you're a vision in her eyes. Always have been — not that you'd ever know it. "You—? You came."

"Of course I came," you shrug, dragging the toe of your shoe along the polished, wooden floors of the room. "I can't leave my best friend alone in a place like this."

"But—" Caitlyn pauses, crinkling her nose like she does when she's trying to figure something out. Cute. "But how did you know where the event was?"

Shit. That plan went out the window.

"Um," you hesitate, mind working to come up with some excuse as to how you knew her location. Caitlyn hadn't told you before, and at this point, your only option is to come clean.

Sort of.

"I got it off a social media post," you wave a hand airily, like a nonchalant response you hope she buys. Plenty of people in Piltover had posted about the event; there's no need for her to guess which one you saw specifically.

"Really?" Caitlyn tilts her head, taken aback that anyone would care where she is. As smart as she is, she's oblivious to people's interest in her: Piltover's Commander. Her gaze moves up from your face, darting around the room before she settles on pulling you into a more private corner. "I didn't think people cared much about what I do."

You scoff, unable to stop your eyes from rolling. She can be so dense. Caitlyn knows she's hot, but she fails to recognize that every girl from Piltover is waiting for a chance to swoop in and snatch her up for themselves. And tonight, you just can't keep your comments to yourself.

"You haven't seen all your fangirls' videos yet."

"My fangirls—?" Caitlyn pauses, her hand coming up to rub the side of her face as if mulling the idea over. Then her eyes land back on your face, and the realization hits her like a brick.

Your hardened stare, your slightly pursed lips, and your fidgeting hands all convey one emotion. One that Caitlyn's seen you wear only a few times: once when she went on a random date with a girl from a bar, and another time when she had been venting to you about her ex, and—

Oh.

"You're jealous."

The words fall from Caitlyn's lips before she can stop them. But she's certain: she knows you well enough to figure out your body language. Benefits of being childhood friends, she supposes. Although now—

You freeze, eyes wide and muscles tense like a deer in headlights. "I— well, I don't think it's jealousy exactly."

"Then what is it?" Caitlyn raises an eyebrow. She's competitive in nature, and she's not about to let you dismiss her. Nuh-uh, no way. Not when she knows she's right.

You fumble a few more seconds, glancing around the room helplessly as if something could save you. Nothing does. Damn it.

"Fine," you admit, gritting your teeth in annoyance. "I'm jealous."

Caitlyn hums, a small, smug smile spreading across her face. "There we go, darling," she muses, and you have to fight the flush that threatens to color your cheeks at the nickname. "If only you'd admitted that ages ago."

"Oh." Your breathing stutters, caught off guard by her insinuation. Surely she can't mean—?

"There's no need to be jealous," Caitlyn steps forward, her hands smoothing the hair that frames your face. You hadn't realized she was so close to you before. "I only have eyes for one girl."

You hesitate, mind whirling with possibility. It can't be that girl from earlier. With all the pet names and explicit comments she had made online, it sure seemed like it. At least, that's what the possessive feelings inside your chest are telling you. It can't be her, can it?

It's Caitlyn's turn to sigh at your oblivious head, her hands moving up to take gentle hold of your forearms. She tugs you forward until your chest is against hers and her arms slip around your waist.

"In case you don't understand—" she murmurs into your ear. Her tone is low, almost causing your heart rate to speed up from the way it sends shivers down your spine. Caitlyn would know this if she leaned down a little lower, pressed her lips to your neck to feel your quickened pulse. You almost hope she does.

"—you are the only girl I have eyes for."

totally not self projecting, nope nope nope

hope you enjoyed lovelies <3 wherever you are in the world, stay safe!

~Cherry 🍒

[uniquethingtastemaker]

Woooooow, you're getting fed today. Here's a whole cut section from Rook x Observant Reader. This was one of my early, early drafts. While it's not the angle I ultimately chose, it's well thought out

Context: This is in the middle of your first canonical meeting with Rook when you and Clown Crew are trying to sign up for VDC. He just revealed his uncanny ability to memorize things, including personal information

“You have a good memory. Do you know everybody’s name and height?” you ask.

“Oui, as I said I like to be prepared for any situation,” Rook reiterates with a deadly smile.

You ignore the warning sign and press forward. 

“The names and class I can understand, but where did you get our heights?” you question.

“I can tell just by looking at you,” the hunter answers.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise. 

“That’s a specific skill,” you comment. “Is there any benefit other than fact-checking people if they’re lying about their height?”

“I learned it to help narrow down and estimate the length of someone’s gait. However, I can call out a lie of that kind when I see one,” the vice leader replies, amused.

“That’s resourceful,” you admire. “Are the Leech twins the same height?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Non, Monsieur Malfeasance is one centimeter taller than Monsieur Mastermind. Those are two of my other favorite subjects to watch. They’re so interesting.”

Frowning, you decipher the names. 

“Monsieur Mastermind is Jade, but what does malfeasance mean?” you question.

“It’s the fancy word for wrongdoing,” Rook provides.

“Yeah, that’s an apt nickname for Floyd,” you agree before leaning in.

You ask the question you’ve been wanting to ask since the beginning. “Where did you get your hat?”

Rook looks up, touching the object.

“I made it myself,” he reveals with a smile. 

You perk up with a tilt of your head. 

“Can I see it?” you request innocently.

Rook relinquishes his hat with a dramatic bow. “Oui, it’s a délice you’ve taken such an interest in me, [Y/N].” 

You giggle, taking it into your hands. You’re glad he understands your desire to learn more about him. He’s interesting.

You refocus on the hunter’s accessory. It’s surprisingly soft and smooth. You run your thumb along the leather, observing its trim and stitches. The belt buckle is shiny, and the white feather is big and fluffy. The entire item is made with high-quality materials. It makes you wonder…

“Did you personally source the materials?” you inquire. “You said you were a hunter after all.”

Rook’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oui, I did!” He grins. “I’m impressed you made the connection. Most people don’t.”

His emerald green eyes sparkle, fascinated. You glance away with a satisfied smirk. 

“This is an ostrich feather, right? What animal did you use for the leather? Did you make the leather yourself?” you bombard.

He drifts closer to you, answering with ease. 

“Oui, that’s an ostrich feather. I used deer skin. I dried and tanned it myself,” he responds. 

“It’s a work of art,” you comment, before placing the hat on yourself. “It’s well-made and comfortable. It has a nice weight, too. How long have you had it?”

Rook watches you model his hat. His gaze follows you with the narrowed eyes of a hunter. 

“I’ve had this one since I joined Night Raven College,” he explains.

“Have you made any others?”

“Oui, I made the hat that goes with my dorm uniform,” Rook replies with a small and fond smile.

“Is it from the same hide?” you question, still feeling and touching the hat. 

“No, but it is still deerskin,” the hunter answers.

Leona butts in, “He didn’t even make it at the same time. He transferred to Pomefiore halfway through his first year. It’s the only good thing he’s ever done.”

You’ve been watching Rook this whole time. The hunter’s face flickers, displeased at the reveal of personal information. It’s for a split second. It’s gone so quickly that you doubt it was there. However, with one glance at Leona, it’s confirmed. He has a smug and pleased look in his eye. He wanted to gain a negative reaction from the hunter. You file that information away. 

Rook comments, “I do not regret my decision to follow Roi de Poison, but I miss watching you closer while I was in Savanaclaw.”

“Well, I’m grateful I don’t have to sleep with you in the dorm,” Leona retorts. 

It takes a second for Deuce to whisper to you, “Roi de Poison?”

“Vil,” you translate without a second thought.  

“[Y/N], you're most astute, quick, and clever! With my hat, I’m sure you’ll be able to impersonate me in no time.” Rook claps his hands, delighted.

You take his direction. You imitate him, giving a flourish similar to Rook’s when he introduced himself.

“Je m'appelle Rook Hunt, the self-proclaimed Le Chasseur D'Armour. I'm honored to make your acquaintance,” you act with a wink.

You decide to be bold. Bowing, you pull off the hat and hold it to your chest. You grab the hunter's hand and kiss it. You straighten, donning the accessory once more. You take a step back, pleased with your performance. 

“How did I do?” you ask with an eager grin.

Rook wastes no time or words to drown you in praise.

“Magnifique! Beaute! 100 points!” He bursts out, grabbing your hands this time. “The added detail of the kiss was merveilleuse. You could pass for me anytime. You are truly incroyable.”

You smile at his enthusiasm. How can you not? His energy’s infectious.

“The only thing I need to do is get accepted into Pomefiore and then we can trade at any time,” you joke.

Rook looks at you with a glimmer in his eyes. 

“We can solve that,” he tells you, slipping off his blazer. “As the Vice Leader of Pomefiore, I can make you a temporary member. I can’t take the crest off my jacket, so we’ll trade accessories and personas for the afternoon.”

Excitement bubbles within you. You bite your lip to keep the smile off your face, but it doesn’t work. You haven’t had this much fun in a while. You’ve always been fond of plays, musicals, and acting, but haven’t gotten to talk with someone with those interests. You love your Clown Crew, but they weren’t the type to participate in improv. Although, you’re sure their personalities would get them a spot. You match the hunter’s movements, taking your blazer off, and holding it out to him.

“My blazer definitely won’t fit you, but keep it to make sure I come back to give you your items back,” you answer. 

“Oui, I will,” he reassures, draping your jacket over his forearm. “Roi de Poison would scold me for an atrocious fashion violation. However, I will risk it for the joy of such a beaute and radiante person. I’ll take extra precautions to avoid Beautiful Vil’s wrath.” 

Rook gives you a wink as you put on his blazer. It’s too big, but you don’t mind. It smelled like fresh rain. 

“You smell nice,” you comment, “It smells nice, but you don’t wear cologne, right?”

“Oui, I don’t,” he confirms with an interested smile. 

You give a sage nod. “It would give away your position as a hunter.”

Rook hums in agreement. He watches your movements. 

“When and where do you want me to return it to you?” you ask. “Or will you find me?”

“You’re catching onto my habits well, Trickster. I’ll be able to find you,” Rook confirms.

You perk up. “Is that my nickname?” 

The huntsman laughs. “Oui, a special one just for you.”

You grin. 

“Alright see you later—” you start, before pausing. “Do you like hugs?” 

Rook’s cat-like eyes narrow in delight.

“Oui, I would be more than happy to receive one from you,” he replies, before murmuring. “Such innocent prey coming into the arms of a hunter.”

You prove him wrong by pouncing. The wind knocks out of him as he makes a sound of shock. Rook recovers in an instant, chuckling.

“You’re full of surprises, Trickster,” he says.

You pull away.

“And you’re full of secrets,” you tease quietly. 

You giggle, pull away, and sweep out of the room.

"Bye, Rook!" you tell him.

Your friends soon catch up. 

“That was disgusting,” Ace emphasizes when you’re out of earshot. “Next time, warn me when you flirt with a guy.”

“I didn’t know that was your type,” Grim grumbles. “He was weird. He looked like he was going to track and stalk Leona. I don’t want to be next.”

“I’ll keep the attention off of you,” you reassure.

He gives you a wary glare with a scrunched-up nose. “I don’t like him.”

You shrug. “I do. He’s interesting, talented, and more importantly, he let me borrow his hat. He’s entertaining. Besides, I think he’s hiding something.”

Deuce leans in closer, interested. “What do you mean?”

“There’s some stuff that’s off about him. Why does he know everybody’s heights at a glance? That’s not something a normal person would know, even if they were a hunter. He also tensed up when Leona revealed he was from Savanaclaw. I don’t think he likes personal information being revealed despite knowing a lot about everyone else."

“Huh, I didn’t notice that,” Deuce says.

“Yeah, because you’re dense and not in love with him,” Ace snarks. “Is that why you were trying to get close to him?” 

“No, it’s just a bonus that he’s a little mysterious. It adds to the appeal,” you reply.

“I was hoping for the impossible,” Ace grimaces.

You pat him on his back in sympathy.

(Interesting first take! Compared to what I have now, this version of Rook is way more open. The Reader is also much more excitable. Ultimately, I like the official version, but this is adorable. I hope you like it as much as I do... probably more because you don't have the official and giant 40k fanfic at your disposal lol

(The sentence variety isn't as engaging as it could be, but it's good enough. Plus, I have a headache. rip. send me get wells lol... still going to work on Riddle's Dreaming of You fanfic despite the pain lol

(Tell me what you think!)

[ranebowstitches]

Everytime I hear the pop punk version of “you belong with me” I just think of Eddie singing it during a show at the hideout because he’s been pining for Steve that for some reason can’t see that that guy he’s with is shit

The vision in my head is it’s them when they’re still in high school so Eddie is like seeing Steve everyday, and Steve is hanging out with Tommy (romantically or not) and Eddie is like “ugh I’m so much better than him, what does Steve see in him that he doesn’t see in me”

Eddie’s friends are quick to remind Eddie that he’s never even outright spoken to Steve so you know… that MIGHT help

So Eddie does talk to Steve and somehow find some common ground (Steve knows about dnd from Dustin and he’s willing to learn more about it, Eddie is willing to discuss music even if it’s top 40 pop if it means talking to his crush, etc)

You're on the phone with your boyfriend, he's upset/He's going off about something that you said/Cause he doesn't get your humor like I do/I'm in my room, it's a typical Tuesday night/I'm listening to the kind of bands he doesn't like/And he'll never know your story like I do

So Steve and Eddie become like good friends But Steve STILL hangs out with Tommy, and Tommy will even pull him away from hanging with Eddie, and Eddie still can’t figure out WHY Steve goes

You say you're fine, I know you better than that/Hey, whatcha doin' with a dick like that?

Tommy is rude and anyone who looks long enough can tell that he doesn’t care about Steve, just keeps him around as more of a trophy friend more than anything, and Eddie is fucked up by it

I wear Toms and he wears sneakers/He's banging your friend underneath the bleachers/I'm dreaming 'bout the day when you wake up and find/That what you're looking for has been here the whole time

Also Eddie definitely catches Tommy and Carol fucking (either under the bleachers like in the song or maybe out in the woods where he does his dealing) and probably overhears them shit talking Steve too

And maybe Eddie has been trying to get Steve to come to a CC show, and everytime Steve has been busy with Tommy (aka Tommy keeps purposefully making him busy), and Eddie has pretty much given up getting Steve to a show so at the next one he just belts ‘you belong with me’ with all his pent up frustration

Oh, I remember you driving to my house/In the middle of the night/I'm the one who makes you laugh/When you know you're 'bout to cry/I know your favorite songs/And you tell me 'bout your dreams/I think I know where you belong/I think I know it's with me

Why can't you just fucking see?

