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mintyys-blog · 3 days ago

Note

Cutesy fluff scenario where mark variants (please include no goggles) s/o would like to bathe with them in a non sexual manner just to relax with them!

HEADCANON | variants with s/o in a bath

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2

MAIN MARK

You’d had a long day. Mark had an even longer one. After hours of flying across the planet to stop a landslide, a burning refinery collapse, and a hostage situation in Japan, he finally made it home—soot still streaked along his cheek, hair damp with sweat, and his hero suit halfway peeled off as he hovered outside the bathroom.

You looked up from the tub, bubbles high and warm, the soft scent of lavender drifting in the air.

“Hey,” you said, smiling. “Come join me?”

Mark blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… right now? In the bath? With you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, with me. No funny business. Just… wanna relax with you.”

He didn’t even hesitate after that. “Like hell I’d say no to that,” he muttered, stepping in and carefully lowering himself behind you. The water sloshed around you both as he sank into the warmth, groaning under his breath. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, his forehead coming to rest against the back of your shoulder. “God, this feels amazing.” You leaned back into him, nuzzling under his chin as he lazily trailed his fingers up and down your arms. “You smell like smoke.”

He laughed quietly. “You smell like peace.” The two of you stayed like that, letting the world fall away. No explosions. No aliens. No hovering generals or doomsday warnings. Just the sound of water, your heartbeats, and the gentle rhythm of him breathing beside your ear.

Eventually, you whispered, “Thanks for coming home.” He kissed your shoulder, a soft press of lips. “I’d never miss your bath invites. Best part of my day.”

You smiled, cheeks flushed from more than just the warmth of the water. “Next time, I’ll even bring wine.” Mark grinned. “And I’ll bring my aching back.” You both laughed—and that moment, that quiet, was yours.

SINISTER MARK

You brought it up softly while he was sitting on the edge of the bed, peeling bloodstained gloves from his hands after yet another brutal day. The sink was running faintly in the bathroom, and steam fogged the mirror. The bath was ready.

“Hey… I was thinking maybe you’d wanna join me tonight?” you offered, voice gentle, like you were asking a wolf not to bite.

Sinister Mark tilted his head, not even glancing at you. His jaw ticked. “In the tub?” he repeated, the words tasting foreign.

“Yeah,” you said, stepping closer. “Just to relax. No expectations. Just us.”

He snorted. “I don’t relax.”

You reached out, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. His muscles were coiled tight, like he was always half-ready to kill again.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just sit with me. Let the heat soothe your body. I just… I want to be close to you. Quietly.”

He turned his head, eyes like knives, lips curling into a humorless smirk. “You think sittin’ in a tub full of water’s gonna rinse off the shit I’ve done?”

You hesitated. “No. But maybe it’ll ease the weight. Even if just for a little while.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his red-rimmed eyes. Then, with a sigh, he stood. Not agreeing. Not resisting. Just… moving.

But instead of stepping into the bathroom, he brushed past you, muttering, “Go enjoy your little bubble bath, sweetheart.”

You blinked, watching his back as he walked down the hall.

“I’ll clean the mess off my hands my way.”

And yet, fifteen minutes later, when you were nestled into the tub with your knees pulled to your chest, you heard the door creak open. No words. No drama. He came in shirtless, jaw clenched. Sat on the toilet seat, arms crossed, boots still on.

Didn’t get in. Didn’t leave either. Just watched over you like a silent, violent guardian. His presence dark, brooding, steady. And in his world, that was close enough to affection.

MOHAWK MARK

The second you asked if he wanted to join you in the bath, Mohawk Mark was already stripping his shirt off, his grin wicked and full of teeth.

“Say less,” he muttered, tossing his gloves aside like they’d offended him. “You tryna get real cozy with me, huh?”

He followed you into the bathroom like a predator with a promise. His eyes gleamed with that sharp, unmistakable hunger, and his body language screamed I’m about to make this bath real steamy. He leaned against the doorway, watching you slide into the warm, bubbling water, steam curling around your figure like silk.

When you looked up and saw the gleam in his eyes, you rolled yours and patted the spot in front of you. “You can get in… but behave.”

He chuckled darkly. “No promises.”

He climbed in with you, muscles flexing, his mohawk already dampening from the rising steam. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into him with a grin like sin.

“Damn, you feel good already,” he murmured against your neck, his lips just about to brush your skin when— Plop.

You suddenly turned around and slapped a handful of bubbles right on his chin. “…What the hell?”

You stifled a giggle, sculpting a ridiculous beard and mustache out of the suds, shaping them like a nobleman’s. “There. Now you’re Bubble Emperor Mark.” You burst into laughter, almost slipping under the water, as he glared with mock offense. He stared at you, deadpan. “…You did not just—”

“I told you I wanted to relax,” you said between giggles, smoothing more suds on his chest like royal robes. “Not get ravished.” He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I like your crazy ass.”

Still, he let the beard stay. Even leaned back with you after, one arm draped lazily around your shoulders while you curled up against him. Despite the teasing, the warmth, the closeness—he never once tried again that night. He just soaked in your laughter and your skin against his, even if you made him look like a sudsy idiot. And deep down? He loved every second.

OMNI MARK

When you brought up the idea of sharing a bath, Mark didn’t even blink. “No.” That was it. One word. Flat, cold, and absolute.

You stood at the bathroom doorway in a silk robe, the warm light behind you casting your silhouette in a soft glow. Steam rolled out behind you, scented and inviting. But his tone didn’t waver, his eyes locked on a datapad, fingers still scrolling through reports of Earth’s status, the galaxy’s affairs.

You sighed. “Of course. Silly me to think you’d want to spend any downtime with your wife.” He didn’t respond. So you stepped closer, slower now, voice dipping into something softer. Something playful. “You know…” you murmured, trailing your hand down his shoulder, “it gets… lonely in there without you.” His eyes flicked up, just once. Calculating. Studying.

You smiled at him, shameless, sultry. “And it’s not like I’m asking for anything inappropriate. Just a bath. Just us. Maybe I lean on you a little. Maybe I moan once about how warm your chest is. Who knows what could happen.” His gaze finally lingered, not softening, but sharpening. That icy steel behind his eyes sparked—not with warmth, but interest.

“I’m not some mortal boy to be manipulated by flirtation,” he said, standing slowly. You shrugged. “Didn’t say you were. I just miss you.” That gave him pause. Not the tone. Not the flirtation. But the honesty behind it.

After a long silence, he finally let the datapad fall to the table. He unzipped his black uniform jacket with precision, stripping with clinical detachment—like this was just another mission to complete. “You get thirty minutes,” he said as he followed you into the bathroom. “Do not waste them.”

You didn’t grin. Didn’t tease. You just sank into the tub, and when he settled behind you—rigid at first, arms draped along the edge—you leaned back into his chest. It took a few minutes, but eventually, one hand shifted. Slid around your waist. No kiss. No whisper. Just that hand. A quiet confession, in his own way, that despite his coldness, his walls, his power… He wanted you close too.

NO GOGGLES MARK

You were careful when you asked him. No Goggles Mark wasn’t exactly the most… emotionally available variant. He was sadistic, cocky, and brutally self-assured. But you’d been together long enough to know how to speak to him without making it sound like a request.

“Bath’s ready,” you said casually, already in the tub, steam curling up around your skin. “Get in.”

He raised a brow from the doorway, arms crossed, blood still splattered on the side of his jaw from whatever poor soul crossed him that day. “The hell for?”

“Because you’re disgusting,” you said flatly, reaching out and flicking a handful of water toward him. “And because I want you in here. Not for sex. Just… quiet. You owe me that much.”

His eyes narrowed, that usual twisted smirk playing on his lips. “Owe you, huh? You gettin’ brave.”

But he peeled off his shirt anyway, let it hit the floor, then his pants, then finally slid into the tub across from you. The water was nearly too hot, and the muscle in his jaw twitched at the temperature—but he didn’t complain.

You expected him to go back to being smug and irritating. Instead, he just… leaned back. Arms draped across the edges of the tub. Watching you.

You scooted over and settled between his legs, laying your head on his chest. He didn’t touch you at first, just let the silence settle in—only the occasional sound of bubbles shifting, water lapping at the porcelain.

Eventually, his hand slid around your waist. “You know,” he muttered near your ear, “you’re lucky I like you.” You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“But if you try to put a bubble beard on me like last time,” he growled, lips brushing the side of your face, “I’ll drown you in this tub. Lovingly.”

You snorted. “Deal.” He smirked, tightening his grip, and for once—there was no killing. No screaming. No taunts.

Just you, him, the warmth of the bath, and a rare sliver of peace in the arms of a man the world feared. He didn’t say thank you. He never would. But staying in that tub with you until the water turned cold? That was his version of everything.

VILTRUMITE MARK

You didn’t expect him to be thrilled about it—Viltrumite Mark wasn’t exactly the type to indulge in “soft” moments. His time was spent training, patrolling, watching over you with that quietly intense gaze that said you’re mine more than any words ever could.

So when you slipped up behind him one evening, arms around his waist, and said, “Will you take a bath with me?” — you could already feel the hesitation in his body.

He turned slightly, looking down at you. “Is something wrong?” You shook your head, offering a small smile. “No… I just want to relax. With you. You’re always tense when you come home, and I get lonely waiting.”

That made him pause. Lonely. He’d never considered that. You always greeted him with food, with warmth, with your gentle touches and soft smile—he assumed you were fine. Content.

The idea that you missed him, even when he was just down the hall or across the house, made something flicker in his chest. He didn’t smile. He never really did. But his expression softened. Barely. “Alright,” he said simply. “I’ll join you.”