What he doesn’t notice is Steve is in the audience staring up at Eddie like he’s really seeing him for the first time and realizing all the green flags Eddie has and all the red ones Tommy has

And maybe Tommy is there because Steve finally convinced him to go with him (Steve’s been wanting to see Eddie play since the first time he asked him to come) but Tommy is all ugh this is lame let’s leave and Steve just throws his drink in his face and is like “we’re done” (and maybe Eddie sees 👀)

[streamsofmoon]

vi x f!reader

synopsis: when you wake up next to him in the middle of the night/when you think about me all of those years ago...

a/n: i said i wanted to write something based on good luck babe by chappell roan and here we are :)

When you wake up in the middle of the night, it's with a gasp. A gasp so harsh that it leaves your throat sore for a second. Your heart's a thundering drum in your chest, and you try to calm it down—try to breathe in and out.

It almost doesn’t work until you feel your muscles start to relax. Until you're able to rest against the headboard with a heavy sigh, your soul weary as you look around the dark room.

Beside you, your husband sleeps peacefully. Unknown to the troubles that plague your mind and the woes that sit heavy on your spirit.

He makes you happy; he does everything for you—goes above and beyond for you. Out of all the men that have tried to capture your attention, he succeeded with his kind and soft nature. He is, what many would call, a dream.

But it's horrifying to find out when you don't love someone like that. When you don't love someone who is so startlingly right for you. Because love is a funny thing; it's unbalanced and unpredictable and inconsiderate with how it behaves. It's an awful thing to experience, especially when it refuses to go where you need it to.

Your wedding ring is oddly cold against the warmth of your finger. It's chilling when you rub your thumb against it; it provides a reason for you to take it off. There are other reasons, but those aren't ones you're able to conquer just yet.

Because love is the defining factor once more.

You're happy.

You're happy.

You should be—

"So you’re going to marry him?" Vi asks you on your wedding day. She's gorgeous in a two-piece suit that fits her like a glove. It's hard to take your eyes off her, especially with the way she's looking at you.

"I am," you tell her, fixing the necklace around your neck. It was a gift from your future husband, golden and covered in diamonds. "Isn't that what people do when they're in love? Get married?"

Vi scoffs and murmurs, "oh please," beneath her breath, loud enough for you to hear. Loud enough to have your hands still as you stare at her in the mirror, eyebrows furrowed.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" You question, a bit of anger injected in your tone. "And don't tell me nothing, we both know you're not shy with your feelings."

"Okay," Vi says, sliding her hands into her pant pockets. "You wanna know what I think? You don't love him."

Your heart drops a little despite knowing where this conversation is heading. "Not this again," you say softly, turning around so you can look at Vi. "Vi, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep dictating how I feel." You point towards the dressing room door, the one that leads out to where you'll say your vows. "I love him and I am going to get married to him and you need to—"

Your next sentence is cut off by Vi's fast approach, and her lips smashing against yours. You gasp in surprise, fighting back weakly for a mere second before you're succumbing to her kiss. Your mouth opens eagerly to welcome her tongue, moaning as she kisses you deeply. Her arms around your waist feel like home and the way she makes you feel with a single kiss...

Your future husband has never been able to achieve what this feels like.

And you doubt he ever will.

When Vi pulls back, it's reluctant, and she kisses you gently one more time, like she can't help herself. Then she's resting her forehead against yours, breathing you in as you clutch at the lapels of her suit jacket.

The moment stretches on for almost too long until Vi asks, one more time, "You're going to marry him?"

No, you want to yell. No, I'm not going to marry him. I'm going to run away with you and be happy with you.

But you don't say that.

Because you can't.

You aren't allowed to.

"...I am," is what you say, voice weak and thin with your pain. "I have to."

Vi doesn't reply, but the way her arms tighten around you says more than words can.

Her lips are light when she kisses your forehead, soft and lingering, before she's walking out of the room and she's...gone.

And you haven't seen her since.

You wish you could cry, but the numbness won't let you. It only offers you the hellish sanctuary of loud thoughts that shake you mercilessly, leaving your head ringing.

Your husband shifts beside you, the sheets shifting with him, and your heart breaks a little more.

And as you stare off into space, you can't help but wonder.

[sunday-bug]

Popping Cherry Blossoms

Pairing: 40's!Virgin!Bucky x Virgin!Girlfriend!Reader

Word Count: 2k

Content: mostly fluff, brief mentions of sex, virginity loss

Synopsis: Bucky and his girl sneak away from the Cherry Blossom Festival for some sweet alone time.

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for AA Spring Bingo; inspired by the song "Hold Her While You Can" by Stephen Sanchez

Prompt/Square: "Cherry blossom festival"/1

Card Number: AAS002

This is the first time you’ve travelled with his family, and you are a bit nervous. His mom and dad are both quiet folks, but you’ve always gotten along with Rebecca. You just really want to make a good impression. The drive from Brooklyn is a little over four hours long, and thankfully the weather is decent with a nice breeze. His parents put the top down as you get into D.C. proper, and Bucky helps you secure your scarf over your hair. 

“Real nice day for this,” his dad says from the driver’s seat, looking out at the cherry blossoms in the distance. 

“It certainly is,” his mom agrees, turning toward the three of you in the backseat. Rebecca is sitting in the middle, always the chaperone. “I’m glad your folks let you come along,” she says sweetly. “And I know Bucky is ecstatic.” You look at him and see his cheeks redden at his mom’s comment. Rebecca giggles in between you both. 

“Here we are,” his dad murmurs, pulling into the hotel’s porte-cochère. Bucky opens his door and slides out, helping his sister and then you. You all stretch your legs, and Bucky sneakily brushes his knuckles up your bare arm.

“James, come help this young man with our bags,” his dad orders, nodding to the porter. Bucky smiles at you sweetly and walks to the trunk, pulling out the bags. 

His parents check in to the hotel and you are led up to your conjoined rooms. One for you and Rebecca, and the other for Bucky and his parents. Your parents agreed to this trip on one condition: separate rooms, and his parents agreed heartily. 

Your bags arrive at your respective rooms and you unpack your items into the wardrobe for your two night stay. You all plan to visit some landmarks in the area on your second day here. Becca flops down on the bed near the door, marking it as hers, which you’re glad for. You love looking out at the stars before you fall asleep. You pace the room a bit, checking your profile in the mirror and blotting your lipstick.

“You look beautiful as always,” Becca says, rolling her eyes. “He thinks you hung the moon, you know.”

You look away from the mirror and smile, smoothing your dress. “Thanks Becca.” 

A soft knock raps on the conjoining door and Bucky’s perfect head of hair peeks through. “Are you ladies decent? We’re getting ready to walk down to the festival.” You giggle and ruffle his hair. “We’ll be out in a moment.” 

You and Rebecca gather your handbags and help each other knot your scarves around your hair as the day was a bit breezy before stepping into the hallway to meet the other three. You all head down to the lobby and Bucky offers you his arm as you step onto the city sidewalk, directing you away from the street. His parents and Becca walk a few feet ahead of you, leading the way to the festival.

“My dad said we could break off once we get there and walk alone,” he says sweetly. You look up at him, the sun shining through his dark hair, and sneak a quick kiss on the cheek, wiping your lipstick off of his soft skin after. 

“Destroying the evidence?” He teases. 

“Something like that,” you chime. 

“I’m glad you could come,” he leans down to whisper into your ear.

“Me too.” 

You all walk in peace for several blocks. The sweet smell hits you before the sight of the actual trees does. The soft perfume of the pink flowers fills your nostrils and you take a deep breath in. The breeze is light enough that you take your scarf off and let the air blow through your curls. Bucky takes a breath and sighs. “They don’t smell as sweet as you,” he brushes against your hair and a shiver runs down your spine.

Becca walks back toward the two of you and hands Bucky some money. “Dad says don’t spend it all in one place and behave. Meet back at this spot in two hours.” Bucky laughs and takes the money from her before putting it in his wallet. You spy the photo he took of you at Christmas in the wallet and smile to yourself, your hand reaching up to touch the locket around your neck that contained a photo of him taken last summer. Becca skips away to join her parents and Bucky steers you across the street to walk under the blooming trees.

You walk arm in arm again, looking up at the perfect pink petals and at his profile. He catches you looking and smiles, his eyes and nose crinkling. “You’re going to be the reason I have wrinkles while I’m still young,” he jokes, kissing your forehead. 

You giggle and look down at your Oxfords. “Well, you’re the reason I have creases in my shoes.” 

“How do you reckon that?” He asks playfully. 

You stop walking and grab his hand before reaching up to kiss his lips. As you break the chaste kiss, you look down at your shoes and his eyes follow, noticing the ever-growing crease in the leather from having to stand on your tiptoes to reach his lips. Bucky chuckles and nods. 

“Then I hope you always have creases in your shoes,” he says, picking up a fallen twig of cherry blossom and handing it to you. You accept it gratefully.

“And I hope I have the privilege of seeing you with wrinkles,” you reply, smelling the flower.

“You will, doll. I promise you that.”

You keep walking down the street until you come upon a steaming cart that smells heavenly. Roman’s Roasted Nuts is printed on the side and you look up at Bucky with pleading eyes. He smirks and walks up to the cart, purchasing a small bag for you two to share. You find a park bench nearby and sit down as he opens the bag. He pulls out a pecan and offers it to you, which you gratefully accept. It’s hot, sweet, and delicious. “Thank you. I’m spoiled by you,” you giggle.

“My girl deserves it,” he says, kissing a bit of sugar from your lips. You blush at the continued PDA. 

“Bucky…” you start, holding his hand in yours.

“Yes, darling?”

“I have the key to Becca and I’s room.”

He swallows and his eyes go wide. “You do?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, taking it covertly from your cardigan pocket to show him.

“Are you sure?” He asks, rubbing your arm. You nod in response and stand up, waiting for him. “Well, we have,” you look down at your wristwatch, “one hour and thirteen minutes until we have to be back here.”

Bucky smirks at you and stands up, offering you his arm again as he looks around the crowd for a sign of his family. “They must be way down the road in the thick of it. Let’s go.”

You both rush back to the hotel, walking a little faster than necessary and not speaking much. You take your cardigan off as you get into the hotel, warmed from the walk back in the sun. Bucky takes it from you and carries it for you. The elevator operator takes you to your floor as you stand there like two kids about to get reprimanded by the principal even though you are both technically adults. Bucky takes the key from your cardigan pocket and unlocks your door slowly, sighing deeply.

“We don’t have to do this, Buck, if you don’t want to,” you assure him. He closes the door behind you both. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I want to. Trust me,” he groans, walking toward you and pulling you in for a deep kiss. He tastes like toothpaste, roasted pecans, and sugar. You open your mouth and let him explore yours with his tongue. He breaks off suddenly, his pupils blown wide. “I just want you to be sure. And I don’t want it to be… bad,” he finally admits.

“I’m sure. And I’m sure it won’t be bad, love,” you say. “Let's give ourselves some grace. We’re both new to this,” you tease gently. “I love you. I want this with you. And only you.”

“I love you so much,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. “Should we get undressed?”

You nod and turn around, “Unzip me.” He unzips your dress and it falls to the floor, leaving you in your slip and undergarments. He’s seen you in your slip once before by accident when he was picking you up for school and forgot to knock on your bedroom door. You watch him as you remove your slip and hose, leaving you standing in your panties and bra. His eyes travel slowly from your breasts to your waist and legs and back up again. You walk to him slowly and start to unbutton his shirt. He timidly rests his hands on your bare waist and your skin prickles as you work his shirt off and over his broad shoulders until his chest is bare. You plant a small kiss over his heart and he shivers.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, running his hands up and over your bra. You feel his arousal press into your leg and look down. He starts to unbuckle his belt and you feel the first bit of real nerves flood into your body. This is really happening. Finally, but no - not finally… right on time. He pulls his trousers down and is left in his underwear. 

“I think we’re supposed to put a towel down,” you murmur, walking quickly to the bathroom. “Rosemary in fifth period was talking about it. In case… ya know, anything happens.” Bucky just nods and watches you pull the bed covers back and lie the white towel in the center. “Should we get in bed, then?” You ask softly, playing with the clasp of your bra.

“Yes,” he stammers, watching as you unhook it and let it fall to the floor. The smallest noise escapes his throat at the sight of your bare breasts and it sends a wave of heat and pleasure to your core that you’ve never experienced at this caliber before. You’re suddenly both in bed under the covers and Bucky is hovering over you, kissing your lips and your neck desperately. 

“I love you so much, doll. I’m going to marry you someday. I promise,” he murmurs, looking in your eyes. 

“I love you, James,” you whisper. 

You both work your underwear off and lie there for a moment, staring at each other. “Should I…?” Bucky trails off, not sure what to do next. You nod, encouraging him.

“It’s okay,” you say, playing with his hair. “Go ahead.”

He maneuvers himself into the right position and pushes into you ever so slowly. 

“Oh my God,” he hisses. You bite your lip as your body accepts him with a stinging stretch. You make love for the first time together and it’s everything you thought it would be - sweet, sensual, a little awkward, and over fairly quickly. Afterwards, you lie next to each other under the covers for a few minutes and hold hands. 

“That was incredible,” he admits with a soft laugh, kissing your lips. “Did it hurt, sweetheart?” 

“It hurt a little bit, but it was nice,” you say, running your nails gently down his arm. “I’m glad we could be each other’s firsts.”

“First and last,” he corrects with a kiss to your hand. You both sit up and get dressed quickly. You check the clock on the wall and notice that you have twenty minutes to get back to the festival. Bucky picks up the towel and remakes the bed. 

“Destroying the evidence?” You ask with a giggle.

“Something like that,” he remarks.

🌸

[twstedpurple]

a belated birthday post

kinda SUPER late for deuce’s bday IK IK 😭😭 Had this sitting in my drafts for days but it was still a WIP

sorry deuce writer's block + silver's club uniform ate my brain

love you deucey 🥺🫶 u deserve the world

(this is a Deuce X OC story btw cuz I’ve been ignoring my babies lately 💀(⁠ ⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠ ⁠;) )

“Movie Night and Morning Marks”

Night had long fallen over Night Raven College, yet the windows of Ramshackle still glowed with a warm, golden light. Eve stepped out of her room in her cozy white and lavender pajamas, the soft shuffle of slippers echoing against the wooden floorboards.

Eve had invited Ace and Deuce for a sleepover on the eve of Deuce’s birthday. A newly released film centered around the Queen of Hearts had hit the screens just weeks ago, and given the two boys hailed from a dorm that practically worshipped her legacy, she figured Ace and Deuce wouldn’t pass up the chance to watch it. Fortunately, Riddle had approved the overnight visit, offering a rare leniency in the name of Deuce’s special day.

Moments later, Ace emerges in his own pajamas: a casual red hoodie and black sweats. His signature heart mark was missing from his left eye.

“Oh? Your heart mark’s gone,” Eve said, raising a brow as she gestured at his face.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Ace shrugged, rubbing the spot under his left eye. “I wiped it off when I washed my face. It’s just makeup, y’know?” He then leaned forward with a teasing smirk. “Why? Did you think I'd sleep with it on?”

Before Eve could respond, Deuce’s door opened with a soft click. He emerged looking clean and fresh… in that outfit. Hot pink, leopard-print pajama pants and a hoodie to match. The spade on his right eye was gone too, wiped clean after washing up. Eve had to blink, once, then again.

“Aren’t those… the ones you wore when you fed the flamingos back at Heartslabyul?” she asked slowly, biting back a smile.

Deuce stiffened. “Y-Yeah. Does it look bad?”

Grim, who had popped his head from her room, wheezed with laughter. “Pfft—Pink and spots? You look like a wild animal tamer!”

“Sh-Shut up, Grim!” Deuce sputtered, glancing down at himself, ears burning red. “It’s… comfy, okay?”

“It’s got personality,” Eve offered with a chuckle, patting Deuce’s shoulder as they all headed downstairs.

The four of them sat side by side on one of the couches in Ramshackle’s lounge, the lights dimmed as the movie played on a tablet propped up on the table before them. Eve sat in the middle with Grim plopped happily on her lap, already digging his claws into a bag of honey-glazed chips that Ace and Deuce had brought along. They’d even brought cupcakes and tarts baked by Trey himself—much to Eve and Grim’s delight. Eve made a mental note to personally thank Trey tomorrow when she saw him at school.

The movie wrapped up near midnight, leaving the dorm hushed except for Grim’s soft snoring, who had dozed off on Eve’s lap halfway through the end credits. Ace, Eve, and Deuce stayed up a bit longer, chatting softly about their favorite parts until drowsiness began to catch up with them.

Ace let out a huge yawn. “Alright, I’m beat. Night, guys.” He headed to his room, already stretching his arms above his head.

“’Night,” Eve called after him. Grim shifted sleepily in her arms as she carefully walked toward her own room. Deuce followed behind, rubbing at his eyes.

“Good night, Deuce,” she said softly as he walked past her.

He gave a tired nod, already reaching for the door handle. “Night, Eve. Thanks for tonight.”

Just as he was about to disappear into his room, her voice stopped him.

“Deuce?”

He turned, and she held up her phone in one hand, the other still cradling a dozing Grim. The screen glowed faintly in the dim hallway light.

“Happy birthday, Deuce,” she whispered with a smile. Her phone's lock screen read: 12:00 AM, June 3.

Deuce stared, eyes wide and lips parted. He blinked in surprise, but before he could say a word, Eve had already turned and slipped into her room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Deuce frozen in place, his hand still resting on the doorknob.

The next morning, Eve crept down the stairs in her slippers, hair a bit messy from sleep. She was heading for the kitchen to get warm milk when she nearly bumped into Deuce, who had just come out of the bathroom.

“Gah—Sorry!” Deuce stepped back, towel in hand and hair still dripping from his morning wash. “I didn’t see you there.”

Eve blinked in surprise. “You're up early.”

He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah, I think... my body just woke me up on its own. Maybe because it’s my birthday.”

Eve chuckled. “That’s cute.”

Her gaze then shifted toward the corner of his eye—where his spade mark usually was. An idea sparked in her head. “Hey… want to do makeup together?” she asked, eyes glinting.

“M-makeup? Together?” Deuce blinked. “I-I mean, I usually just—uh…”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.” She tilted her head, beaming. “Just for today.” Faced with her smile and enthusiasm, Deuce just sighed in surrender.

“…Okay.”

After grabbing two mugs of warm milk, brushing her teeth, and washing up, Eve and Deuce settled in the lounge. The sunlight filtered through the cracked windows as they laid out their basic skincare and a few makeup items on the wooden desk.

Eve finished her routine quickly, opting for a light, natural look—a touch of concealer and light foundation, a hint of blush, some subtle shimmer near her eyes, and a bit of gloss over her lips.

Beside her, Deuce was hunched over his small blue mirror, brow furrowed like he was solving a calculus equation. He kept picking up and putting down a glitter pen, clearly debating.

Eve watched him, finding his serious expression oddly endearing. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It’s my birthday,” he said, eyeing the glitter pen on the table. “I don’t know if I should go with the usual eyeliner… or go for a bit more flashy style today? But that wouldn't make look like an honor student.”

“You wore bright pink and leopard print to bed.”

His ears turned red. “T-that was different!”

Smiling, Eve leaned in, plucking his eyeliner pen from the table. “Here. Let me do it.”

“E-Eh?! I-I can do it—!”

Before he could finish, she was already brushing a stray strand from his face and re-clipping his hairclip in place. Then, with a gentle grip on his chin, she drew the thin eyeliner line upward from the outer corner of his eye, matching the curve exactly like the signature spade shape he always wore. She filled it in carefully, her hand steady and light.

Deuce tried not to breathe too loud, hyper-aware of how close her face was. When she finished, she pulled back, examining her work with a satisfied hum. “Perfect.”

Deuce, meanwhile, was still frozen in place, staring back at her with his heart pounding.

“Oi, what are you two doing down there?”

The sudden voice from upstairs nearly made Deuce jump out of his skin, almost knocking over his mirror. Ace stood at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning, Ace,” Eve greeted him casually, as if nothing had happened.

Ace squinted. “Huh? What’s with the set-up?”

Deuce cleared his throat, attempting to be casual but failing. “We were just… doing makeup.”

Eve chuckled, calm as ever, as she tidied up her things. “I’ll go wake Grim before he oversleeps again,” she said, gliding past the boys and heading upstairs.

As she left the lounge area, Ace turned his gaze to Deuce, who was still sitting at the desk, a little dazed, still staring at the mirror.

“…Did something happen?”

Deuce didn’t look away from his reflection, lightly brushing the spade mark Eve had drawn.

“She just... helped with my eyeliner.”

[gothamwing]

𝓓𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝓛𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 - 𝓓𝓾𝓴𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓼

Pairing: Duke Thomas × Female! Reader

When you moved in with your boyfriend, you thought that you would spend most of your days all alone due to his work, but you couldn't be more wrong. Duke always tries to show you how much he loves you. Mainly, when he has a day off, like today.

Warnings: Pet names (babe, honey...), Duke being clingy and cute (love him!)

W.C.: 608

It was his day off. Bruce promised him, and he was more than happy with that.

Because for the first time in weeks, Duke was capable of seeing you sleeping soundly. It was your day off too, and you two promised to each other that you would spend all the day at home.

And now, both of you were tucked in bed, and it was almost ten in the morning.

Duke's left hand was holding your waist, carefully to not wake you up. His fingers were caressing your skin in soothing movements, with the same care he would have with a flower.

Your skin was warm, so warm that Duke was almost sleeping again just touching it.

“It tickles.” You murmured, opening your eyes just enough to see Duke chuckle.

“Did I wake you up?” He smiles, moving his hand up to your cheek.

“Not really.” You nuzzled against him, hugging his bare chest that smelled like home.

Like love.

“What do you want for breakfast?” He kissed your cheek, hugging you tighter. “We can make pancakes, or waffles.” His lips touched your shirtless shoulder, leaving a kiss on your skin. “Maybe cupcakes”.

You looked at him, smiling as he kept kissing your body. “You can choose, honey.” You said, pecking his lips before you sat on bed. “But I am starving”.

“Then let's eat”.

Days like this were always perfect. When you discovered Duke’s real job, he almost cried thinking you would break up with him, but you didn't.

Of course not, you loved him, how could you?

He makes breakfast and lunch for you, always buys you flowers when he sees a pretty bouquet, never lets you sleep on the couch after a movie night, lets you wear his coat when you are cold…

And when he arrives in the middle of the night, after a long patrol, he cuddles with you on bed, hugging you under the blanket, kissing your head before sleeping with you in his arms.

He is a perfect gentleman, mainly now, cooking something for you, wearing just some comfy pants once you are using his favorite shirt.

“It smells great, babe”. You leaned against the counter, smiling at the sight.

“Of course. I'm a good chef” He looks at you, a playful smirk on his lips. “Don't smell as good as you, but…”

“Duke!” You laughed.

“I'm being honest!”

The light ambient is everything for you. Too important, of course. If you forget that he is a superhero, you could almost imagine you two living peacefully, dancing old songs in the middle of the night and kissing in the rain.

Your thoughts disappear when he puts a plate in front of you, with a little tower of pancakes and a cup of juice.

“I'll have to work tomorrow morning.”

His words make you feel a bit uneasy, but he noticed. Of course he did, he always does. Duke knows you better than yourself.

“I promise I'll return to you, you know it, right?” He holds your hand on the counter, caressing the skin of your fingers.

“I am just worried.”

“I know. I am too” He smiles. “But I have a reason to come back home.” His gaze locked on your ring, the ring he gave up when he asked you to be his girlfriend. “I have you.”

You looked at him, squeezing his hand a bit.

“Is it a promise?”

“Yes” He answers in a murmur.

And you knew it was.

Because no matter what, you two always would have each other in this domestic little life you built together.

Having each other is the best thing you could ask.

[bluehourbucky]

Lunch boxes

pairing: newavenger!bucky x reader

summary: you make lunch for new avengers John almost loses his life

a/n : just a silly drabble been thinking about it for days

Bucky never knew softness until he met you. You are the epitome of softness, you think of others first and then yourself. He loves that about you its sweet but he never let's it go too far.

He knows one day he'll marry you, buy you a house in the country side all those domestic things he dreamed of. He just needs a bit more time. Bucky sees the way you look at him, with love and absolute certainty that he's your future.

There's nothing he wouldn't do for you, not when he meets your doe eyes full of hopes and dreams. And he can't wait to make them all reality.

One thing about you is that you show your love through food, lots of it, he gained a few since you two started dating. Bucky didn't even know he loved food this much ( maybe he doesn't and its only to please you but the line blurred long ago when he realised that love is you and everything you do and make).

He never intended for you to meet the other new avengers, but they somehow found their way into your shared home. You welcomed them with open arms and heart. And you charmed them from the fist second. He knew you would, all you have to do is smile and you have people falling over left and right.

They weren't used to kindness and you had so much to give and you gave it freely in abundance.

Last night was rough for them and they all needed somewhere to recharge for the hard day ahead, so what did they do? They came to a little sanctuary, that is yours and Buckys apartment.

Even if Bucky hadn't called ahead you had opened the door in the middle of the night, you didn't even seem upset that they woke you up or that he brought five more people with him.

You jumped into his arms like it didn't matter that he was all dirty and sweaty and bloody, and to you it didn't.

Your small apartment was looking even tinier with the six avengers in the living room/kitchen.

"Welcome back! I'm sorry I didnt know you were coming you must be hungry! Ah I didnt prepare anything! I'm sure we have something around here!"

Bucky told you not to fuss about it, they'll order something for tonight and be out early in the morning. It took a lot of convincing and stolen distraction kisses to make you drop it.

"Jamie it's not nice! They're guests, your work family!" He smiles and pulls you into a hug and kisses your forehead.

"You can cook some other time come on back to bed." Bucky ushered you to your room and laughed when he noticed your frown. He took a quick shower and then gave the rest of them towels and told them to figure it out how to sleep on one pull out bed. He didn't care enough he just wanted his girl.

"Good night, doll." Bucky says as he pulls you into his chest and kisses your neck. He feels you smile.

"Night Jamie."

In the morning Bucky can smell food? Its all kinds of food. He gets up and opens the bedroom door. Four figures stand behind the kitchen counter and watch you.

John is sitting on the pull out sofa, his eyes closed.

"Damn Soldier Barnes! Your wife is so talented! Look how she cooks!" Alexei says pointing at you stiring the pot and shaking the pan at the same time. You turn and your cheeks are flushed, both from the stove and the way Alexei called you Buckys wife.

"Morning love!" you look at him sheepishly, like you're caught doing a crime.

"She won't tell us what she's doing but this looks dangerous? No?" Yelena says..

"I'll be done soon I promise."

Bucky fondly laughs and walks over to you to give you a morning kiss but before he can do that an alarm sounds from your phone.

"Ah get that out of the oven! Thanks honey."

Bucky does as he's told and pulls out a huge tray of pastries out of the oven with his metal arm.

"Are we feeding an army?"

"Yes Bucky look how many of you and no one should work on an empty stomach."

Before he can say something you shush him and peck his lips.

"Okay now everything's done!"

And there on the counter six paper bags, each one has a name written on it, with a little doodle each different than the other.

Buckys heart grows and aches in ways he can't quite understand. You did all of this for him, for them, the people who have done horrible things, are doing horrible things.

First one to grab a bag is Alexei who then gives you a bear hug and lifts you off of the floor.

"Ah you are amazing woman! If Soldier doesn't treat you right he will have problem with me! I am very grateful!" You laugh and hug him back.

Ava just nodds and takes the bag, but in her eyes you see softness and thankfulness.

Yelena takes hers and says "Ah my favorite! Thank you! You are the best! I can't promise I won't come back for another round."

"You're always welcome" you reply and give her a hug.