You were already in the tub when he came in, steam rolling over the edge. His broad frame took up nearly the entire other side, his long limbs folding in behind you as he slid into the water with practiced control.

You leaned back against his chest with a sigh of relief, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His arms came around your waist—not possessive this time, but secure. Protective.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was safe. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he said after a long while, voice deep and calm in your ear. “If you feel alone… say something.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly to nuzzle under his jaw. “You’d drop everything just to get in the bath with me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “But I’d carry the tub with you in it to wherever I was going.” You burst out laughing, and despite himself—despite the pride and Viltrumite blood—he let out the faintest, fondest breath of a laugh against your hair. He didn’t need baths. He showered instead. But for you? For this? He’d do it every night.

PRISONER MARK

The bath was almost too hot, but neither of you cared.

He was leaned back in the old clawfoot tub—half-drenched in soap bubbles, the steam rising around his scarred chest. His hair was damp and messy, falling into his eyes, his arms spread lazily along the edge of the tub while you straddled his lap, both of you still half submerged.

You were supposed to be relaxing. Supposed to just be bathing together.

But your lips were on his chest, soft kisses trailing up to his collarbone, then his neck, slow and affectionate. Your hands smoothed along the sides of his waist, fingers occasionally tracing the ridges of old wounds that stretched across his skin like faded ghosts.

He tilted his head to the side, letting you have your way—for now. A short, amused laugh rumbled from his throat, low and husky. “I thought you said you didn’t want to have sex?” he murmured. “Just relax? Where did that go, huh?”

You looked up at him, feigning innocence, your lips brushing against his pulse. “I am relaxing.” He smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar, crooked grin. “Right. Sure.”

But despite the teasing, he didn’t stop you. He let you keep kissing him—slow, warm, comforting. There was no rush, no pressure. Just you, him, the heat of the water, and the quiet, rare space where he didn’t have to be on edge.

“I missed you today,” you whispered.

His eyes closed for a second. His arms slowly moved to wrap around your back, holding you closer. Firmer. Like you might disappear. “I missed you too.”

No one would believe it if they saw him like this—the infamous escaped Viltrumite prisoner, war criminal, and wanted killer—melting under your touch in a tub filled with rose-scented bubbles. But in this moment, he was just yours. And he was happy to stay that way for as long as you’d let him.

MASKLESS MARK

The bathroom was quiet, filled with the sound of running water and soft steam curling through the air. You knelt by the tub, testing the temperature with your hand, dressed in nothing but one of his old shirts—oversized and slipping off your shoulder. The water shimmered, warm and inviting, laced with calming oils and soft bubbles.

Behind you, you heard the faintest footsteps. Mark stood in the doorway, silent. His crimson suit halfway unzipped, dried blood on his arms and jaw, his hair messy from a day of destruction. His eyes, sharp and always slightly hollow, followed your every move.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching him watching. A small, knowing smile played at your lips. “It’s almost ready,” you said softly. “Come join me?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head, studying the curve of your back, the way your body moved. His eyes were darker than usual—less bloodlust, more curiosity. Something about you in his space, doing something so normal… it stirred something in him. Something that scared him a little.

He stepped forward, wordless, unzipping his suit the rest of the way and letting it fall with a heavy thud. He climbed in behind you, slow and deliberate, the warm water rippling as he settled in.

You eased in, facing him, and for a moment, he just stared at you. No killing. No chaos. Just you… smiling, soft, in his arms. You reached forward, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing just under the edge of his eye where a faint scar lived. “You look like you needed this.”

“I didn’t,” he said quietly.

But he didn’t pull away. You leaned into his chest, the water hugging both of you. He rested his hand on your waist, not possessive. Just… grounded. “No one’s ever asked me to do something like this before,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll keep asking.” He didn’t smile. Not really. But his grip on you tightened just a little—and he closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to peace. But maybe, just maybe, he could learn.

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wonderjanga · 12 hours ago

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Adam Jr.

Adam had wanted to kill the Champion’s child. He knew it’d weaken the man. Just like his own child’s death weakened himself. But… Watching the child in ratty clothes walk out of a decrepit building, (Billy’s apartment complex) he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

So, he decided to steal the man’s child instead. He’d held the child captive for hours, yet the Champion never showed.

Billy: *bound to a chair*

Black Adam: *standing across from him* “Your father hasn’t come yet, boy.”

Billy: “Of course not.” *thinks Adam is talking about C.C. and also thinks he knows Billy is Marvel*

Black Adam: “You don’t seem surprised.”

Billy: *confused* “Why would I be?”

Adam didn’t know what to say to that. Did the Champion neglect his own child? Children were sacred, how could he do that? It was then he made the decision to awkwardly (forcibly) adopt the boy. He’d dragged him along for all the things a father normally does with their child. Such as hunting faeries, and going to the UN for Khandaq’s diplomatic relations, and even eating the iced cream favored by most people nowadays.

And if Billy was frowning the entire time because he didn’t wanna be around one of his worst enemies, Adam didn’t see.

This eventually caught the concern of the JL who were wondering why Marvel hadn’t done anything to stop this a little kid from hanging out with Black Adam. (It was because Billy couldn’t sneak away to transform in the first place) So, when he felt his comm start ringing in his pocket dimension he just decided to use the ultimate tactic: The Bathroom.

Billy: “I gotta go whizz, be back in a sec.” *walks off quickly*

Black Adam: “Wha— what do you mean by whizz?”

In the Bathroom…

Billy: *crawls out of a bathroom window and transforms before flying off*

He flew for about 15 minutes before he picked up the comm.

Marvel: “Y’ello.”

Batman: “Where are you?”

Marvel: “Huh?”

Batman: “Where. Are. You.”

Marvel: “Uh… over the ocean?”

Batman: “Why?”

Marvel: “I was… doing something?”

Billy didn’t exactly want to tell them he’d been kidnapped.

Batman: “…doing something?”

Marvel: “Yup.”

Batman: “We’re going to unpack that later. For now, have you heard of Adam’s newest sidekick?”

Marvel: “Pardon?”

Batman: “Yes, that’s what I thought. As of recently Black Adam has acquired a child through unknown means—”

Ah. Shoot.

Batman: “—and has been taking it with him wherever he goes. We believe that the child is either an heir or a sidekick.”

*silence*

Batman: “Captain?”

Marvel: “…Can you describe this child?”

Batman: “Black haired, brown eyed, normally seen in red.”

Marvel: “I see. I see.”

*more silence*

Batman: “Captain?”

Marvel: “Listen, there’s no need to worry. I just took care of that issue.”

Batman: “Excuse m—”

Marvel: “Yeah, the kid’s away from Adam. Trust me.”

Batman: “When did yo—”

Marvel: “Don’t even worry about it.”

Meanwhile…

Black Adam: “Billy?” *looking around*

Cleaning Lady: *sweeping*

Black Adam: “You. Have you seen a boy about yay high?” *puts his hand out at about Billy’s height*

Cleaning Lady: *shakes head*

Black Adam: “Dangnabit.” *stomps off*

Adam ended up looking for Billy for hours.

#billy batson #shazam #dc captain marvel #captain marvel dc #fawcett city #fawcett #fawcett comics #black adam #teth adam

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joelslittlegirl · 1 day ago

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Old!joel miller x fem!reader

Minors dni! 𐙚peepaw brainless smut under the cut

Age gap (reader is 20 something and joel is 61), free use, dubon if u squint, squirting, mentions of the word 'daddy', joels a meanie, breeding

I'm ovulating if u couldn't tell (˶˃⤙˂˶)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

If old!joel miller was my husband we'd fuck all day. He has to take viagra every day to keep up with a young thing like me.

Waking up with his dick in me and minutes later he fucks me dumb with it. It's the only time he can fuck me without that little blue pill.

When I make breakfast he takes it along with his other pills for blood pressure and his heart cuz he's a fkng old man. I wear one of his big shirts while making scrambled eggs when he suddenly rams his cock into me, making me almost drop the pan on the floor. I'm going hazy on his cock and grip the counter top and when I finally cream on it, the eggs are burned. His finger picks up my juices and he brings it to his mouth. "Guess my breakfast isn't fucked up after all..."

He's working on his plans to help jackson out with his slutty old man glasses and it turns me on so badly, I start sucking his cock under his desk. It's so warm and heavy in my mouth, and I lick his thick vein slow and deliberate and his hand grabs my hair. "Don't tease me slut, just suck it like a good girl, you are one right?" He says and I nod as he forces his cock down my throat.

It turns me on so much. I'm so thankful to be his personal fucktoy. My panties are always soaked around him. I'm not on birthcontrol so when I'm ovulating, I'm BEGGING for his seed but he doesn't wanna give it to me because "I'm grandpa age, not dad age" as he fucks me dumb. My cunt clenches at his words and he says "fuck that turns you on? Fucking a grandpa? You're such a dirty young thing. Fuck I'm so lucky" i keep begging for his cum and eventually he gives in and fills me up soo good. "Aren't you embarrassed? That everyone will see your swollen belly and know that you fuck such a dirty old man. You're such a fucking whore."

At the new years eve party I wouldn't keep my hands off him. I'd wear a short skirt with no panties and bend in front of him. Even tommy can see my throbbing wet pussy and he gets hard and joel notices and drags me to the toilet where he fucks me so hard, i scream. But joel didn't lock the door, he wanted people to come in and see me cream around an old veiny cock with pigmented spots and grey pubes. All because of that damn pill.

And it's not over. We go back home and as soon as he locks the door he bends me over at the dinner table and fucks me hard again and smacks my ass. He turns me around and rips my dress to get acces to my boobs. I didn't wear a bra either and he sucks my nipples and bites them so hard they start to bleed but it's fine cuz he can do whatever he wants to my body.

As we go to sleep, I sleep in my cute pink top with little bows on it with matching underwear. I'm so tired from all this fucking all day but he isn't. Oh no he took that viagra and will make use of it as much as he can. "Why are you wearing underwear? Thought I said I need acces to you all time. Whenever I want." I was so sleepy but managed to nod and say a soft sorry. "I'll show you how sorry you'll be." He says as he enters his big girthy cock inside me again. He fucked me like a sexdoll. I was just laying there, letting him use me. I couldn't do anything, just be a good girl for him.

His stamina was crazy. "You're 40 years younger than me and can't keep up? You're so useless." He said as he grabbed my one leg and put it over his shoulder, hitting my spot so right I screamed. "Good girl. Cum for me now." He said and my voice broke "i-i can't joel" and he chuckled and rubbed your clit hard and faster "you dumb slut, that's not my name." Tears began to form at my eyes and I came with a heavy cry "D-daddy I'm so sorry." But he didn't stop, no he fucks me like an animal till I squirt and pass out. He still didn't stop. He fucked my unconscious body till he squirted all his load in me. His balls are empty at this point. He pulled out and gave me a kiss on my temple before he laid down next to me.

But before he went to sleep, he grabbed my one leg and entered his cock in me and I softly hummed. I could only sleep like this and he knows it. My pussy squeezes him and he groans. "Fuck are you kidding me?" He says before he starts to trust in me again.

#okay bye #joel miller smut #tlou joel miller smut #joel miller #joel smut #dbf!joel #dbf joel miller #old joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #tlou smut #the last of us smut #the last of us joel smut

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 day ago

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Hello! If its alright, could I request a Bucky Barnes or a Peter Parker x Reader where Reader, his s/o, wakes up from a nightmare based on past trauma fears and stuff and whoever you pick to write for comforts them? Thanks so much!

a/n: i went with bucky! that was just the mood for today. also as someone with ptsd who has my entire life had stuff also haunt me in truly horrifying nightmares, this hits home. if only i had a super soldier sleeping beside me that could hold me...

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

Even well after your trembling form had snapped you up to a sitting position, it still clung to the memories your slumbering mind had just forced you to relive.

Stirring in the bed beside you, the deep and groggy voice of your partner then quietly tried to penetrate through your haze, “Y/n?”

Though when a stifled sniffle found Bucky’s ears, you felt the mattress dip beside you as he sat up as well. His palm found your spine in a gentle touch before you twisted to meet his gaze in the dark.

Noticing the strangled breath that your body fought to suck in, his head tilted slightly before he uttered, “breath, sweetheart,” capturing your hand as you continued to hyperventilate, “here,” and he placed your palm on his chest, letting you feel it rise and fall steadily beneath your touch.

Eventually, as he repeated the pattern over and over for you as a guide, your rapid heartbeat finally began to slow as your erratic breath did as well.

As your tired eyes fluttered back shut, tears still rolling down your cheeks, you melted forward till your forehead pressed against Bucky’s.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, his hand still clutching your own.

“Nightmare…”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he offered, his other palm shifting slightly to draw a comforting pattern on your back.

“No,” you tilted back a bit, your head faintly shaking, “it’s the same as always. When I start to hope that I'm beginning to put it behind me, it just kicks down the door and demands that I relive it all again.”

Glancing back at you, he sucked in a pained breath before he uttered, “I wish there was something I could do.”

A soft smile then began to crack through the nightmare’s lingering effects as you tangled your arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight. Instinctively, Bucky soon scooped your legs over his lap to cradle you even closer to his frame. With your cheek pressed against his comforting warmth, you then replied softly, “you already are…”

#lea’s writing #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes blurb #bucky x reader

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antiiqueness · 19 hours ago

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DANCE WITH ME

character: bakugou katsuki warnings: none i can think of, just kinda sad to sweet and very sentimental >.< words: 1.2k

synopsis:

”Years and years of Masaru begging his beloved son to listen and take interest in the things he did, before he eventually gave up. Katsuki didn’t even notice when exactly his father stopped asking him, wishing now more than ever he had listened. He wanted that outlet. He wanted to be able to find joy in tranquil activities. You made him want that.”

notes: i luv him so much i wanna die. i'm in the works for a spooky little AU for him as well as one for tomura so stay tuned for those im vv excited hehe

Growing up Katsuki's parents wanted him to be the best. To do everything. His mother wanted him to find art in more aggressive sports and hobbies. His father however, pushed for actual art. Masaru had a genuine joy for the peaceful and quiet, something of which he couldn’t enjoy as much as he’d wished for with the home he lived in. Nevertheless, in the seldom moments he had of quiet, he danced, and painted, and sat in the garden of their home, enjoying the moments he had to himself and his thoughts.

As a kid, Katsuki hated how his father would get in specific “moods” where he just wanted to be to himself and his thoughts. He never truly understood it growing up, until he met you. You were so alike to his father; wanting to sit and enjoy the peace you had in random little moments and increments. It was such a foreign concept to Katsuki.

He looked at you as if you were an anomaly. When the two of you had first begun dating, he just didn’t get it, who would want to be in areas of time where no one could sit and appreciate what you do. At least with volleyball, and boxing, and debate classes you earn respect for doing it and winning.

He would sit and watch you in seemingly your own world, planting flowers, or annotating classic literature and be brought back in time to when he was 12 years old seeing his dad sit in the garden reading the same exact book with a pencil in hand. Certain foods you would make, and specific songs you would play would remind him of his father and how much Katsuki truly missed him.

It was raining out the day he saw you swinging on the porch with a cup of tea and a book in hand, when he had called his dad. He wanted to understand it; he wanted that same peace the two of you seemed to hold so dearly. He wanted to bond over it.

As a kid his father wanted him to take ballroom dance classes, was adamant it would be a healthy outlet to learn to express himself and to get lost in. Mitsuki and Katsuki were not big on the idea though, brushing it off and pursing their interests that more often than not landed them or others in hospital beds.

Years and years of Masaru begging his beloved son to listen and take interest in the things he did, before he eventually gave up. Katsuki didn’t even notice when exactly his father stopped asking him, wishing now more than ever he had listened. He wanted that outlet. He wanted to be able to find joy in tranquil activities. You made him want that.

“I'm going to my parents for a bit, want me to grab anything on the way home?” Katsuki stood by the door of the backyard, looking out at the back of your head, you sitting silently in a chair, rocking back and forth. “No, I'm okay baby. Thank you.” quietly muttered as if it were a secret, you don’t turn around. He doesn't want you to. He just stands for a moment more before muttering a quick goodbye and closing the door.

The drive itself is weird. He doesn’t know if it’s age or if he was having an odd midlife crisis, but he doesn’t speak a word the entire drive, just quietly excelling forward.

When he arrives at the house he had grown up in, spent every memory of birthdays and holidays, where he learned to ride a bike, where he had his first tooth fall out, every memory lingering in the air around the house, he just stands at the door for a moment.

He doesn’t know what was different this time, but something was. Maybe himself. Maybe he had finally grown up. He was changed, and content with it.

His attention is only brought back to the present tense when the door opens, and he sees his father's brown eyes staring back at him. Katsuki doesn’t know what comes over him, but without saying a single word, he gently pushes his way into the house and grabs ahold of his father. He felt like a little kid all over again. He just wanted to hug and talk to his dad. He wanted to take those ballroom dance classes. He wanted to bond with him.

So that's what they did. Masaru was a man of few words most his life, keeping relatively quiet and to himself, but coming completely out of his shell with his son now. He had taught Katsuki everything he wanted to learn with a small smile and a joy Katsuki had never seen in his father.

By the end of the night Masaru had grabbed an old record and put it on the player, having classical music whirl throughout the house, before turning to Katsuki and teaching him how to dance. Mitsuki watched quietly, quieter than Katsuki had ever seen her, with a smile and tears gleaming her eyes, happy she could see her two favorite people bonding in ways she knew her husband had always wanted to with him.

Katsuki felt closer to them, he felt as though he had truly understood family finally. He drove home with a smile, a calm, content smile that had rarely graced his handsome face, cheerful all the way up the steps to the home he shared with you.

Opening the door, he knew his perspective had changed, knew that life was different, a good different, and that he was fortunate enough to share it with you. You had this lopsided smile on your face when you had seen him walk through the door, raising an eyebrow and walking closer to him, covered in little raindrops.

“I assume you had a good night at your parents’ place?” Helping him out of his jacket, you move to hang it on the rack before he stops you and interlaces his fingers with yours. “Let's dance.” he says simply, looking down at you with a look in his beautifully light eyes that gleamed and shone in enamor and affection.

“What?” you laughed, taken aback and smiling even bigger, “Yeah, I wanna dance with you.” Tossing his phone onto the counter, the same song his father played for him started to drift throughout his new home, the home he shared with you, the home in which he held dearest of all, simply because you existed in it. you were his home.

Grabbing ahold of you like his dad had shown him how to, he started to sway slowly, leaning his head against yours, and tightening his grip on your hips ever so lightly. He looked so odd, there was no anger, no irritation, no malice in his features whatsoever, just pure contentment. You wanted to live in this moment for the rest of the days you two had together, falling in love with him all over again.