"Thank you, miss. I appreciate your effort it is very kind for you to give us this food!" Bob says and stands at the door with the others.

John's the last one but he only stands up and goes to the door.

"Wait I made you one too!"

"Im not taking a children's lunch box I'll just buy something out."

The silence that came is deafening, you could hear a pin drop. Your eyes well up in tears.

And then Bucky grabs John by the throat, Yelena pulls her guns and points them at John, Ava teleports next to John and hits him and Alexi says

"I kill him now."

"Im sorry I'm sorry Im sorry I swear I didnt mean it." John starts to beg the avengers for mercy...

"Not to us stupid."

Bucky drops him to the ground and then John crawls to your feet and starts begging.

"Its fine I forgive you." you say kind of terrified and touched that they all care so much.

"You live another day, next time you make my girl cry I will kill you and then cut you into pieces and then will burn those pieces."

John only nods and runs out the door.

Buckys eyes immediately soften as he walks over to you and grabs the last bag, it says love of my life and there's like a dozen hearts drawn. His hear melts.

"Thank you baby. I love you and I already miss you." you giggle at the hundreds of kisses byck gives you.

" Love you too!"

[onyxedenfox]

Ovulation sex drive brings me to tears. I genuinely think that if I had a partner, I'd ask them to put their hands on me 10, 20, 50 times a day. Even then, I still worry it wouldn't be enough.

Normally, I'm someone who likes to initiate, to service, to take my time and worship the other person, both hard and fast, as well as soft and slow. However they like, for however long they want. Any place, any time.

But during the one or two weeks at the middle of my cycle, I turn into the neediest, most clingy and touch starved thing in existence. All I can think about, day and night, is someone who knows me, and knows my body, and knows how to take me apart without having to say a word.

Whether they're just laying hands upon me, gently grazing and cupping my chest, or sneaking between my legs, slightly pressing to give me warmth, no friction or intention, just a hold of comfort. Whether they're pushing me against a hard surface and pulling at my clothes in a frenzy, or laying me atop soft cushions, hands wandering, mouths exploring, as we grind away at eachother. Whether they rub at me with toys or their fingers, push into me with a dildo, a strap or their own body. Pull my hair, squeeze my throat, tickle my sides. Grope, pinch, bite, lick, kiss, caress at every bit of skin on display. Anything they want, I'll let them have, no questions asked.

Even if they're away for work, or live half way across the continent, or half way across the world. I'd still beg them to stay on the phone with me, all day and all night long. From the moment I wake up and have to fill myself with my fingers, still wet and open since last evening. As I make myself come three times in a row before the start of my work day, while they speak to me from the other side, just making their coffee, not even in immediate need of their own.

Then I'd sit through meeting after meeting, with the egg vibrator deep inside me as they jump from setting to setting through the online app that controls it. Squirming and sweating all morning, teased, edged, denied as the play with me anyway they want. But as soon as my lunch break comes, I'd call them on Google meet and place my laptop straight opposite my bed, so they can see me crawl and bend over on all fours, dripping wet and open, pulling the vibrator out. They'd talk me through it, tell me what to do, where to place my fingers, when to touch, when to stop. They'd pick a toy for me, a large, knotted, ejaculating dildo, with an internal thruster. I'm so wet already, they know I can just run it through my mess and it will be enough to fit right in. And it does just that, so snug, spreading me deliciously. So I start pushing, in and out, slowly, so they can see how I stretch and leak around it through the camera.

Oh they're affected now, I can hear it in their breathing. I know they have a meeting soon, so I amp it up just a little. I start moving faster and tell them how good they feel inside me. Ask them, how do I feel? Am I warm enough? Wet enough? Tight enough? My neck is smarting from being bent at the wrong angle so I can look at them with large tearful eyes, pleading for more. Right then I see them snake a hand under the screen, straight between their legs. So I pitch my voice higher, make it sound smaller, as I gasp and squeak and whine their name, all the while still pumping in and out. They tell me to put the egg right under my clit, and take control of the app again. I feel it come to life, buzzing away, setting me on fire and melting my brain. I can't help it, I forget about them as my eyes roll into my head and I let out the filthiest disgusting groan I ever have. They're moving their hand faster and faster, I can hear their own little gasps come through the speakers. Right then, the teams ring tone comes in. Their boss has started the meeting.

They curse and shake, and desperately try to put themselves to rights, but I can't stop. I can see them frantically looking for the 'mute tab' button as they move me across their second screen and dial into their work call. I keep going, they can see my hand move the dildo in and out. Feigning nonchalance, they control the app still, while talking to their team about spreadsheets, and KPIs, and things I can't even begin to comprehend. Especially now, when I'm holding on for dear life, biting at the bed cover, moaning their name between gritted teeth, gooseflesh rising everywhere, sweat pooling at my back. My tshirt has rucked up, right under my chin, my front exposed between my legs, so they can see my bare chest struggling for breath, as my nipples pebble at each graze against the sheets beneath me.

They amp up the toy higher and higher, and I pump still, faster and faster, as the dildo thrusts away at full power. One last flick of their finger against their phone, eyes boring into me from the other side of the screen while their boss goes through some slide deck, and the egg is vibrating at its strongest setting. My back fully arched, ass in the air, face down into the mattress, tears rolling, I scream, and I come. Crying their name out on repeat, snaking a finger to the bottom of the dildo, to that special button that floods me with warm spend. It keeps going and going, knot grinding into me, filling me completely, clit blazing I feel myself let go and start gushing as I clench around the shaft, tighter and tighter. I still keep going.

Warm come now spilling out of me, leaking onto the bed. My own wetness and the one of the dildo, mixing together. I push it right back into me as the toy keeps thrusting, motor on fire. Finally, their call comes to an end, and their work persona immediately falls apart as they struggle to pull my view back to their main screen cursing, hands shaking over the mouse. They tell me I'm a tease, a beautiful, gorgeous, bastard of a tease, and fight to get their trousers open as quickly as possible.

All I can do is laugh, and arch my back further, spread my legs as wide as I can so they can see me completely. They swear under breath, hand moving at lightning speed between their legs now, the dildo still going, the egg still buzzing, and I'm right on the edge again. It's heaven.

They know it too, start talking to me about how perfect I am, how angelic I sound, how good I feel, how pretty I look, how good I'm making them feel, how good I'm being, how much they love me, more, more, more, mor-

I'm coming again, even stronger, impossibly higher. Gushing, squeezing, pulsing. I'm flying apart at the seams, screaming myself hoarse, gasping for air, shaking out of my skin, and I can hear them behind me. Groaning and howling, fighting for breath, cursing, my name on their lips. They're coming too.

It goes on and on, till finally the egg lets up and I relax enough to stop clenching. The dildo slips out, rolling off the bed, a mere echo in the distance. My legs can't keep me up another second, and I fall flat on my front, splayed out in all directions, leaking steadily. We are both silent for a while, just catching our breath, then I lift off a little just to look at them. A smile splits both our faces and we can't help but break into the happiest of laughter.

I tell them I love them. That I miss them. They reply the same way. Then tell me they have no other meetings for the whole afternoon, with a slowly blooming, teasing lopsided smirk.

One look is all it takes, and we're ready to go again. All day, through the evening, and the whole night, right until tomorrow. Go at it like starving animals, and tear eachother apart, again, and again, and again.

And if I had a partner, we would. Break one another into pieces, then pull us right and back together. Again, and again, and again.

CIS HET MEN, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

[gf2bellamy]

hi athena!! hope youre doing very well<3 could i request reader staying at spencer’s place for the first time, she wakes up in the middle of the night to drink water or sth and gets cold im her light pajamas (its summer maybe) and wears his shirt to the kitchen, and when she does so he wakes up and sees her in his shirt and gets all flustered and blushy cause she looks so cute and pretty and it strikes him that he finally has a gf who wants him back and loves him and yeah sorry for the long description have a nice day <333

cold — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff fluff fluff a/n: hiii !!<333 i hope you like this :)

You shivered as you tiptoed out of Spencer’s room. You immediately regretted your choice of pyjamas , a tanktop and shorts,  the ones you had brought with you to Spencer's apartment. The choice of clothing had seemed reasonable at first. It had been a very hot summer day after all. Yet, the temperature dropped at night, by at least 10 degrees. 

This was your first time staying over, and the evening had been nothing short of perfect. From giggling over Spencer almost dropping his food, because he was so nervous to cuddling on the couch as he read to you while brushing his fingers through your hair. 

The two of you had fallen asleep just barely an hour ago, but you’d woken up again with a dry mouth and the need for some water. Which is why you were leaning against the counter now, a cup of water in your hand. While the cold water soothed your throat, it didn't help with your body temperature. 

“Why is it so cold?” you mumbled to yourself, in the dark, rubbing your arms.

You didn't bother washing the glass, considering you were way too sleepy, and you already missed laying in Spencer’s arms. But as you walked past the couch towards Spencer’s room, his cardigan thrown over the arm of the couch caught your eye. (It was folded, of course.)

Your tank top wasn’t exactly keeping you warm, and before you could second guess yourself,  you slipped it on. It warmed you immediately. Happily you patted back to Spencer’s bedroom. Spencer hadn’t moved much, still sprawled across the mattress with one arm outstretched toward the space you’d left behind.  Once you settled under the covers, Spencer immediately pulled you into his arms.

“Where were you?” He didn't really sound awake. But he was rubbing his knuckles lazily over your spine.

 “Just got thirsty. Go back to sleep,” you whispered, feeling slightly bad for waking him up. Spencer just made a soft sleepy sound as he pulled you closer. He managed to muster the last ounce of energy to kiss your forehead, before he went back to his dreams. You fell asleep with a smile and warm, from both his cardigan and his hold.

The next morning, you were the one to wake up to an empty side of the bed. Cold sheets and a faint indentation where his body had been just 20 minutes ago. You sat up slowly , stretching with a loud yawn. Somewhere outside of the bedroom, you could hear the coffee machine hum to life too. The sound immediately put a smile on your face. You could already picture Spencer filling up the two cups of coffee, clearly wanting to wake you up with breakfast and coffee.

And that was indeed Spencer's plan. 

He slipped out of bed early, determined to surprise you with breakfast in bed.He was just pouring coffee into your favorite mug, the one with the tiny chip on the handle that you insisted made it “lucky”, when he heard your footsteps. His shoulders slumped, just slightly. So much for the surprise.

He turned, ready to greet you with a "good morning," but the words dissolved on his tongue the second he saw you.

There you were. Groggily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

In his cardigan. 

“Morning, Spence,” you mumbled, stepping closer as you stared at the pancakes he had made. He was still blinking at you, not moving, even when you stood next to him at the counter, your cheek resting against his arm. You didn't reach for the pancakes immediately, the taste of toothpaste still lingering in your mouth. 

"You made breakfast?" you asked, pouting slightly, not in disappointment, but in that soft, overwhelmed way you did when he caught you off guard with his sweetness. The pancakes had chocolate chips on them, forming a smiley on the dough. 

You finally looked up, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. "Spence?"

His face was flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears, his lips slightly parted as he stared at you. You stared back, watching as he blinked rapidly.

You were in his cardigan. In his apartment? Arms hugging his waist ? Looking at him with those loving eyes? That look in your eyes that was only reserved for him? 

“Morning”, he finally managed. His voice was quiet yet laced with so much sweetness, almost as sweet as the chocolate chips he had been snacking on. Your hands were still on his waist, softly rubbing his shirt. 

“Where did you just go?” you grinned, tilting your head. The oversized cardigan slipped off one shoulder, exposing the strap of your tank top beneath. Spencer's hand reached out instinctively to tug it up. His thumb lingering on your shoulder. 

"You're wearing my cardigan," he said, as if he needed to say it out loud to believe it.

You glanced down at yourself, suddenly self-conscious, and let your hands fall from his waist to adjust the sleeves. "Is-is that bad? Sorry, I was cold last night," you mumbled, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Not bad at all.” Spencer shook his head. “Not at all. If anything –” He paused, when you met his eyes. “If anything, I’d like you to just wear my clothes from now on.” 

A surprised giggle escaped you, and Spencer took advantage of the way your face lit up, cradling your cheeks in his palms as he pulled you closer. His lips pressed against your forehead and you could feel the curve of his smile against your skin. "You look so pretty I malfunctioned," he admitted as he leaned back just enough to see your reaction. "That's all."

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a smile so wide it almost hurt. "Well, it's very cozy," you said, fiddling with the hem of the cardigan.

Spencer's gaze dropped to where your fingers played with the fabric before returning to your face, his expression unbearably tender. "You wear it better than me," he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"I really do," you teased, grinning up at him.

You were joking, of course you were, but Spencer just nodded, completely serious, his eyes tracing the way his cardigan swallowed your frame. The sleeves pooled around your wrists, the collar slipping off one shoulder again, and god, he never wanted to see you in anything else.

But more than that, more than the way you looked drowning in his clothes, Spencer still couldn’t quite believe it.Believe that you loved him. Enough to stay over at his apartment. Enough to fall asleep tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers curled in your hair.  Enough to be standing in front of him right now, bathed in morning light, his cardigan hanging off your shoulders, peeking at the pancakes with that sleepy, contented look.

He didn't notice himself zoning out again. 

“Spencer. Where did you go again?” you asked, your arm slipping around his waist while the other sneaked toward the plate, popping a few chocolate chips into your mouth. 

"Sorry," he shook his head, blinking rapidly. He needed to stop doing that, needed to stop getting so lost in the overwhelming reality of you choosing him, staying with him, loving him, but god, it was impossible when you looked like this. When you felt like this. When you were here.

You gave him another concerned look, your fingers tightening slightly at his waist before you grabbed another chocolate chip, holding it up to his lips. "You sure you're okay?"

Of course he ate it immediately but not without catching your wrist first, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingertips. The chocolate melted sweetly on his tongue, but it was nothing compared to the way you looked at him, all soft and fond and his.

"Mhm," he hummed, lips still brushing your skin. "I just love you." The words came out muffled, half-embarrassed, but so unbearably true. He was drunk on it, on you, his thoughts syrupy and slow with affection. "A lot," he added, because once wasn't enough, would never be enough.

You watched him with wide eyes. “Why do you have to be so lovely all the time?” you said, pouting now. 