Katsuki Bakugou was great at many things, but as he grew and matured, he became great at understanding life, and how much peace was truly worth, especially if it meant this is how he could spend the rest of his life with you.

#katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #katsuki x reader #bnha #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou smau #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugou smau #bnha x reader #mha #my hero #my hero academia #mha x reader

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himasgod · 2 days ago

Text

ACE X READER

Where neither of you will admit that you are in love with each other

It's inspired by Faye Webster's song But Not Kiss, and I tried to follow that vibe throughout the oneshot, playing it in the background and basing it on the lyrics. Reading it with the song playing might be advisable to get into the vibe <3

It’s raining when he shows up.

Not the soft kind, either. It’s a storm—ugly, loud, relentless.

And yet, there’s Ace on Ramshackle's door, soaking wet, hoodie clinging to him, his sneakers leaving muddy footprints as he steps inside like he’s been here a hundred times before.

He has.

You blink at him, wrapped in a blanket, your hands still holding the warm mug you were nursing before he arrived.

“What the hell, Ace?”

“I forgot my umbrella,” he says, like that explains why he crossed campus in a thunderstorm to get here.

You give him a look. He doesn’t meet your eyes.

You hand him a towel. He dries off in silence, his jaw tight, his shoulders a little more tense than usual.

Something’s wrong. But if you ask, he’ll brush it off. You know how he is.

So instead, you go back to the couch. You leave space. You wait.

He joins you after a moment, quiet as ever, and you both sit there like ghosts in the storm.

“I hate this weather,” he mutters, pulling the towel over his head.

“Then why’d you come?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then—quietly, almost too quiet—you hear:

��Didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”

Your heart lurches. But you don’t say anything.

Not yet.

Ace shifts closer. Not enough to touch. Just close. Like he’s pulled by something he doesn’t want to name.

You study him through the corner of your eye.

His fingers are clenching the fabric of the towel. His mouth moves like he’s working up the nerve to speak—but he never quite does.

Finally, he says it. Sort of.

“You know I—” He stops. Laughs under his breath.

“Never mind.”

You look at him. But he won’t look at you.

And that’s how you know.

That’s how you know he loves you.

Because Ace Trappola isn’t afraid of most things. He’ll run his mouth at Riddle, prank the teachers, throw himself into chaos without blinking. But when it comes to you?

He’s terrified.

Because if he says it, it’s real. If he says it, it could fall apart.

So instead, he leans back against the couch.

Lets your head fall against his shoulder.

And whispers, so quietly you almost miss it:

“I’m here when you need. I always have been.”

And he stays.

But not kiss. But not say it.

And you don’t make him.

You wake up hours later. The storm has passed. The towel’s still on the floor.

And Ace is still there, arm slung over the back of the couch behind you—not touching, but close.

You don’t wake him. You don’t move.

Because for now, this is what you get.

And it’s not everything. But it’s him.

He’s here again.

Or anothter night, in Ramshackle, the ghosts long asleep. You're tucked under a thin blanket on the ragged couch you pretend isn’t falling apart.

He doesn't knock. He never knocks. Just lets himself in like it's natural. Like it’s his place too.

Ace drops his bag with a careless thud. Kicks off his shoes. And then plops right down beside you like he belongs there.

He does. He doesn’t.

You scoot over, even though you don’t have to. He’s already sprawling across half the cushions, claiming space that should be yours.

You let him. Always let him.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just the soft hum of whatever weird late-night show’s still playing on your flickering TV. His arm brushes yours when he shifts, and your heart does that stupid, traitorous skip.

It always does.

“I got into another fight with Deuce,” he says eventually, voice soft and lazy. “Dude was acting like a total idiot during alchemy. Tried to mix nightshade with lemon juice. Blew the whole table up.”

You laugh a little. Because that’s what you do. You laugh, and you listen, and you let him talk.

Like you’re not holding onto every word like it matters more than anything else.

Your head falls lightly onto his shoulder.

He doesn’t pull away.

He never does.

“I should’ve let him fail,” Ace mutters, more to himself than to you. “But I bailed him out. Again.”

You hum in response, and your eyes slip shut.

The couch is old. The air is cold. But here, in this moment, wrapped in silence and his warmth, it feels like the safest place in the world.

You shift closer. He lets you.

You want to sleep in his arms. But not kiss.

You long for his touch—but don’t miss.

You don’t want to regret any of this.

And maybe that’s why you’ll never ask for more.

You wake up with your head in his lap.

At some point in the night, the TV had turned off on its own. The blanket’s fallen to the floor, but Ace is still there. Still awake.

His fingers are in your hair, like he forgot he was doing it, or like he’s too tired to stop.

Your throat tightens.

You want to ask him if he meant to stay this long. If he meant to touch you like this. If he meant to let you get so close, without ever stepping closer himself.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is, you want this version of him—the one that stays late and touches your hair and tells you things he won’t tell anyone else.

Even if he never means it the way you want him to.

Even if it’s killing you.

You see him in your dreams sometimes.

Not the Ace that teases you in the hallways. Not the Ace that rolls his eyes when you’re too sentimental. Not the Ace that acts like it’s all a game.

In your dreams, he’s different. He reaches for your hand like he’s meant to. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But you wake up and forget. Because if you remember, it hurts.

You’re meant to be—but not yet. He’s all that you have—but you can’t get.

So you bury it.

You smile through it.

And he keeps showing up.

“Yo, you’ve been quiet,” Ace says one afternoon, kicking at a pebble with his boot as you both sit on the front steps of Ramshackle.

It’s warm. The sun paints his hair copper-red. You can’t look too long or it’ll burn you.

“Just tired,” you lie.

“You always say that.”

You shrug.

“It’s always true.”

He watches you for a second. Long enough that you feel it.

Then he nods, leaning back on his elbows.

“Well, don’t go dying or anything. You’d leave me with Grim, and that’s honestly the cruelest thing you could do.”

You huff out a laugh. “Noted.”

But you don’t say what you want to.

You don’t say "I hope you’re okay too." You don’t say "You’ve been in my head for days." You don’t say "I love you so much it makes my ribs ache."

Because if he’s in a good place, you won’t mess with that.

You never will.

You love him. You know you do.

But it’s the kind of love that can’t go anywhere. The kind that lives in the corners of rooms, in shared glances, in his silly jokes that carry too much weight. It’s a love that has no name, no direction, no safety net.

He leans on you when he’s tired.

You patch him up when he gets hurt.

He calls you his “partner-in-crime” and pokes your forehead like he’s never thought about kissing you. And maybe he hasn’t.

Or maybe he has. Maybe he’s just like you.

Too afraid of what would happen if either of you broke the spell.

So you stay here. In this almost. This purgatory. You want to ask. But you don’t.

You want to say it. But you won’t.

Instead—

You reach for his hand one night, quietly, without looking at him.

He doesn’t pull away. He squeezes it once. And for a moment, it’s enough.

You’ll hold onto this.

But not kiss.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted x reader #twst x reader #ace trappola #ace x reader #ace trappola x reader #ace trappola x yuu #ace x yuu #ace twisted wonderland #twisted one shot #ace trappola x oc #ace x you #ace trappola x you #twisted wonderland

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matts-girlfriend · 2 days ago

Text

Undressed - Chris Sturniolo

1 2 3

warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of sex, tension, heartbreak, crying?

word count: 821

Chris doesn’t hear from you for weeks.

Not a text. Not a like. Not even a glance when you passed him at that party last weekend.

You walked right past him like he was a ghost—and maybe he was.

Maybe he’s been dead since the moment you left.

It gutted him.

He didn’t realize silence could be that loud until it was yours.

The first few days, he told himself it was fine. You’d cool off. Come back. You always did.

But the days kept stretching, and the bed stayed cold, and the hoodie you left behind? It doesn’t smell like you anymore.

He replays your last words on loop—

“I loved you, you know.”

You had a dream, you wanted better

You were sick of all the holes in your sweater

You looked to me and wondered whether

I was the lamppost to which you were tethered

God, he should’ve said it back. Even if it wasn’t all the way true yet. Even if it was just to keep you one more night.

He wanted to kiss your forehead that night.

Say something real.

But he froze.

He always fucking freezes.

Now it’s March, and he’s drunk, sitting in the passenger seat of some girl’s car, but all he can think about is you.

How you’d never play shitty trap remixes at 2 a.m.

How you’d sing sad songs under your breath and never know he was listening.

The girl beside him says something he doesn’t catch.

He doesn’t care enough to ask her to repeat it.

Because she’s not you.

She’ll never be you.

And that’s the problem.

I’m lookin’ at you, and you’re lookin’ at me

But the glimmer in your eyes is sayin’ you wanna leave

You say you don’t mean what you’re sayin’ to me

But the glimmer in your eyes is telling me other things

He texts you that night.

Just one word: “hey.”

No reply.

The next day: “Do you hate me?”

Still nothing.

He doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe that you were waiting. That you were still mad, but not gone.

That maybe, just maybe, there was still a version of you that wanted him.

But you don’t even open the messages.

I don’t wanna get undressed

For a new person all over again

I don’t wanna kiss someone else’s neck

And have to pretend it’s yours instead

He saw you again two weeks later.

He wasn’t supposed to. He was just trying to clear his head, take the train, visit his mom.

But fate’s cruel like that.

You were standing across the tracks.

With someone else.

Smiling.

His whole body went still.

You looked happy. He looked kind.

Chris looked away.

I took the train to see my mother

I look across the tracks to see you with another

There’s nothin’ worse than seein’ your lover

Moving on while you still suffer

He thought the pain might pass eventually.

It hasn’t.

He still sleeps on your side of the bed.

Still sets alarms for times that don’t mean anything anymore.

Still hears your voice in every goddamn song.

I’m lookin’ at you, and you’re lookin’ at me

But the glimmer in your eyes is sayin’ you wanna leave

You say you don’t mean what you’re sayin’ to me

But the glimmer in your eyes is telling me other things

His friends think he’s fine.

He’s not.

He’s barely eating.

Barely breathing.

He tried kissing someone else. Once.

Stopped halfway through.

Apologized. Left.

Sat in his car for an hour, forehead against the steering wheel, trying not to fall apart.

And I don’t wanna learn another scent

I don’t want the children of another man

To have the eyes of the girl that I won’t forget

I won’t forget

Because how do you move on from a home?

How do you unlove someone who lived inside you?

I don’t wanna get undressed

For a new person all over again

I don’t wanna kiss someone else’s neck

And have to pretend it’s yours instead

an: okay i promise this is the last sad one part three will be better and it’ll be based on the maria’s.

taglist: @whore4chris @cherryystemm @chrepsi @sturniqloo @jcsturniolo11 @kayla-hearts4sturniolo @crazbubs @poolover123

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acheronsociety · 10 hours ago

Text

✶ BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU, AGAIN

in which... you thought you absolutely hated your co-worker, the insufferable Jeon Jungkook. but then you slept together, you avoided him—and now he's at your door. -—ᯓ✶ read part one ( here ) or not, this can also be a standalone !

pairing: jungkook x f!reader ✶ ( secret agents au ) word count: 9.5k content warning: smut ( mdni ) ✶ angst ✶ mentions of blood, cuts, bruises, fights, sex, and lots of cursing. a/n: if the first part was inspired by "do I wanna know", this one's all lana's version of "you can be the boss". I'd also like to sincerely thank everybody who read it, and especially the ones who took the time to leave such amazing feedback—this would still be a single oneshot if not for you. hope you like this one as much !

⋆ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔. 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕, 𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒕...

𝒀𝒐𝒖’𝒅 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕 Jungkook to be pissed about it. And if he was, you’d have to admit he had a shred of right.

After all, you’d started it. Kissed him like you meant it, touched him like you owned him. Let him touch you like you were fragile and ruin you like you’d begged for it.

And then you left.

Crept out of his bed with first light spilling like confession over your bare skin. Not like a street cat, no—more like a coward. A traitor to your own hunger.

Because the truth? You were scared.

That night, you thought you were scratching an itch—one born from years of tension, of mission-night adrenaline, of too-close brushes and unspoken dares. You told yourself it wasn’t lust. That it wasn’t him.

But the lie collapsed the moment he slid into you, and your world sharpened to the shape of him. This wasn’t just hate, wasn’t just need—it was a burn, a bind. A dangerous craving with teeth. A tether you didn’t want, not with him.

Because if you stayed, if you let that moment become more than heat and fury, it might become something else entirely.

And that? That was terrifying.

Because how the hell could it work between you and Jungkook? You were field agents, ghosts in the night. Partners whose existence hinged on silence and steel. There was no room for this—not when death stalked you like a shadow, not when one blink could mean gone.

Or worse, it had meant nothing to him. Just a night. Just a slip. A mistake he'd wipe clean without a second thought.

You knew his reputation. The smirks in the breakroom. The trail of wreckage with red-lipped grins.

Before you could spiral further into that hellscape of doubt, a knock shattered your thoughts.

You blinked. Shit. Yoongi.

Your neighbor-slash-informant. Supposed to stop by with intel. Beer and greasy wings—your agreed-upon cover for the handoff. One you were supposed to go through with Jungkook. Supposed being the operable word.

You’d dodged every attempt he made to meet. Ghosted him. Not out of spite. Not out of professionalism.

But because being near him now? It felt like dancing barefoot on broken glass—beautiful and brutal and destined to bleed.

No way in hell you’d sit beside him in some surveillance van with his knee brushing yours. Or worse—straddle his bike again, chest to his back, arms tight around his waist like you had some right.

Besides, it had been reckless going to him that night. The remaining ghosts from the hard drive job were your cross to bear, not his. You couldn’t risk dragging your partner into your unfinished business. So you used the time to hunt, to try and rewind your thoughts to a time when your hatred was clean and easy.

You weren’t counting on Revenant assigning a new job three days later—blowing your cover and your plans. Recon was easy to duck, but you’d eventually have to face him. You knew that. You just needed time. Time to build armor again.

You yanked the door open. “Yoongi, I—”

And stopped breathing.

Jungkook.

Leaning against the frame like the devil come to collect, his black hair a mess, frustration stitched into every strand, mouth carved into a blade.

A sleeveless black t-shirt clung to him, flashing the edge of ribs and the brutal lines of his ink-laced arm. Heat shimmered at his throat. Those baggy jeans—anchored by a punk belt, the kind that made you think of things you shouldn’t.

His eyes—glazed and wild, sharp enough to slit open every lie you’d wrapped around your heart.

And you—idiot that you were—stepped right into it.

“Not Yoongi—whoever that is,” he rasped, voice rough and scorched, like he’d been yelling or drinking. Or both.

He shifted, revealing the beer pack in his hand. Bottles clinked like accusations. He didn’t wait for permission. Just brushed past you—his arm grazing yours like a dare. Like a scar reopening.

And gods, you hated the part of you that ached at the sight. That stupid, traitorous ache that whispered he fit here.

You shut the door slowly, as if trying to cage a hurricane. “Are you… are you okay?”

There were a dozen better things to say. Like How the hell do you know where I live?

But of course Jungkook knew. You were Revenant’s best tracker—but he came close second. Only best when it came to haunting you.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he shot back, eyes glinting like broken mirrors.

You gestured at the bottles, pathetic.

He scoffed. “I can hold my liquor just fine, thanks.” But his gaze didn’t linger on you—it prowled your space like he was hunting ghosts. Like he was searching for signs you'd moved on.

You were suddenly, viciously aware of the worn band t-shirt clinging to your frame and the male boxer shorts riding up your thighs, rolled at your hips. No makeup. You looked like you would if he was coming back home to you. Which he wasn’t.

And he—he was a wrecking ball made of ink and silence.

“Why are you here, Jungkook?” Your voice was a whisper already bracing for pain.

This had to be it. His confrontation. His judgement. You running. You fucking him and leaving. Cowardice with a kiss. Like the stitches down your side, a reminder carved into you like art. Like consequence.

Or—worse and somehow better—he was here on Revenant’s orders. You’d been dancing on the edge these past two weeks, and you doubted he’d covered for you on callback day.

You were becoming a stray. And strays didn’t get mercy. They got leashes—or bullets.

But instead of a knife, he dropped the beers on your coffee table with a thud and turned.

“To work,” he said. “Thought I’d show up instead of waiting for you to.”

The guilt slithered up your throat like smoke. You took the hit without flinching.

Maybe you were being paranoid. A cocktail of no sleep and the weight of those men still hunting you. Of too many hours spent remembering the shape of Jungkook in your hands.

You weren’t being unprofessional, you inhaled as you reminded yourself.

You were still doing your job—tracking, reporting, filing notes. You just… needed space, while the field work wasn’t necessary. Distance. Needed to breathe. To exist in a room without drowning in him.

Without unraveling.

Jungkook reached into the six-pack and popped the cap off with a flick of his thumb, muscle memory smooth as murder. “Might as well drink while we sort this crap out,” he said, nodding to the files sprawled like landmines across your coffee table.

He called it crap. You could’ve laughed.

Revenant missions were never casual. They were shadows with knives, cover stories written in ash, warfare so deniable even your heartbeat lied. Blood-on-your-hands kind of work, buried intel with bodies. And the files between you now? They were preludes. Invitations to the next disaster.

You eyed the bottle like it was a loaded gun.

One rule left unbroken.

Don’t drink with him.

Because when walls thinned, and eventually came down—you knew what followed. Chaos. Heat. Want that left bruises.

And you were barely holding.

“Fine,” you muttered, grabbing one like it didn’t spell your undoing.

Another line blurred. The last one.

You ended up on the floor beside him, backs against the couch, knees brushing in the kind of proximity that shouldn't feel like drowning. Between you—snapshots of death, scribbled intel, faces frozen mid-breath. Your handwriting scratched across the margins like shrapnel.

War lived in your pen. Jungkook had always said that. Like he knew you wrote in rage.

The beer dulled the razor-edge of your posture, but not your perception. Not around him.

Jungkook wore calm like a disguise—like a bomb under a silk napkin. He exhaled cool detachment, but you could smell the lie on him along with the bourbon lurking on his breath. He was trying to be casual, but the effort showed in the curve of his jaw, in every brush of his leg against yours that never pulled back.

Every move was a push.

And you were breaking.

The tension between you snapped tighter, breath by breath. The air was too thick. Too still. One glance too long and you'd combust.

You reached for a grainy photo—light blown out, figure indistinct—and his fingers brushed yours. Featherlight. Incidental.

But it detonated something in your chest.

He didn’t look at you. Just took a swig like he hadn’t set you ablaze.

And you hated him for that. Hated the flex of his throat, the stark line of his jaw, the way his veins caught the light. That fucking light scar on his cheekbone. Hated the heat pooling in your palms, the part of you that screamed to crawl into his lap and burn all over again.

He was still Jungkook.

And you were still hopelessly tangled in the memory of that night.

His mouth on your throat, hands in your hair, breath whispering your name like a curse—those were not ghosts you could outrun.

Silence wrapped around you like a noose. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch.

But he was there.

A shadow that never left.