Spencer couldn't help it. He gestured dramatically at you, his voice pitching higher with playful emphasis. "Look at you." As if it wasn't obvious. As if the sight of you swimming in his cardigan, your hair mussed from sleep, wasn't enough to undo him completely. "You're wearing my clothes. How am I supposed to not be lovely about you?"

"You're too sweet for your own good, Spencer Reid," you sighed, shaking your head as you leaned forward to rest your forehead against his chest. His arms came up automatically to cradle you closer, one hand splaying across your back while the other gently carded through your sleep-tangled hair. You melted further against him as his lips found your crown, pressing a series of featherlight kisses.

"Can we eat?" you finally mumbled ( after at least 15 kisses. )

Spencer chuckled, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against your cheek before he placed one last kiss to your temple and pulled away. You immediately claimed the nearest chair, swinging your legs slightly as you settled in. Spencer followed, his chair scraping closer until his knee bumped yours. He turned his whole body toward you, so he could admire you.

"Oh my god, Spencer," you cheered around a mouthful, eyes widening in genuine surprise. "You didn't burn them."

"Funny," he deadpanned, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. He took notice of the way your sleeves kept falling into the way of your fork. without hesitation, he set his own utensils down and leaned across the space between you, his fingers gently folding back the soft fabric until your wrists were free. You repaid his kindness by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, smiling when he immediately flushed pink to the tips of his ears.

"I love you too," you murmured, realizing with a startle you hadn't said it back earlier. You'd always prided yourself on never letting those words go unanswered, not when they came from him, not when they filled you up with so much happiness, you thought you might burst with it. Spencer looked up from his plate, syrup glazing his fork mid-air. His smile was soft, knowing, the morning light catching in his lashes as he met your gaze.

"I know you do," he said simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

And it was.

[jellyscats]

do you write angst? would love some john stuff please 🖤

18+ MDNI

there’s actually something so biblical about john walker and it drives me batshit insane,please lemme talk abt him 24/7!!

John has this deep need to be wanted,to be of service,it’s so deep down and settled into his bones that sometimes he himself doesn’t realise it. doesn’t realise that all those years of training to be the best,to be the man, was only because that’s the only time he felt worthy of anyone’s affections,of anyone’s respect. he’s shaken hands with presidents,taken his squad into what can only be described as the depths of hell,yet he’s come home even more unsure of himself,his sense of self is so shattered he can barely look at himself in the mirror. he’s unsure of his path in the world,where he fits in,if he’s causing more harm then good,what it is he really stands for. he lies in bed most nights somewhere between sleep and a torture chamber recalling every waking moment of his time in Afghanistan,reliving his worst moments over and over only to wake up to find his medals staring back at him mockingly. his foundation has been blasted into pieces, almost all his time is spent wondering how a country he thought he believed in had turned their back on him,questioning what was real and what had been an illusion the whole time.

he can’t stand the idea of being controlled yet he craves order in his life,something real and grounding, a moral compass to keep him from tethering off the edge of the earth,to keep him in check when he doubts himself. something in his soul tells him he’ll find it,perhaps through work or maybe even through another person and when you come crashing into his life,so unapologetic,moving through life with a level of self assurance and assertiveness that sinks heavy into his chest,he can’t stop the subconscious decision to follow you through anything,to follow your every word like it’s scripture.

He’s had orders barked at him from a young age, a loving yet strict household,his football coaches,then his superiors in the army where orders are listened to no questions asked. it’s drilled into him,sure now he’s the one usually giving orders but he craves that comfortable feeling of just shutting off his mind and doing what he’s told. but not by middle aged men,clipboards in hand making him run laps long after the sun is down and all he wants to do is collapse in on himself or angry men dressed in camouflage sending young boys into the thick of a war they don’t fully understand, no he needs those orders from someone like you. he struggles to admit that to himself,could never openly admit to it,in fact he’s trying his hardest to to push those thoughts away,trying to keep what little control he has on himself even though your very presence sends him into a spiral. he tries to take control at work,tries to prove his competence by never letting anyone else be the first to vocalise a plan,it’s gotta be him,trying to keep his voice assertive but coming across as snarky and belittling. he’d never interrupt you though,god never you, he knows that you really do know what’s best. it’s like you’ve got a clear window into his mind and take whatever jumbled thoughts he’s having and deliver them so concisely and with an air of confidence that he could never even pretend to muster.

there’s a trust that begins to grow there,you get to see his vulnerability,though he doesn’t offer it up willingly,see his inner struggle of trying to prove himself constantly in all the little things he does and how it gnaws at him as he slowly wears himself thin. and you see how alone he is,or how alone he thinks he is,how he retreats to his bedroom some nights,eyes scanning the room to see if anyone is going to stop him or even notice his absence. you always catch his eye,sending him a smile that you know he can decode but this night you follow him,fuzzy socks padding down the cool tiles behind him. it’s an unspoken thing,like he knew tonight would be the night you’d follow him, like he was waiting for you. no words are needed when you wrap your arms around him,his body finally relaxing after what feels like eons when you press your lips to his with a silent promise, I’ll always see you

[rosegoldrosieee]

The (Un)common Cold

(Tags: House/Wilson, domestic fluff, sexual/suggestive humor, sickfic, established relationship, clinic duty, references to wanting to get married)

Summary: It’s November, and hurricane season and flu season are in full swing. Afflicted with the commonest of colds, Wilson hasn’t been cuddling with House as much as he’d like. To remedy this distressing issue, House resorts to a method as unorthodox and selfish as his bedside manner.

(TL;DR: House turns off the heat in their condo. Set vaguely in the middle of S6, but Wilson has slightly longer hair?)

Read on AO3 (5k words)

It had only really started recently—House would wake up to Wilson facing away from him or his grumbling incoherently in the middle of the night and wriggling out of House’s grasp. Nothing as of recent could have annoyed Wilson to get the point of withdrawal, considering that being House's significant other required an inhuman amount of patience. House props himself onto his forearm.

Wilson stirs, curling in on himself, cheek pressed into the cool fabric of the pillow, facing House, hair mussed and features soft, unmarred by the usual array of worries he carried for two. He looks angelic, bathed in the scant moonlight filtered through the blinds—so much so that House merely lies there and observes, unwilling to ruin the lovely chiaroscuro sleeping beside him. 

He parsed his memory of the past few weeks: Wilson yelling at him to do the dishes (House ordered takeout for the next week to avoid it); Wilson complaining that House forgot to pick up their dry cleaning (which he promptly compensated for with good—no—incredible sex); Wilson preemptively buying an egregiously large pallet of Kleenex from Costco and creating a barricade at the foot of the bed. 

A wave of guilt threatens to wash over him. Yes, he was objectively a shitty boyfriend for losing sleep over some stranger’s nonsensical symptoms and not Wilson’s, however minor and trivial they were. No time like the present, then, to get on with it. The incentive was inherent — getting Wilson to snuggle with him again. 

House reaches out, gently sweeping Wilson’s tousled bangs aside, the back of his hand kissing his forehead. A feverish warmth inundates his skin, from his knuckles to the tips of his fingers. Wilson’s brows furrow, his face contorting imperceptibly into an expression of mild discomfort, before he quickly eases back into rest with a quiet sigh.

He etches LOW-GRADE FEVER onto his mental whiteboard in Expo chicken scratch. In his head, the marker’s a neon pink, fluorescent and glow-in-the-dark. Maybe he’d bother the fellows next week (or if they’d had enough, Wilson or Cuddy) to cover the expenses for a more colorful array of colors. He only had himself to parry with or throw insults at tonight, but it would have to suffice. 

Wilson’s nose is swollen; he’d find mottled red blooming at the apex, if he was cruel enough to turn on the lamp.SINUSITIS. He knows exactly what Wilson has, of course he does, but it’s more fun to gather all the constituent pieces of the jigsaw first. Maybe he’s just playing with his food. Either way, Wilson isn’t actively dying, so there’s no harm in placating his own boredom with a differential.

An unpleasant, scratchy hacking snaps House out of his reverie. Wilson settles again, sniffling and exhaling wearily through parted lips. He adds a messy, squiggly arrow underneath SINUSITIS: CONGESTION.

Poor thing.

House’s internal monologue uses two different inflections for those words. The first, a genuinely sympathetic lilt. Wilson was so infuriatingly pitiful when he was sick, blowing snot bubbles and flashing tired, pleading puppy-dog eyes to guilt trip House into doing his bidding. Even then, it couldn’t really be guilt tripping when it was merely giving House an impetus to stop evading his domestic responsibilities. 

The second, a mocking, derisive tone that was far more likely to come out of his mouth. In what sort of sick, perverted world does pretty privilege trump being a cripple in chronic pain? Still, House felt less sympathy for his terminal patients than he did for Wilson. 

“You’ve known me for how many years?” House murmurs softly, reaching over for a tissue and dabbing at Wilson’s nose. “Somehow, this is the first time you’ve managed to bore me. Congratulations. You have the most common of colds. Thank the aptly named rhinovirus.”

Wilson snuffles and squirms only briefly before his body relaxes again. 

“Must feel good to breathe through your nose for a few seconds again, I know, but I can’t do this all night for you. Blow it yourself,” House quips, pressing a chaste kiss to a flushed cheek before reclining back, tucking the sheets over them both. “And while you’re at it, blow me.” 

***

Wilson wakes to a dark tundra.

Okay, fine. That’s a dramatic exaggeration, even for him.

It is, however, a dreary autumn morning, and Mother Nature weeps, her tears flooding the streets. The place is devastatingly cold, from the outside layer of the duvet to the edges of the pillow that Wilson’s fever couldn’t penetrate. He shivers, burrowing himself in the layers up to his nose. It’s 9 a.m., and Wilson’s bedside is vacant, save for the noticeable imprint of House’s frame in the valleys of rumpled sheets. When he rubs the sleep from his eyes, he sees the tail end of a crinkled Shoprite receipt tucked under House’s pillow. 

For a second, he thinks the worst, lethargy eclipsed by dread. Squinting, Wilson slides the thin slip out and orients it sideways, to decipher the tiny scrawl in the negative space between transactions and along the borders: 

THE COLD IS A BITCH 

SO IS MY PATIENT TODAY

BACK SOON I ♡ YOU

Wilson’s eyes soften, thumb smearing the red ink on the last three words. The heart is messily filled in, the sides a bit lopsided. House is scarcely up this early, so it must have been urgent. Or he’s screwing with him. 

His stomach does a strange little flip as he reads it. Then rereads it. Five, seven, five. A haiku and an explicit “I love you”? This early? Now he was sure—House had to be fucking with him. Trying to appease him for some nefarious reason that would be made crystal-clear very soon. 

Wilson had already called yesterday to let Cuddy know he wouldn’t be in for at least the next day or so, but the guilt was overwhelming. His patients needed him, if not as a doctor, as a friend, and not just that, but his assistants, too, that he promised—

You’re not a doormat. So don’t lie down and capitulate. 

Paraphrased, most likely, but House was right. 

Unfortunately, the cold seems to kill the rest of his thoughts as they swim across his psyche, slowing first before they atrophy and rupture. 

With a defeated sigh, Wilson finally stumbles out of bed, limbs stiff and head heavy as he staggers to the kitchen, beelining for the medicine cabinet, dragging the sheets along like a bridal train. 

***

Clinic duty is stupid. 

And the sky is blue. 

“Google celebrated its eleventh birthday last month,” he remarks, leveraging himself against the nurses’ station. The nurses mill about, doing what they do best: ignoring him. “You’d think people might try to use some of this newfangled technology before they came here.” 

Cuddy’s heels clack across the linoleum in a tiresome staccato. He doesn’t bother looking behind him, fidgeting with his cane idly. He swears his midback tingles like a sort of Spider-sense, feeling the file hovering just shy of his back in her outstretched hand. 

“House.” 

“Wait. Don’t tell me. Another terrifying rhinovirus that infects millions of people every year?” Reluctantly, he swivels around. “Boring.”

“The nurse’s station,” she chastises him, shoving the patient chart into his chest, “is not your soapbox. You have ten more hours to make up this week. Go.” 

He takes it, hobbling toward an exam room indignantly. “I’ll make up the other nine-and-three-quarters next week,” he snarks, holding the door with his cane. “My boyfriend is sick, and you want me to be Mother Theresa for well-off, sheltered white middle-class families and their snotty kids.” 

The door shuts with a creak. 

A wide-eyed, sniffly kid knocking his knees together on the exam table and his mother offer him matching blank stares. 

“Dr. House, his nose has just been running nonstop since this morning, and—"

House limps over to the blinds and draws them up with a flourish of his wrist. “See that across the street? It’s a CVS.” He enunciates each letter, drawing out the syllable condescendingly. 

“But how will I know—” 

House hobbles over to the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket and waving it on his way out. “Magic brick. Use it, lady. Thank Steve Jobs.” 

“But—” 

Slam. 

***

The door swings open at 3:48 p.m. 

A harsh draft whips at his skin as soon as he shuts it. He shakes his sneakers off and trudges toward the inert Wilson-shaped lump on their sofa, a patchwork nest of threadbare throw blankets, their bed’s duvet, and House’s heavy winter coat. 

He probes at the mound with the end of his cane as if it were a tumor, earning a disgruntled huff. “Stop it.” 

“Good to see you too, honey,” House says, eyes full of mirth. His cane topples to the ground as he drapes himself over the princess-and-the-pea-esque layers of fabric separating them, limbs akimbo. Wilson grumbles something unintelligible into the pillow in protest but doesn’t—can’t—move. “I clocked out early for you. Couldn’t you at least pretend to be happy to see me?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Wilson snaps, the force of his outburst blunted by his fatigue. “It’s just that it feels more like Siberia today than Jersey.” 

House raises his head briefly to sift through the layers, exposing Wilson’s turned head. “It still beats waking up to you soaking our sheets. Not in the good way.” 

Wilson doesn’t dignify the comment with a response, but he flushes.

“Anyways—our heat’s busted,” Wilson rasps nasally. “Call HVAC, or you’re a shitty boyfriend.” 

“Don’t pull that card on me,” House retorts, pinching his nose to mimic him. “It’s been raining and windy all day. We’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“House.” 