Focus, goddammit.

You forced your eyes to the files, to the pattern you could solve with one hand tied behind your back. Easier than untangling the way his fingers tapped that bottle, like they ached for something else to press into.

He leaned forward, pulled a folder closer. Bit at the metal glint of his lip ring.

You seized the moment to snap yourself out of it. Your voice—measured, steady. Barely.

“That shot was taken two days before the drop. The guy in the background—you recognize him?”

“Mhm,” he said. “One of Choi’s henchmen. Shows up like mold. Slimier, too.”

You huffed, dry. “Perfect. Another one to track.”

He slid a page your way, fingers grazing your wrist longer than necessary. “This spot—see it?”

You did. The pattern was clear. The message clearer. “They’re circling back.”

“Exactly.” He leaned in, voice lower. “You’d think they’d learn. But rats don’t stop running into traps, do they?”

Your spine stiffened. You weren’t sure if he meant the target.

You weren’t sure he didn’t.

The space between you quivered. A standoff without a gun. It was a fragile balance—this cold war between you. The space where hate blurred into want. Where loyalty slipped its collar and curled up next to need.

You were staring at his eyes, trying hard not to dip them to his lips like he was watching yours.

But you cracked first—anything to break this spell he had you under. “Thought the superiors sent you to keep me in line, not drink and share a slumber party.”

His mouth twitched, slow and wicked. But there was heat behind it—undeniable.

He didn’t even look up. Just murmured, “Pretty sure you were supposed to leash me. But hey, who’s counting casualties?”

The words hit like a bullet—subtext woven through every syllable.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t trust what would come out of your mouth.

Then—ding.

The doorbell split the air like a blade.

You stiffened. Instantaneous. A tripwire pulled in your spine.

Jungkook’s head snapped up at the same moment. His gaze cut from the door to you—catching everything. The flicker. The twitch you hadn’t meant to let show.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

He was already rising, fluid and dangerous, moving like the door was his to shield. Like you were.

And that—

That was what you couldn’t fucking stand.

You weren’t a damsel. Not a kept thing.

You didn’t need saving. You were his partner for fucks sake!

You moved fast. Intercepted him. Your palm met his chest—not harsh, but hard enough to stop.

Hard enough to remind him.

His body didn’t yield, but something behind his eyes shifted. That burn—low and dark—ignited again. The kind you didn’t dare name.

“You’re not my bodyguard,” you snapped, blade-edged, jaw locked.

His jaw clenched. The muscle under your hand tensed like it wanted to defy you. “No… I’m not.”

And there it was. That weightless second where neither of you moved, both too proud, too furious, too wired.

You knew his tells. He knew yours.

You pushed him just enough to block the door from his view, then yanked it open.

And there was Yoongi.

Leaning against the frame like the world owed him something and he planned to collect in charm. Hoodie half-zipped, eyes glittering with unbothered precision. A smirk pulled at his mouth like he knew he could get away with anything.

“Damn,” he said, low and deliberate, amusement bleeding into every syllable. “If I knew you were answering doors looking like that, I’d have brought dessert.”

His gaze trailed over you—lazy, unapologetic. From the defiance in your stare to the shirt clinging too well and the heat blooming in your throat. He drank it all in.

And for once, you didn’t bite back. Didn’t spit your usual venom. Because you felt Jungkook before you saw him.

His presence unfurled behind you like a stormcloud. Heavy. Electric. Half of his chest brushed your spine, his breath grazing your neck—hot and possessive. Not touching, but near enough to feel the warning in it.

Mine, it seemed to say.

Yoongi’s smirk faltered. Just a little. Just enough.

“And who’s this?” he asked, head tilting like it mattered.

You answered too fast, too sharp. “My partner. And you’re late.”

Yoongi’s brows ticked up, but he didn’t push. He just held out the chicken wings delivery bag, fingers loose, like he wasn’t dropping dynamite between two unstable elements. “Got the intel. Movement patterns. You’ll want to check the second location listed. It’s all inside, like always.” he pointed the packaging with his chin.

You reached for it, but Jungkook was faster.

He moved around you, body encaging yours like a wall of heat and intent, hand closing over the bag strap—over Yoongi’s fingers. Not hard. But pointed. Held it a beat too long.

A message without words: Back off.

Yoongi didn’t blink. Just arched a brow, amused. “Didn’t know you’d been having company.”

“Didn’t know I needed to check in with you about that,” you said, slicing your voice thin and cold. Ice over a fire.

Behind you, Jungkook went still.

Like you’d just lit a match and dropped it in gasoline.

Yoongi chuckled, stepping back, unbothered. But his gaze lingered—bouncing between you like he could read the unsaid. And maybe he could.

“Guess I’ll let you get back to… whatever this is,” he said, voice wry.

He lingered just long enough to grind his heel in it.

“I’ll be up in my apartment if you need me.”

The weight in his stare as he said it was intentional. You gave a small, polite smile—sharp-edged. Dismissive.

But Jungkook—through your periphery you saw the way his tongue pressed into his cheek like it was trying not to bite through.

Yoongi vanished into the hall.

The door shut behind him with a snap.

And then you turned.

You were on him before he could breathe.

A weapon unsheathed.

Your movement cut through the silence, quick and decisive, and just like that your chest was brushing his. Standing on the tip of your toes so your faces were just inches apart, eyes locked on the black pools in front of you. You could see everything—every flicker, every fracture.

“Do not make me check you.”

Jungkook’s eyes flared wide. But it wasn’t fear. No—what lived there was something hungrier. Darker. His breath shivered. His fists clenched.

He wanted to break something.

Or take you apart.

He was vibrating with restraint. With that desperate, wild thing that had clawed its way loose the moment you slipped out of his bed like a thief. He hadn’t gotten to chase you. To claim what you took with you.

Now? He was seconds from snapping.

“You had me once,” you whispered, venom-laced velvet. “Once. Not even long enough to piss and mark territory. Don’t forget that.”

Then you turned.

Cold. Precise. Beautifully cruel.

Like you hadn’t just sliced him open with your teeth.

You walked away with purpose, spine straight, blood roaring beneath still skin. Left him there in the ruins.

He didn’t follow.

Didn’t speak.

But you could feel him—rage coiled tight in his gut, heat rising like a fever. When you sank into the couch, you didn’t have to look to know he was gripping the air like it betrayed him.

“I shouldn't have come,” he muttered finally. “It was a mistake.”

His voice—low, scraped raw—crackled through the room like static. He stalked toward the table, dropped the delivery bag and snatched up his keys. His stride was all anger and ache.

But before he reached the door, your body moved without thought catching up.

“Wait—Just wait.”

Your hands lifted to your hair, dragging through with frustration. “We should talk about this. We’re partners, Jungkook. We can’t let one night get in the way of our work.”

He stopped like you’d shot him.

Tension rippled through his frame. When he turned to face you, it was slow. Dangerous.

“One night…” he repeated.

Voice like gravel. Like regret. As if it tasted like blood in his mouth.

“God, you must really hate me…” he huffed, the dimples appearing as he gnawed at his bottom lip. “Is that what it was for you? Just one night?”

And there it was.

The air between you thickened. Dense. Combustible.

Every breath you shared was a threat.

A challenge.

A lie neither of you could keep telling much longer.

Then—

Clang.

A metallic thud slammed through the stillness.

The fire stairwell.

Adrenaline sliced through the haze like a blade to the jugular.

The heat between you evaporated—consumed by instinct. No words, no delay. Just the clean, brutal snap of motion as both of you shifted gears like twin chambers firing. He pivoted. You dropped to the shoe bench near the front door, lifted it with practiced efficiency. Underneath—your weapon. And the spare you always kept, just in case. Just for him.

You tossed the Glock in his direction.

He caught it without looking—like your hand and his were parts of the same weapon, forged to work in tandem. His keys hit the ground, but neither of you so much as flinched.

This wasn’t chaos. This was code.

You and Jungkook moved like a language only your bodies remembered. Poetry written in violence. He stepped left as you went right. Breaths synced. Limbs mirrored.

Partners indeed. But not just that.

The stairwell door creaked again.

You moved into the hallway, silent as ghosts.

“One. Downstairs,” you murmured, voice razor-thin.

Jungkook nodded, just once. “They’re running scared.”

Then the chase detonated.

You sprinted down the concrete steps, the cold biting into your bare feet like punishment. Jungkook’s boots struck beside you, each step deliberate, brutal. Every movement between you practiced, precise, deadly.

You hit the garage’s lower level. Shadows clung to the corners like predators watching from the dark.

Jungkook’s hand snapped to your lower belly, half his fingers grazing bare skin beneath your t-shirt as he halted you. The touch seared, more dangerous than anything else in the room. Your breath hitched, traitorous.

Focus.

Ahead—a figure, caught mid-motion. The guy turned—saw you.

Recognition flared in Jungkook’s voice. “Guy from the photo. Snake tattoo.”

The man bolted.

Jungkook fired. The shot rang clean, ruthless. The SUV’s tire exploded before the target’s foot even left the ground. Rubber shrieked against pavement.

But it wasn’t over.

Two—no, three—more.

Armed. Unafraid.

Professionals.

“Split,” Jungkook muttered, low and lethal.

You peeled right, vanishing behind a beam. Gun raised. Heart hammering. Jungkook ghosted left—faster than light, heavier than wrath.

First one came at you with a crowbar, the arc whistling death.

You ducked the blow and fired—right into his thigh. His scream echoed off concrete. Another came behind him, bulletproof vest thick on his chest. Your second shot knocked him back but didn’t drop him.