House rolls off him unceremoniously with a petulant groan. “Fine. I’ll call them later, if it so appeases you.” 

“Call them now.” He knows House��ll forget if he doesn’t enforce an ultimatum. 

House makes a show of it, taking out his phone and pointedly tapping the numbers on the keypad, letting the line ring as he fleetingly presses a kiss to Wilson’s exposed head and steps into the bedroom. He shuts the door, knowing that Wilson might construe it as a sweet, thoughtful gesture to give him some peace while he’s sick. 

His intentions are not at all that benevolent. “Hello, HVAC!” He says loudly, slouching against the door.

“House, you called me, it’s Ch—” 

“HVAC, when are you coming to fix my heat?” 

“I’m about to go into the O.R., can this wait?” Chase reminds him, as if it would make a difference. “Patient just coded.” 

“Not until next Monday? That’s a shame,” House laments. “Well, thanks anyway.” 

He hangs up quickly, appearing from the bedroom to bother Wilson again. “The HVAC guy said they’re backlogged until Monday.” 

Wilson is crestfallen when he breaks the news—eyes wet, thick brows knit in worry, the corners of those lovely, plush lips downturned—so much so House almost comes clean. Instead, he deflects. “You look like the poster child for a Victorian orphanage.”

“Go out and buy space heaters,” Wilson mumbles against the mountain of throws. “It’s for your own good, too.” 

“Or,” House looks up thoughtfully, as he digs Wilson out of the nest he’s swaddled in, only to better crush him under his weight, “you could hump my pant leg until you start a fire. They ripped that page out of your Boy Scout Handbook, didn’t they?” 

Wilson squirms, balling up to conserve heat, pulling whatever blankets he could scrabble at toward him. “No. You’ll get sick, and it’s already miserable taking care of you when you’re perfectly well. Go away.” 

“Just a suggestion.” House mutters, unable to resist kissing his cheeks. Wilson’s face scrunches up in irritation, eyes screwed shut, but the tips of his ears redden. A tell House had relied on for years. 

***

At night, it was far worse. 

It really was cold. And Wilson still swatted him away at some point, because his forearms were numb in the morning. He turns to his side, groaning, limbs struggling to resist rigor mortis. Covered with a few throw blankets that clearly weren’t doing much, Wilson is shivering in the fetal position, but his hair is matted with sweat, bangs plastered to his forehead. 

But his own legs are fine. Which is strange, because—oh. 

His legs are meticulously cocooned in their thickest comforter. Undoubtedly Wilson’s doing. 

House’s heart does a strange little swoop imagining Wilson, sick and trying not to drip snot all over their new premium down IKEA duvet, worrying about the state of his bad leg if left to rot in the cold for hours unattended.

Quietly, he unfurls his swaddled legs, tucking Wilson into the blanket. Like a plant to the sun, he folds into the warmth, the wretched shivering finally ceasing. House swipes the sweat off his skin with weathered hands. Wilson presses against his palm like a stray with a soft, sleepy whimper, lashes fluttering. 

On top of Wilson being his boyfriend (the word still soured in his mouth; he’d rather just start calling him his husband, anyhow), the years of venting to comatose patients had likely conditioned House to get all sappy in the moment. 

“You’re too sweet,” House whispers, an affirmation that he secretly hopes Wilson internalizes subliminally. The vulnerability frightens him. “I don’t deserve you.”

Don’t you? Wilson would say, if he were conscious, but House wouldn’t believe him. Or, at the very least, we deserve each other. We’re terrible for every woman we start a relationship with. 

Wow. He really did have to put a ring on it soon, if Wilson was supplanting the narration for House’s inner voice and hypothetical scenarios. He wanted to do it—after all, Wilson’s proposed four times but never proposed to. 

Soon, if he wasn’t such a coward about it. 

***

House returns from the hospital with Cuddy’s voice ringing in his ears like a bad case of tinnitus. Clinic hours, clinic hours, clinic-hours, clinichours… the syllables blurred together into a mess of haphazard phonics that had since lost their meaning. 

And it’s cold in the house, to make matters worse. Oh, and there’s a hurricane watch. 

Their latest case is a doozy: a 34-year-old man with schizophrenia who internally bleeds, but only when he’s sleeping. They can’t even piece together the borders of the puzzle yet. It doesn’t help that he’s uncooperative, or that the team has to painstakingly sift through his hallucinations to speculate about his other symptoms. 

He lets work drift into the darkest recesses of his mind as he saunters into the bedroom, shedding his jacket. Wilson is wearing their entire closet and then some. 

It also smells like someone sprayed every Bath and Body Works fragrance at once. Musk, jasmine, sandalwood, cherry blossom, and bergamot. It’s horrific. 

Breathing solely in and out of the mouth, House sidles up to him on the bed, gently knocking his knuckles against where he knows his ass is, by virtue of a well-used muscle memory. “Nice King Tut cosplay,” he deadpans, “I’d say the most realistic part is that his sarcophagus comprises a university sweatshirt and a dozen winter woolies.”

That earns a soft snort and coaxes Wilson to poke his head out. “Had to make do with all of those candles you impulse-bought at the mall.” 

“They’re not meaningfully contributing to the temperature,” House says, blowing them out with a short puff, shooing the tendrils of aromatic smoke away. “Now I’m cold and dizzy.” 

House limps over to the window, hand bracing his thigh, and pushes the window up with a quiet grunt. The wind whips at the curtains, rain pattering the windowsill and dampening House’s shirt. 

“House, there’s a hurricane!” Wilson shouts as best he can, scarcely louder than a croak. 

“Would it really kill Ida to enjoy some synthetic fragrances?” He yells louder. 

***

The candles are back where they should be, and House is lugging freshly washed and dried laundry back to the living room.

“Strip,” House orders, dropping the basket in front of the sofa. When Wilson doesn’t budge, glaring at him like he’d murdered his firstborn, he sighs, wearily, rolling his eyes. “C’mon. Humor me.”

Wilson reluctantly peels off each layer like a nested Russian doll, each article of clothing that dropped to the floor revealing a slightly less bulky item on his person. House watches him reverently, as if Wilson were giving a striptease in lingerie, arms slung over the back cushions of the sofa. 

“Stop it,” Wilson grits through his teeth, awkwardly angling away from House and the amused smirk he’s wearing, gesticulating wildly toward the flatscreen. “Just…watch the TV. There’s nothing remotely interesting about what I’m doing.” 

“Nothing remotely interesting,” House remarks dryly, cocking his head, “about you taking your clothes off?” 

Wilson shoots him a withering glare off-set by kind eyes, clothes strewn on the floor in a heap. “Remind me why I’m doing this, other than for your pleasure?” 

“Believe it or not, I am capable of altruism,” House pats the cushion beside him expectantly before digging for something in the laundry bin. Wilson beelines for the couch immediately, cursing his innate desire to please. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.” 

Head pounding from the sudden movement, Wilson slumps against House’s side with a defeated sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. Warmth and weight suddenly supplant pain, enveloping him head to toe. 

When he opens an eye to see what’s changed, he notices first that House’s boxers are tucked beneath his chin like a bib. All their laundry, in fact, is dumped on top of him like a landfill. 

Wilson grimaces, gingerly pinching the seam of the boxers and tossing them toward House. “Really?” 

“Yeah, really. It’s clean!” House exclaims in thinly veiled yet barely-there exasperation, rolling his eyes as he throws the underwear back into the basket. “Don’t be such a prude. Your temperature rises by point-five and suddenly you forget all the times you’ve gotten my dick wet through these.” 

Wilson’s cheeks pink. If his temperature were point-five Fahrenheit lower, he’d have an equally snide comment to make.

Softer, unrecognizably so, House tucks the warm bedsheet around them both and murmurs, “Is that any better?” 

Wilson nods, forehead nudging against the crest of House’s ribs. 

I win, is all House thinks, his hand hanging loosely around the softness of Wilson’s shoulder. Sort of.

***

Wilson’s fever breaks, miraculously, overnight. Whether or not the cold played a part, Wilson would never admit to. 

He was still achy and groggy — getting older meant he didn’t bounce back quite as easily. Come Monday he’d be back and ready to go — he had to be. 

The heat also must have come back sometime overnight. Consequently, Wilson woke up in a puddle of his own sweat, his shirt unbuttoned and pants discarded. 

House is nowhere to be found. There’s no note, and it’s Friday, and more than that, sunny, so there’s no way he went into work this early unless his team gave him one hell of a reason to. 

A distant sneeze confirms his suspicions. 

Wilson staggers out of the bedroom, yawning. The door to one of their closets in the hallway is open and there’s a muted click-click.

“House?” 

The man in question swivels around on his heel, and despite the blank, unreadable expression gracing his face, Wilson knows something’s off, other than the nascent signs of an emerging cold. “You’re up early.” 

Without missing a beat, House replies, “HVAC called me and told me to troubleshoot before they come tomorrow.” 

Wilson’s brows knit in confusion, hands coming to his hips. “I thought you said HVAC couldn’t come until Monday. Tomorrow’s Saturday.” 

“Your addled brain must’ve heard me wrong in the throes of your illness,” House deadpans, voice dripping with sarcasm. “They’re coming tomorrow, and—” 

“Wait,” Wilson puts up a hand to cease his rambling. House sniffles. “Okay, first of all—you’re trying to gaslight me, but that’s beside the point—what were you doing in our closet?! It’s seven-thirty in the morning!”

In response, House limps into the closet, shutting the door, then opens it with a dramatic flair, his delivery unwaveringly monotone: “I’m gay.” 

A wave of unwanted affection threatens to suffocate Wilson, who drags a hand down the length of his face to hide the minute upward curl of his lips. “I’m— I mean, well, that’s great, honey, but you didn’t answer my question.” 

House droops lazily against the door, feigning ignorance. “What was the question, again?” 

Wilson doesn’t entertain House’s antics any further, (gently) pushing House away from the closet door and going inside. There was nothing in it—just a few dust bunnies near the vent, and the circuit breaker. 

The circuit breaker. 

It suddenly clicks, like one of House’s epiphanies for all his seemingly impossible-to-crack cases. The prevaricating. The lack of urgency to fix the heat. The inexplicable sweetness that was otherwise unwarranted. The power trip alone is enough to sway Wilson toward switching departments. 

Wilson animatedly shoves his index finger against House’s chest, chuckling cockily as he shook his head in disbelief. “Oh-ho, you’re…you’re really—really something for doing this to me.” 

House’s poker face remains intact as he furrowed his brows in confusion. “Care to enlighten me?” 

Wilson gently nudges House aside, meeting little resistance, from the closed door to open it. The panel door to the circuit breaker was ajar, he notes, as he swings the panel 

His gaze pans to the labels they’d messily scrawled out to remind themselves which switch was which. All of them were toggled on, save for — wait for it — HVAC. 

Flicking it back on again with an incredulous scoff, Wilson turns around slowly to savor the look on House’s face, now that he’d got him cornered. How could he possibly defend such an action that—

Slam goes the closet door that shuts in Wilson’s face, the room dark apart from the thin slivers of sunlight seeping through the louvered door. He tries the doorknob; it holds fast, rattling uselessly. He opts to pound on the wood with his fists instead. 

“You’re an ass,” he shouts, the groan of the wood under his curled hand punctuating his words. “Why the hell would you turn off the heat when I was sick?!” 

House is strangely hesitant, his tone unfamiliar, and not because his voice was scratchy in the morning or because he was getting sick. The stint wasn’t even remotely close to the worst thing he’s done to Wilson. 

“I was trying to MacGyver it. Turning it off and on like IT does with our laptops after I give them all viruses.” 

Wilson’s incessant hammering ceases abruptly, as the gears turn in his head, which, as they both very well knew, was governed by the whims of his heart. He bends down, settling down on the floor to peek at House (more accurately, merely the latter half of his legs) through the slats. “You sound guilty, House. Why?”

A stagnant silence follows, barring the rickety hum of the heat kicking in again. House is rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet, favoring his good leg. No quick jabs or acerbic ribbing. For years, Wilson nagged House for a few seconds of peace and quiet, but now that he has it, he’s not so sure he even prefers it. 

It’s so uncomfortable that Wilson breaks the quiet instantly. 

“I’m not mad at you, y’know that, right, House?” He murmurs, hoping that he’ll earn an offhanded insult by virtue of how tenderly he’s speaking to House, the same way he might coax a skittish stray to seek shelter.

He wants to see House’s face, those sharp, rugged features weathered by cynically furrowing his brows and wrinkling his forehead. Anything that would hint at a prevailing feeling threatening to break him down. 

The door unlocks with a quiet click as if somehow knew what he wanted, his eyes at once assaulted by bright daylight. He gets up, stumbling a bit, with a groan, leaning against the doorframe for support. 

House is staring at him, intensely and unwaveringly, but not in that menacing, derisive way that he reserved for, well, everyone else. Nor was it the lusty Kubrick stare that reconfigured the neurons in his brain to confuse fear for arousal. His eyes, rimmed red, lashes wet and eyes glossy. Wilson was reading into it too much—it could have been 

“Oh, Christ, House…” Wilson drawls, voice just as soft as the palm coming to rest on a stubbled cheek, thumb tracing the bone. His eyes crinkle faintly when House leans into it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve assumed you were screwing with it instead of trying to help—” 

“I wasn’t.” The syllables tumble out unevenly, blunt-edged, bypassing the whetstone that rendered all his words sharp enough to kill. 

Noting Wilson’s bewilderment, House says, voice clipped and averting his gaze, “I turned it off.” 

Wilson blinks, dumbly. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” 

Exasperated, he shrugs, searching House’s gaze. It wasn’t a prank—he knew that much because the lack of central heat was just as detrimental to House as it was to him. 

“Just—House, tell me.” 

An easy feat for the most emotionally constipated man that he knew. House’s gaze is distant, in the way it is when that brilliant mind of his pulverizes his emotions into cold, objective slop. Patience wasn’t a strong enough word for Wilson’s mental fortitude. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” House asks, trying so very hard to keep his voice level and unfeeling. 

“Other than you turning our condo into the Arctic, and potentially prolonging my symptoms?” Wilson inquires, tilting his head. “I have a laundry list of grievances, but none of them have bothered you until now.” 

“Not a good time to psychoanalyze me.” House hobbles over to the couch to sit, massaging his leg. Wilson follows like House has some sort of gravitational pull on him. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“Not enough to jeopardize my secret stash,” He shoots back, face contorting into that practiced sneer, masking a wince as he plants his bad leg onto a pillow. “I carved a little crater into the wall at crotch height for it. Doubles as a glory hole, y’know. Thought I could indulge both our vices.” 

Although House was impressively talented at maintaining that lackadaisical, devil-may-care attitude, he had a tell like anyone else. Remorse manifested as physical pain for House, suppressed emotions funneling down to the only place he’d admit could feel something on a regular basis. Well, not the only place, clearly.

Wilson doesn’t entertain House’s crude quips. He lets House nestle his head in his lap, eyes shut, breathing steady. Sooner or later House will find the silence unnerving and say something fleetingly introspective. 

“You keep pulling away from me.” House says. 

The clue House gives is infuriatingly vague and no better than a trace of footprints that tapers off halfway through the woods. 

“House, I need you to be more specific,” Wilson groans. “Emotionally? Physically? When? Where?” 

“It was you, in the bedroom, with the candlestick.” 

That earns a frustrated scoff from Wilson, who is painstakingly trying to corroborate House’s vague clues and motives by racking his own memory of the past few days, stringing bits and pieces together on an imaginary corkboard with red twine. 

“I wish I chose a different career right about now,” Wilson grumbles. “Seriously, help me out here.” 

“Must I spell out everything for you?” House chimes, turning his head to rest his cheek on the softness of Wilson’s thigh. “I’ll cut you some slack since you were probably unconscious. You refused to remain comfortably entangled in my arms until morn.” 

“Are you serious?” Wilson queries, staring down at him incredulously, hand still gently carding through House’s short, cropped graying hair even in his anger. “I was sick and didn’t want to snuggle up with you for a few days. Forgive me for pushing you away—in my sleep—when…when I was fighting an infection!” 

House’s eyes narrow. “So you admit it.” 

He brings Wilson’s free hand to rest atop his own over his chest.

“What?! House—” 

“You’re a shittier boyfriend than me.” 

Wilson’s thumb brushes the back of House’s hand. 

“You pretended our heat was busted for the past week!” 

House brings Wilson’s knuckles to his lips, brushing over them tenderly. 

“Oh, please. Neither the cold nor your cold was even remotely close to being fatal.” 

Wilson glares at House with a weary fondness usually reserved for old married couples. 

Christ.

In this moment, Wilson wants this misanthropic, selfish, grumpy, crippled old man pushing fifty to be his “better” half. It’d be his fourth marriage and the final entry on a long list of lovers, yes, but House would also be his first and only husband; Wilson would be the same in relation to House. He understood 13-year-old girls who planned their weddings at sleepovers with their friends now. 

Wilson conveys all this daydreaming in a very House-ian manner: “You’re an idiot.” 

His hand migrates from House’s hair to the persistent wrinkles across his forehead, tracing over them before his palm settles on the curve of his cheek. “I can’t believe you did all that just to get me to cuddle with you. I was sick. I didn’t want to get you sick.” 

And Wilson had clearly failed, no thanks to House’s clinginess, because he was already sniffling and slightly feverish as he had been a few days ago. 

“A lesser man than I would have impeccably communicated my frustrations and resolved all of this within the hour,” House murmurs as he presses into Wilson’s palm, ungracefully smushing a stubbled cheek against it. “But that’s boring.” 

“If you wanted a dopamine rush, we could have just…” 

“Fucked?” House finishes for him. Wilson’s cheeks flush. “The thought of you dripping both snot and semen all over me istitillating.”

Wilson clamps his hand over House’s mouth. “Enough.”

But something warm and moist drags over the inside of his palm, and he jerks his hand back instinctively, wiping it on the side of House’s sweats. “What the hell?!”

House sits up with a grunt, orienting himself next to Wilson. “Works every time,” he says, nonchalantly. “Say, did you jerk off last night? This morning? I swear I can still taste–“

Wilson smothers him with a pillow, heat rushing to his face. “Shut up.”

He really hopes there’s a return policy on the ring.

[sp00kymulderr]

morning, morning, love of mine

Dieter Bravo x OMC

Words: 800

Tags/warnings: references to past drug use, references to sex, married dieter and his big teddy bear husband 🥹 just something short and sweet.

Early morning shoots had never been his favourite.

Those 5am wakeup calls, the shitty canteen coffee and rushed breakfasts and too many people in his face far too early after another late night bender. He’d grumble through the whole thing, bitch to whoever was doing his hair that day, snort a line before call time and then rush to reread the pages for the day.

A few years ago he was complacent in his work. Coasting by on easy jobs that paid just enough, b-movies that went straight to streaming and sequels for long dead franchises no one cared about any more. There were always good drugs on those kind of sets, and people didn’t care what he did as long as the film got made and everyone got paid. Soulless, lifeless, lacking in art. No love, no care, nothing to be invested in on those sets.

It was easy, he didn’t have to care.

Now, though…

It’s 4:30am and Dieter is teetering on the edge of awake as light starts to brighten the room. His eyes open slowly, and he stifles a yawn. Next to him, Theo is still sleeping; his chest rising and falling, Dieter’s arm slung over him, front pressed close to back. They’d gone to bed at 9:30pm after an evening of catching up on their shows whilst they cuddled on the couch. Dieter had bemoaned being old, but he went to sleep with a smile on his face, wrapped around Theo.

Blinking slowly, Dieter half sits up propped against his pillow. He runs a hand over the stubble on his chin as he gazes down at the sleeping form besides him. Theo was...well to Dieter he was everything. Not only was he handsome to a fault with his sparkling hazel eyes and a mess of reddish brown hair, with a beard to match. He was tall and big, well, everywhere. And to top that all off he was funny, smart, successful and humble despite being the best director working. And he put up with Dieter even on the bad days. Everything Dieter needed in one big, cuddly package.

He leans down and begins to pepper Theo's face in gentle kisses, trying to rouse the other man carefully.

“Hey, husband” Dieter whispers with a smile, squeezing the larger mans soft middle. In his dreams he’d been kissing that belly.

Theo groans and turns slightly, angling his face away from Dieter’s kisses, but there’s a smile playing on his lips that makes Dieter’s own brighter.

“I thought I had a husband, not a needy puppy who licks my face every morning” Theo grumbles out in his rough, deep voice that Dieter could listen to all day long. In fact, he does.

“You got both” Dieter grins, purposefully placing one sloppy, wet kiss to the other mans cheek before finally pulling away.

“Alright, down boy” Theo mutters and both men laugh sleepily. Theo turns on to his other side to blink up at Dieter.

He looks at the clock, nearly 5am. Nearly time to start the day.

“Big day today” Dieter says softly, tone changing from playful to anxious.

“You nervous?” Theo, ever the protective husband, takes Dieters hand in his and holds it tight, thumb swiping over the skin in a calming pattern.

“No...not...not nervous, so much. Excited. Too much energy. I, uh, used to do something- take something to take the edge off a big shoot day, a first day”

Theo frowns and slowly sits himself up. He knows. He’s seen Dieter at his worst, he’s seen it all. It makes seeing him now, at his best, all the sweeter. He loved him then, loves him now.

“C’mere” The older man pulls Dieter into a crushing hug, and Dieter sighs, lets himself go limp. No other rush feels as good as this, as good as love, “You’re gonna do great”

“Well, I hear the directors a real hottie” Dieter mumbles, back to playful now he’s smushed up in his big mans embrace, “Maybe if I get too het up he’ll let me blow him in the trailer til I calm down”

“Is that so? Guess you’ll have to find out, hm?” Theo huffs out a laugh and kisses Dieter on the top of his head before letting him go, not wanting to suffocate his husband on the first day of their first movie together.

The alarm blares 5am as they’re both gazing at each other, barely hearing it as they contemplate a feeling that neither knew existed before they found the other.

“You’re gonna do great, you know” Theo says quietly. all gentle, all love.

“Promise? ” Dieter mumbles, nuzzling against Theo's cheek.

“Yeah”

For a second they’re frozen in time. The beep of the alarm forgotten. Dieter kisses Theo, and pulls back with a shaky breath.

“C’mon husband, let’s go make a movie”

[nizhspo]

lover, you should've come over.

chapter six: my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

m.list | next

pairing: toji zen'in x f!reader

synopsis: you were a nurse with a steady hand and a soft heart. he was a killer who kept coming back with blood on his shirt and your name in his mouth.

it starts slow.

not in the way it began, with blood on your floor and your heart in your throat, but something else. something quieter. something you don’t have words for.

toji kisses you more often now.

never rough. never rushed. always soft, like he’s scared you’ll crack beneath him. like the sound of your breath might shatter if he’s not careful. like you’re something breakable and he’s only just learning how to hold you.

he brings food to your job sometimes. never tells you he’s coming. just shows up, nods toward your office, and drops off a bag with your name scrawled on the side in a sharp, careless hand. coffee. soup. soba. once, an entire grilled salmon bento. you never ask how he knows your schedule.

you were smiling one time, just reading a chart at your desk, when a coworker joked, “what mystery man’s got you looking like that?”

you didn’t have an answer. not really. because how do you explain a man like him?

how do you explain that some nights you come home to lights on and a hot meal and a man who doesn’t flinch when you talk about death? how do you explain the way he teases you about your godawful taste in reality TV but always sits down to watch it anyway? how do you explain that you’ve never even seen his apartment, don’t know his middle name, don’t know who else he keeps in contact with, but he helps you build your new couch without being asked and drools on your shoulder when he falls asleep?

you don’t even know what to call what’s going on between you. but it’s something. it’s real.

you see him more in sweaters now than in bloodstained shirts. he still gets hurt, still stumbles in sometimes with split skin and bruised ribs, but it’s not like before. now, when you stitch him up, you kiss the clean edges after. you trace the older scars in bed, fingertips brushing over pale, raised lines like memories. sometimes, he tells you where they’re from. sometimes he doesn’t remember.

other times, he tells stories. about cursed spirits. about sorcerers. never says he killed them. never says what happened after. the stories always end mid-sentence, like there’s a version he’s telling you and one he’s keeping for himself.

and still, he’s always there. putting your groceries away like he’s lived here. flipping your pillow to the cold side before climbing into bed beside you. saying “g’night” like he’s said it a hundred times before.

and some nights, when your eyes are already half-closed and your limbs are tangled with his, you forget just for a second, who he is.

and you think, maybe he does too.

…

your first time with toji doesn’t just start with sex.

it starts with a joke.

you’re pressing gauze to a nasty graze on his side, blunt force trauma, bruised deep, skin split just enough to warrant attention. your fingers are steady. your breath is even. you’ve done this before. dozens of times now.

your knee’s braced against the outside of his thigh, one gloved hand smoothing disinfectant across the wound, tugging his shirt upwards, and he exhales slow, like he’s relaxing into the ache.

“you know,” he drawls, voice low, teasing, “if you wanted to see me naked, you could’ve just asked.”

you don’t blink. don’t even twitch.

“if you wanted to thank me,” you say dryly, “you could bring more gloves. i’m running low.”

the next night, he does.

but they’re latex.

you frown the second you see the box. toss it onto the table like it bit you. “you seem to know everything else about me,” you mutter, voice tight. “thought you would know i have a latex allergy.”

he quirks a brow, feigning innocence. “huh. good to know for future reference.” his eyes flick down, then back up. “real good.”

you flip him off. he grins.

but after that, things shift. just barely, but the air between you starts to hum louder.

some nights, when he’s half-draped across your couch in nothing but sweats, you catch him watching you. his eyes heavy-lidded, slow. not hungry, not yet, just curious. patient. like he’s waiting for something you haven’t said yet.

and when you pass him on the way to the kitchen, he sometimes grabs you. a casual smack to your ass, a palm sliding over the curve, slow and sure, like he’s claiming something. you swat him off every time.

“keep doing that and i’m gonna be the one who kills you.” you’d snarl, cheeks burning.

he just chuckles. “i think i’d like that.”

you think about it more than you should.

but it’s not until that one night, where nothing’s supposed to happen, and that’s exactly why it does.

you’re in your softest, most raggedy sleepwear: a baggy old t-shirt and boxer shorts that barely cling to your thighs. you didn’t dress for this. not really. it’s just late. you’re tired. you thought you’d fall asleep halfway through the show.

he’s shirtless, sweats riding low, lean and ripped torso stretched long across your bed. his arm’s behind his head, the other resting along the blanket, fingers twitching every now and then, brushing against your thigh.

because you’re half on top of him.

not completely, not straddling. not pinning. but your knee is hooked over his leg, your arm curled against his chest. your head rests near his shoulder. the TV is still playing, some old sci-fi flick you’ve half-forgotten.

but you feel him.

not just under you, but on you. around you.

his hand brushes your waist. slides under the hem of your shirt. not far, just the curve of your lower back. the dip of your spine. then, lower. under the curve of your ass, fingers barely skimming.

you shift, breathing shallow. not moving away, and he hums low. not a laugh. not even a sound meant for you. just… feeling.

you turn your head and he’s already looking at you, eyes half-lidded. mouth parted just a little. his hand flexes once on your thigh.

then he says your name, quiet. deliberate. “c’mere.”

and before you can ask, he’s already moving. sliding up the bed, sitting back against the headboard, hand braced beneath your thigh and pulling you over him.

your breath catches as your leg swings over, instinctive, and then you’re straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. his hands find your waist. hold you there. not hard. not forceful. just there.

you blink down at him, heart slamming in your chest.

“toji,” you whisper. a warning. a plea. you’re not even sure which.

he doesn’t answer. he just kisses you.

slow at first. unrushed. the kind of kiss that hums in your teeth, soft and full. his mouth moves against yours like he’s mapping it. like he’s trying to memorize how you taste. his hands slide up the back of your shirt, still not touching your chest, still hovering, like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

but you don’t. you lean in.

and when his tongue brushes yours, slow and warm, your hips rock forward without thinking.

his breath hitches against your mouth, and you feel it. feel him, thick, hard, rising under the sweats between you.

his hands grip your ass, dragging you closer. your shirt rides higher. the shorts do nothing to help. the friction pulls a noise from you you didn’t mean to make, and he catches it. he devours it.

his mouth moves faster now. hungrier. teeth scraping your bottom lip. “you sure?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

you nod. breathless. dizzy.

“say you want it.”

“yes,” you whisper, “yes, toji, please—”

and after that, he leans in and groans, low and rough, like the sound rumbles up from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s starving and you’re the first taste of something real in days.

his hands, broad and calloused, span your waist, fingers pressing in like he needs proof you’re here, needs to memorize you palm by palm.

his breath ghosts over your skin before his lips latch onto your neck, sucking just hard enough to make you jolt, just enough to make your grip tighten. “mine,” he mutters into your throat, voice like gravel, and you feel it all the way down.

he doesn’t rush. no, he savors. like he wants to ruin you slow. kisses turn to bites, then back to kisses, tongue soothing where teeth bruised, only to do it all over again.

and you—you’re gasping, clinging, heart battering at your ribs like it wants to leap into his hands just from kissing.

you know you’ll walk into work tomorrow with a high collar and flushed cheeks, and you know he’ll smirk when he sees you trying to hide it.

he undresses you slowly, pulling your shirt over your head, and still he licks your skin from top to bottom. your breasts, soft and flushed, he takes his time. sucking each nipple until it’s swollen and wet, teasing the peaks with slow flicks of his tongue. he massages your thighs, your hips, grips your ass with both hands like it’s his to worship.

he undresses you not like he’s taking something off, but like he’s unveiling it, like every inch of you is something he wants to see, wants to hold, wants to kiss with his eyes before anything else.

his hands are sure, warm, rough in the calloused places, careful in the tender ones. your breath hitches when his thumb ghosts across your ribs.

he notices. he always notices.

his hands don’t even hesitate. they close around your waist like it’s second nature, solid and sure, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your sides as he lifts you clean off his lap. your stomach flips—not from the movement, but from the way he does it so easily, like you weigh nothing, like he was always meant to move you like this.

you barely have time to catch your breath before your back hits the mattress, not rough but not slow either, just decisive. and then he’s rising, standing at the foot of the bed like a shadow cutting through lamplight, eyes steady, hands already curling around your legs. he doesn’t ask, just pulls. a firm tug, and you’re sliding over the sheets, back arching a little from the drag, legs drawn toward him until your hips hit the edge of the bed.

his mouth follows his hands, slow and deep. few words. just the heat of him, the weight of his focus, the low hum in his throat when your breath stutters or your hips shift or thighs twitch under his grip that holds you there. his touch is purposeful, precise, and still somehow gentle, not like he’s trying to prove anything, but like he knows you’ll remember this. like he wants you to.

you grip the sheets when your voice falters. dig your nails into his shoulder when your back arches. and when you say his name, quiet, gasping, barely a whisper, he groans like he’s starving.

afterward, you’re still trembling.

but he’s already pulling you close again. already wiping his thumb over the sweat at your temple, already pressing a kiss to your forehead like it’s nothing. like it’s everything.

and you don’t remember when it shifted between you.

when the heat in his gaze stopped being something you feared and started being something you melted under. when the way his hands moved, calloused, careful, impossibly strong, started making your breath catch instead of your pulse spike with danger.

all you know is that you were soft under him. open. trembling. undone.

and he took his time.

there was no rush. no urgency. just the deliberate, reverent touch of someone who knew exactly what he wanted, and was somehow still asking permission with every movement.

your voice faltered while he fucked you, stammering his name more times than you could count, each syllable drawn out in a breathless gasp.

your palms ached from clutching the sheets so hard, muscles tight, nerves sparking, and when your hands found his back, already marred by years of scars, you left your own marks there. half-moons and scratches dragged down his shoulder blades, your fingers curling in every time he moved just right.

he was focused, but made sure to talk to you. relentless in the way only someone like him could be. the strength in his grip never faltered, and the way his mouth moved over your skin, kiss after kiss, slow and consuming all over your body, had you sure your downstairs and nextdoor neighbors were going to file a complaint.

later, when he had you straddling him, facing the powered down TV and too breathless to do anything but hold on, he pressed his lips to your shoulder. then the side of your neck. soft, like he was grounding you, reminding you he was still there.

afterward, your limbs weak, your breath shallow, and your body aching in the best possible way, he still hadn’t broken a sweat. but he looked at you like you were made of glass, like you were the only thing in the world worth handling with care.

he cleaned you up gently. no teasing, no jokes. just warm water, quiet hands, a towel. and then he climbed back into bed beside you. pulled you into his chest. tucked your head under his chin. pressed a kiss to your temple.

and that was the part that undid you.

not the heat. not the marks. not the way you could barely speak, but the way he held you after, like something to be kept. something worth staying for.

…

after that you’re used to his presence completely.

the smell of ginger and garlic on the stove. the rough drag of his towel on your bathroom floor. the sound of the tv murmuring some late-night sports shit you don’t understand, his voice in your kitchen muttering curses when the pot overboils.

you still don’t call it love. don’t call it anything. but he’s in your life the way morning comes: gradual. inevitable.

some nights you sleep tangled up in his limbs like you were made for it. some nights you kiss his shoulder, trace the scars down his back, and don’t ask where they came from. you don’t ask about work. he doesn’t ask about the long shifts that leave your eyes rimmed red.

until you do.

it’s late. the tv’s still on, muted. your phone buzzes with a news alert. a well-known politician, found dead. brutal. precise. the body barely recognizable. the kids are on the screen crying. the wife too.

but the moment you saw the name and rhe words “body discovered early this morning in an abandoned office building, presumed homicide,” something in your gut flipped.

the description was textbook: clean shot to the head. ligature bruising along the wrist. no forced entry. no sign of struggle. professional.

your chest tightened the way it always did before a storm.

and now, with the image still ghosting your screen, you sit there as the water cuts off behind the bathroom door.

the door creaks open a moment later, and toji steps out. towel low on his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead. his skin glistens, peppered in old scars, and his face is red from scrubbing too hard with the rag. he pauses when he sees your face.

“…what?”

you speak before you can stop yourself. “where were you today?”

he freezes for just a second, a blink, maybe two, then keeps walking like nothing’s off. he tilts his head. “work.”

your hands curl into your lap. your voice drops as you stare at him. “well what did you do at work?”

his back tenses, and his face tilts slightly toward you, brows knitting like he’s already tired of the game. he narrows his eyes. doesn’t answer right away. then—

“…i’m not sure how you want me to answer that.”

you grip your phone tighter. turn your phone around, still trembling in your palm, and shove the screen in his direction. “did you kill this man?”

you can feel the silence press between you, sharp, suffocating, before he answers.

“yeah,” he says, with a nod like he’s confirming he took the trash out.

your stomach coils. breath stutters. “he had kids.” he doesn’t answer, but you continue. “a wife. a family.”

toji lets out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair, droplets flicking across the floor.

“don’t do that,” he says, not harshly, but not gently either. flat.

“don’t do what?” your voice cracks. “acknowledge that you’re leaving people fatherless over a few bucks? money you’re just gonna throw away on fucking horse racing or the powerball?”

he looks down for a second, something dark flashing across his face, jaw twitching. then he meets your eyes again. “you think it’s that simple?”

“is it not?”

he steps forward. you rise to your feet, heart hammering, and instinctively take a step back.

he stops. not because you asked him to. just because he notices. his shoulders are tense. his mouth is tight. his gaze flicks to your hands, curled into fists, and then back to your eyes. his face shifts, barely, but enough.

the usual guarded tilt of his mouth falters, and something raw flickers behind his eyes. his brows twitch downward, eyes narrowing not in anger, but confusion first, and then guilt. like the sight of you recoiling from him catches him off-guard, like he hadn’t realized until just now that you could ever look at him like that again.

like you’re scared. not of what he does, but of him.

his jaw slackens. not all the way. not dramatically. just enough to betray the drop in his chest, the weight sinking in. his gaze stays fixed on the space between your bodies, on the distance you just made. like he’s trying to measure how wide the rift has become, how permanent the crack.

and when he looks up again, when his eyes find yours, it’s the first time he truly looks sorry. not for the job. not for the murder. but for being someone you’d ever feel the need to step away from.

“y/n, look,” he says, running a hand through his hair, dragging his palm down the back of his neck like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off. his voice is low. steady. but the tension is there, coiled in his shoulders, in the way he won’t meet your eyes for more than a second at a time.

“i don’t touch civilians because i like doing it,” he says, slowly, each word pulled out of him like a confession. “this was a job. a target. he made enemies. not me.”

his hand drops to his side. clenched into a fist. his chest rises, once, sharply, like he’s trying to keep his voice level, like saying it any other way might make it worse.

“i didn’t pick him. i just—” he cuts himself off, eyes flicking to you and then away again. “i did what i had to do.”

you can’t breathe.

“you didn’t have to do anything.” your voice lands hard. his brow furrows, deep and sharp, like the words pissed him off more than they hurt. but like they hurt anyway. “and you still pulled the trigger.”

his voice is quieter now, steelier. “you knew what i did when you met me.”

“well i didn’t think it would feel like this, toji.”

his eyes drop to the floor and you stare at him. try not to cry. try not to ask why. try not to admit the truth out loud, that part of you that agrees with him, because you did know.

you knew about the bruises on his knuckles, the scars that never seemed to scab right, the way he always smelled faintly of steel and ash when he came home late. the late-night showers. the nights he wouldn’t look at you.

you sit on the edge of the bed while he gets dressed. neither of you speaks. the tv still plays in the background, and on your phone in hand—the crying children, the sound of a woman’s voice cracking as she recounts what it’s like to tell your kids their father isn’t coming home.

he doesn’t offer comfort. just pulls on a shirt and tosses the towel into the hamper.

when he finally joins you in bed, he. doesn’t even look at you, but when he lays down, he does so with the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from the body, yet still, his hand still curls around your thigh under the sheets, thumb brushing in soft circles like muscle memory.

it feels different. colder. heavier.

you’re mad at him, but more than that, you’re mad at yourself.

because he’s right.

you did know his job, and you accepted him anyways.

…

some nights you talk about it. most nights you don’t.

the memory of that argument lingers, not sharp, just present. like the echo of a bruise you can’t stop pressing. it lives in the silences between you. in the way he looks at you when your face tightens at the news. in the way you glance at his hands even when they’re not stained red.

but one night, lying in bed, his arm slung heavy over your stomach, his breath steady against the back of your neck—he murmurs it.

“i’ll stop.”

you blink. “what?”

he shifts, presses a slow kiss to the corner of your jaw. his voice is hoarse. low. “the innocent ones. the ones that make you look at me like that.”

you roll over, stare at him.

his face is unreadable in the dark, shadows cast across the sharp line of his cheekbone, the cut of his mouth. but his eyes are steady. serious.

“i’ll stop,” he says again, firmer. “if it makes you feel safe. if it makes you stay.”

you don’t know what to say.

so you say nothing. just reach up. pull him in. kiss him slow, like a promise. like trust. like maybe something real can grow out of something this twisted.

he pinky-promises. presses his thumb to yours. kisses your fingers like he means it.

and for a long time after that, you do feel lighter. not all at once. not completely. but enough.

you stop checking his hands when he walks in the door. you stop bracing yourself when he whispers “i’m back.” you laugh easier. fall asleep faster. press your feet to his under the blankets like you’re not worried they’ll come back bloodstained.

and him—he bathes in it.

you, laughing in the kitchen. your head tipped back against his shoulder. your voice calling from the bathroom for more shampoo. your lips pressing to his neck in the mornings when you think he’s still asleep.

you’re the softest thing he’s ever known.

and for reasons he doesn’t fully understand, he’d give up almost anything to keep that softness within reach.

…

so toji doesn’t take anything like that for months.

nothing high-profile. nothing messy. just the scum-of-the-earth types, traffickers, corrupt CEOs, exorcisms for jujutsu clans that would rather keep their hands clean. it wasn’t morally perfect, but it kept his hands from shaking when he came home to you. kept your voice soft when you asked, “work okay?” and he nodded and kissed your temple like he wasn’t lying.

he was trying. he really was.

you were the first good thing in his life that didn’t try to kill him. didn’t run. didn’t make him feel like a failure. you touched him like he was whole. looked at him like he wasn’t what he’d done.

so when they brought up her—riko amanai, he shook his head before the words were fully out.

“nah,” he said. “not that kind of job.”

they upped the price and he tilted his head. paused. “i’ll think about it.”

there was a pause. then laughter.

“zen’in,” the man said, amused. “you’ve never turned down a paycheck. what’s got you so sentimental all of a sudden?”

toji’s jaw clenched.

“none of your fuckin’ business,” he muttered.

and suddenly, everything was louder.

your laughter in the kitchen. the scrape of your spoon against ceramic. the scent of your shampoo on his pillow. the quiet hum of you brushing your teeth in the next room.

he kept kissing you good night. kept rubbing your feet after work. kept cooking your favorites, even, but sometimes, he’d just… drift. zone out, thinking about the offer. about the cost.

one night, you looked at him across the counter, eyes soft, concerned. “toji,” you said, setting your chopsticks down. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

his chest tightened.

you were wearing that hoodie he liked on you. hair still damp from the shower. face open, honest. and he thought, for the first time in years, fuck, i want to be good. i want to be good so bad.

he looked back at you. something ugly clawing up his throat.

“nothing, baby,” he murmured. reached across the table to tap your chin, then leaned over and kissed your forehead. “just tired.”

you smiled. said, “okay.”

he kissed you again before bed. watched you tuck into his side and knock out in under ten minutes. your breath evened out. your fingers curled around the edge of his shirt.

he got up two hours after that. stepped outside onto the fire escape. lit a cigarette he didn’t finish—and called the man back.

“i’ll do it,” he said flatly. “but i want double. forty mil.”

he hung up before he could hear the reply.

when he came back inside, you were curled up under the blankets, cheek smushed into the pillow, chest rising and falling slow. he stood there for a while. didn’t move. just watched you.

and wondered what the hell he’d done in this life to deserve you.

toji knew he wasn’t built for good things. knew the way his life was stacked—blood, blood, more blood. but damn if he didn’t want to try.

maybe he was too young to keep good love from going wrong. maybe he was already too far gone. but for you?

he’d try anyway.