You barely adjusted before Jungkook slammed into the guy, body to body, sheer force. The man hit a car hood with a sickening crunch.

You turned—

Too slow.

Another came in low, fast. Trained.

Fuck.

Your arm lifted, but his hand was already there, wrenching your wrist wide. Pain sparked. You fought back—knee snapping up, breath a growl—but his grip held.

And then you felt him.

Sudden, fierce. Jungkook’s hands on your waist, lifting, flipping you back over his hip. Your body hit the ground—hard.

But his body cushioned it.

Your breath stuttered.

He was under you. Hot and solid. Every muscle taut, every breath ragged. His fingers lingered too long just below your ribs, brushing over skin no one should be touching. Heat bloomed.

Time stopped.

“Show off,” you muttered, lifting your arm. You fired. The man dropped, clean.

“I like dramatic entrances,” he replied, his voice low and a promise, his eyes all flame.

Another guy emerged from the shadows, slipping behind a van with his gun already raised.

Jungkook moved instantly.

No hesitation, no question—just his body between yours and the threat, shielding you like instinct. The shot rang out, ricocheting off metal, too close. Jungkook didn’t flinch. He grabbed you and rolled you both behind the SUV’s bumper, one fluid movement, his arms tight around you.

Your hand clutched his bicep. His thigh wedged between your legs. His arm beneath your head. The concrete should have been cold, but all you felt was him—hot, tense, grounding.

Your heart thundered. His echoed it.

“Close one,” you breathed, shaken, eyes locking with his.

His breath washed over your lips. “You okay?”

“You’re on top of me.”

A slow grin tugged at his mouth. Dangerous. “Yeah. Not complaining.”

You shoved at him—but it lacked force. Like you needed to push him away before you did something worse.

Jesus. You were still on the clock.

You rolled to a crouch, nodded toward the final attacker. The heat in his gaze vanished. The smirk? Gone. He snapped back into mission mode like it was a second skin.

The last man bolted.

Jungkook pursued.

You followed.

Your heels slammed the concrete. Pain screamed up your legs, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your blood roared in your ears. Jungkook closed in first, tackled the guy without mercy, slamming him into a pillar so hard the echo cracked down the garage like thunder.

The man fought hard—rage in every limb, desperation in every move. Jungkook was still buzzed from the alcohol, still bleeding—but still stronger. You reached them in a blur. Drove your elbow into the guy’s spine. He dropped like a felled beast. Motionless.

You stood over the body, breath jagged. Heart roaring. Body trembling with more than just adrenaline.

Jungkook leaned against the pillar, bruised and split-lipped. Blood painted a line down the side of his face—sharp, bright, and brutal. It caught the light like a vow. He looked like a tornado just barely held in place.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, voice tighter than you meant.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

He looked at you. And for a beat—under the flickering garage lights—he wasn’t your enemy. Or a mistake made in a night, the one you’d run from. Or even just your partner.

He was everything you feared you wanted.

His chest heaved. Yours mirrored it.

And then he stepped closer.

You didn’t move.

“You hesitated,” he said quietly.

You blinked, thrown by the shift. “When?”

“When that cameo scumbag came at you. You looked at me first.”

Your jaw locked. “So?”

His gaze didn’t waver. He stepped closer until you could taste the bourbon on his breath. Blood and sweat clung to the air between you like incense in a burning church.

“So don’t,” he murmured. “Next time, just take the damn shot.”

Your spine stiffened. “You saying I can’t handle myself?”

That dangerous smirk flickered again. But this time, softer. Less weapon, more wound. He reached out—and his fingers brushed your jawline. Just barely. Just the edge of it—slow. Intentional. Reverent. As if memorizing the shape of your defiance.

“I’m saying I notice everything you do,” he rasped. “Especially when it’s for me.”

Your breath caught mid-throat. The confession gutted you more than his touch.

But before you could speak—

A grunt. Wet and gurgled.

One of the bodies on the ground wasn’t quite done dying. He writhed, breath rattling like a broken instrument.

You both turned.

Jungkook stepped back.

Not far. Not enough for the space to cool. Just enough to draw his pistol. Calm and quiet, his fingers wrapping around the grip like it belonged to him, like it knew the shape of him.

And he fired.

One shot. Final.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—It throbbed.

It hit harder than the bullet. Not because of what he did. You’d both done worse. God knows you were past redemption.

But you stared. Not at the body. At him.

Because this?

This was different.

This was standing in the middle of the fire. Not running. Not denying. Just… burning.

“We—we need to deal with the bodies,” you said, but your voice sounded mechanical, hollow. You could feel the revelation of your feelings sending your body into shock. “If they trace this back here... I can't—The ones from the hard drive job, they’re still out there. I can’t risk—”

“Shut up.”

The words hit like a whip and you froze.

The bastard knew it. Knew your body, your mind like it was his.

“I got this,” Jungkook said, eyes gentle, steady, locking onto yours. “Take the guns. Check on your informant. I’ll be up in a few.”

Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t leave him, you needed—

“You’re hurt. Not to say drunk,” you bit out, more afraid than angry.

He gave a short laugh—lacking energy, his body was betraying him too. “I’ve had worse.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And yet.”

“I have contacts too, you know. I’ll burn the mess before anyone smells it. Go upstairs.” Then he looked at you again—really looked. And everything in you fractured.

“Trust me.”

And you did. You fucking did.

That was the real problem.

It wasn’t the blood or the mess or the ghosts that haunted you.

It was that.

You trusted him more than you feared what your feelings for him could do.

You’d checked on Yoongi. Safe. No tail. Still smirking like the devil had given him his lines personally.

By the time you returned to the apartment, the sky had bled into ink—thick, suffocating. One of those nights that clings to your skin, whispers against your pulse. The kind that knows your secrets. The kind that feels sentient.

You’d been pacing ever since. Barefoot. Restless. Your heartbeat ticking like a landmine. You kept glancing at the window without realizing. At the door. At your phone. Not checking it. Just… listening. As if some part of you knew the kind of mess Jungkook possibly walked into and hadn’t come back from. As if your body was betraying the fear your mouth refused to voice.

Then— Three knocks.Soft. Deliberate. One pause. Then two more.

His rhythm.

Always his.

You opened the door before your mind caught up. Like instinct had already laid out the red carpet for your ruin.

And there he was. Relief hit you like a sharp exhale. Not loud. Not visible. But it bloomed in your chest like pain. You didn’t let it reach your face—didn’t dare. You still hadn’t decided what scared you more: the idea that something had happened to him… or the fact that you cared that deeply if it had.

Bruised. Bloodstained. Sweaty strands of dark hair plastered to his temple like shadows, eyes heavy-lidded and shining too dark in the hallway light. He looked like the aftermath of a war—and yet, you couldn’t look away.

“It’s sorted,” he said. “I identified two of them as Choi’s underdogs, but it’ll take a while to—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Let me check that cut on your brow,” you said, already grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. The door shut behind him with a quiet finality.

If something serious had happened, he would’ve led with it. Jungkook was nothing if not brutally efficient—he didn’t bury the lede. Which is exactly why, despite the wreckage on his skin, your focus stayed on him. Not the mission. Not yet.

He followed wordlessly. Heavy-footed. Letting you lead him toward the bathroom like he was tied to you by something ancient and binding.

You rummaged through the cabinet, refusing to look at his face too long, refusing to feel that heat that still hadn’t left your skin from earlier.

Behind you, he laughed—a lazy, low, lopsided sound. The kind that always came with trouble. The kind that curled into your belly and settled there, warm and invasive.

“Baby, it’s a tiny cut,” he drawled, voice syrupy and wrapped in alcohol. His eyes edged something like endearment through the mirror. “I just need a shower. Don’t worry about it.”

Baby.

That nickname again, cutting like a silk against bare skin. A reminder from that night together. A trigger. A temptation.

You turned.

Just in time to catch the sway in his stance. One shoulder slumped against the doorframe. His pupils were dilated. Lips slightly parted. And God, he looked feral—like want was eating him alive from the inside out.

“You’re too drunk,” you said, your voice low and clipped. “How much did you drink before coming here on your fucking bike like a lunatic—before continuing to drink?”

You glared at him, jaw tight. “And don’t even deny it. I saw the damn thing parked out there.”

He grinned, all teeth and danger—boyish and wicked. “Just a bit.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “You fucking—”

You moved before the thought even formed, your hand going straight to the exposed skin above his belt—where his shirt had ridden up. Palm flat. Skin too warm. Muscles tight beneath.

You shoved him back. A push that lingered too low. Too intimate.

He stiffened. But didn’t stop you, kept walking back.

His breath grew shallow. His eyes dropped—to your mouth. The air around you turned charged, electric.

“I told you I can hold my liquor,” he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. “I am holding it. Barely. I’ll admit that. But God, you—”

His hand hovered near your throat, clawed fingers curling just short of contact. Not grabbing. Just wanting.

But didn’t.

“You’re— Fuck.” he struggled.

Your knees nearly buckled. That memory—his hands on your throat, mouth on your skin—flared so bright you could taste it.

“You look at me like you want to kill me,” he said. Voice cracking on something too real. His hand dropped. A surrender. But not defeat.

“And maybe I do,” you snapped, though your hand stayed where it was—gripping his side like you needed the anchor. Like you didn’t want to let go. Your nails curled slightly between his belt and his V line. He shivered beneath the pressure.

His pupils dilated further, eyes locking on yours as if remembering everything you too were failing miserably to forget.

And then—he reached.

His hand slid behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Not yanking. Not dragging.

Just there. Claiming without question.

Breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stuttered.

Then you reached behind him—found the faucet—and yanked.

Water exploded over both of you, steam rising instantly, curling around your limbs like smoke from a fire you couldn’t put out.

He gasped, startled. His shirt clung to him instantly, outlining every line, every inch, water running in rivulets down the slopes of his body.

“What the—?” he started.

“You said you needed a shower. I agree,” you cut him off, hissing. Stepping into the spray with him, heat crawling down your spine. “You need to sober the hell up.”

He stared at you for a breath, stunned.

Then that look flickered into place.

Dark. Amused. Dangerous.

Water traced a slow path down his jaw, dripping from the cut above his brow. Down his throat. His chest. His voice came low and rough, barely more than a growl.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Or I’ll begin thinking the secret to have you under me is getting you wet.”

You pressed your finger to his cut meaning to hurt—to shut his mouth—, hovering close enough to feel his pulse beneath the skin. Your own shirt was soaked through, clinging to your curves like a dare, and you were suddenly too aware.

He grunted but didn’t pull away. Instead, he smiled. That insufferable, knowing smirk that said he could read every inch of your skin. Worse, that he could get under it.

“You wish,” you snapped, pulling your hand away.

His laugh was low and rough, soaked in sin. “I did,” he said, leaning in until the mist between you was all but gone. “And look at you now. Drenched. Again.”

Silence collapsed over the bathroom like a loaded gun.

You stared at each other like it was war. Like one word, one twitch of muscle, would set the whole damn room on fire.

His gaze locked with yours, dark and searing. Possessive. Like he’d never stopped seeing you as his. Like he knew every thought crashing through your mind in that moment.

And you wanted him.

God, you wanted him.

But the wanting didn’t make it less dangerous.

It made it worse.

You wanted his hands on you. His mouth. His body pinning you to the wall so hard you forgot your name. You wanted him to ruin you—devour every inch, mark every part, leave nothing untouched, nothing sacred. Just like he did that night.

You wanted him because you weren’t supposed to.

Because it would burn everything you’d built—every wall, every rule, every lie. And still, you’d do it again.

His voice broke the silence, rough and low, like a sandpiper doing his best to lure you in.

“I killed them.”

The words crashed into you like thunder.

He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Just stared, soaked and still, letting the truth settle slowly in your lungs like you were taking a drag from one of his cigarettes.

“The rest of the guys from when I…stitched you,” he said, voice hoarse, eyes hollow and burning. “Every last one of them. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Your breath caught—snagged hard in your throat.

“What? When?” The whisper barely passed your lips.

His jaw flexed, twitching like he was chewing on the weight of it. “I had a lot of time on my hands the past two weeks,” his chest kept rising and falling, eyes unrelenting. “A lot of anger to burn.”

You lost yourself in the black pool of them, able to catch your reflection, thinking that the better question would be why, but you knew the answer. And it wasn’t because Jungkook would always have your back, because you were partners. It was the something more.

Whatever thin, frayed thread had been holding you back—snapped.

For a second you had to remind yourself—it’s okay to want something that might ruin you. To crave what cuts. And maybe you were already bleeding.

Your hand reached his collar, tugging. He let himself be pulled, leaning down like a storm bending toward you, moving slow, steady, devastating—giving you time to run. But you didn’t.

Because you wanted him to kiss you.

The moment his lips caught yours, everything burned off like fog meeting sun. The ache. The exhaustion. The war.

The kiss was slow at first—sinful, soaked in longing. The kind that studied every edge of you. Then your teeth caught his bottom lip, dragged with just the right pressure. He moaned—a dark, low sound that made your insides twist.

Jungkook leaned his forehead against yours, breathing heavy through the water falling over your heads.

“This is a bad idea,” you whispered, eyes closed as he teased your lips.

He trailed a hot path toward your ear, fingers curling around your hips. “Since when do we follow good ones?”

A bite on your lobe, soft. You lost control.

You pressed into him harder, hand locked in his jaw, seizing his lips completely. He shuddered, fingers coming to slide from your temples through your damp hair. Clutching, desperate. Your bodies taut with desire, tension razor-thin.

You moved, hands falling on his shoulders, then a push—you climbed him without mercy. His hands immediately under your thighs, squeezing. You were dizzy—drenched in him—just like that night, feeling feverish. Each kiss made your thoughts blurrier, your skin tighter, your breath more ragged.

Jungkook slammed you against the tile wall like he could read your mind, his hips grinding against yours. God, he was so fucking hard. You moaned, he grunted. Water rained down, steaming over your flushed skin, making every nerve feel electric.

You gasped with another roll of his hips, body trembling with every throb of want.

Fuck, you needed out of your clothes.

Needed them gone—

One leg came down, then the other. You shoved him back, his raven eyes searched for yours, dizzy. Almost supplicant.

Your lips parted, clit throbbing as you stripped the soaked t-shirt clinging to you. It peeled away slow, like silk over embers, baring you to the heat of his stare.

Jungkook froze.

Breathing heavy. Watching.

His gaze licked your chest, then fell to the stitches still holding on your side, right underneath your ribs.

“You should’ve taken those out,” his was voice low, raspy, “Now it’ll leave a scar,” and you caught the way his teeth found his lip, that damned dimple deepening—like he was already claiming it. His name etched in flesh.

Good, that had been your intention.

“No shit…Sherlock,” your lips curled into a knowing smirk. A laughter almost fell from your lips when you saw the realization befalling his eyes. His knuckles whitnening, balled in fists.

That fuelled you.

Your fingers fell to strip the boxer shorts next, leaving you only in your black lace panties. You stood bare before him, water sliding down your curves like an offering.

He stared in a daze, gulped.

Like you were a sin too beautiful to resist.

And he was ready to confess the only way he knew how—with worship and destruction.

Jungkook’s inked fingers found the back collar of his shirt, pulling it off in one fluid motion—water trailed down his chest like a whisper. Boots thudded to the tile, cast aside like fallen armor. Still, his gaze never left yours.

Your thighs pressed together as you took him in.

He was bare but for drenched jeans, dangerous and unguarded. The belt fell next, with a splash, and then his fingers found the button—until you closed the distance, taking over. You dragged his zipper down, slow, eyes piercing his.

His breath hitched.

Not even blood had undone Jeon Jungkook like this. This wasn’t vulnerability. It was exposure. Raw. His chest rose hard; pierced lips parted, begging for that final push—like if you did so, he’d come undone right there.

And you liked the feeling.

You liked the power humming beneath your fingers. The way he vibrated with the effort of not losing it.

Just to test him, to twist the wire tighter, you dropped your hand after unzipping him, let the distance stretch—mocking a retreat. Your steps pulled back, every line of your body begging to be chased.

“Don’t—Come here. Now,” Jungkook snarled, one step faltering.

You chuckled, slow and dangerous, stopping. Your eyes stayed on his, playful and defiant.

Jungkook could twist your mind into knots. Wreck your logic with a look.

But two could play.

And you had fire in your lungs now.

You stalked back toward him, eyes never dropping, and slid to your knees with the kind of poise that could unravel a man.

Tilting your head, biting your lip, you murmured, “Is this what you wished for? When you kept thinking to yourself I’d crawl back to you? That I was yours to keep?”

His breath was wrecked. His jaw flexed.

“Yes,” he said, the word broken with need. “That—and so much more.”

The confession hit the air like a lit fuse on dry kindling.

You smiled—slow and knowing, like a promise draped in danger. “Really?” you whispered. “And what else did you wish I’d do?”

Your hand slid up his thigh—slow, commanding—knuckles brushing soaked denim, the heat of his skin bleeding through. You felt the muscle tense beneath your palm, a quiet shudder betraying his restraint.

Jungkook’s eyes flared—black, volatile, molten. Then he moved. Fast.

He surged forward, seized your waist with fingers that dug into flesh like he was claiming a victory he hadn’t yet earned. He yanked you upright, effortless, like your body weighed nothing to him—like control was already his.

You barely had time to blink.

With a grunt, he flipped you over his shoulder, and the air rushed from your lungs. Your wet hair clung to your back, your cheek pressed to the plane of his spine. A yelp caught behind your teeth.

Then—smack.His palm fell to your ass like a whip, loud and ruthless.

You gasped, startled and electric, the sound swallowed by the hiss of steam and the wet splash of water against tile. The sting bloomed through your skin and burrowed down into heat.

"You're a fucking menace," he muttered, voice rough and thick with something darker than amusement—like each word had been dragged over gravel, heavy with the battle he was losing against himself.

Your laugh came out breathless. Aroused. Dangerous. "Funny, you seem to like it."

He growled—actually growled—and the sound lit up your nerves like dynamite. With one hand steady at your thigh, he reached out and turned off the shower, then walked you out like a man done pretending.

He carried you down the hall like a stolen prize, like something sacred and savage he’d fought to win. No hesitation. No falter. His gait was confident, practiced—and yet you’d never walked this route together before. He still knew exactly where your bedroom was.

The door creaked open and shadows welcomed you. Moonlight spilled across the sheets like it, too, had been waiting.

The room pulsed.

He didn’t lower you gently. He tossed you down like a challenge, like he was daring you to run again so he could catch you all over.

You landed with a bounce, limbs splaying, hair a halo across the bedding, lips parted. The moment held, thick with the throb of everything unsaid.

Then he was over you.

Jungkook’s body came down like a waterfall—damp denim scraping over lace, his weight pressing you into the mattress, heat bleeding through every inch. His arms caged your head. His breath ghosted over your cheek.

He was everywhere.

You arched into him, chasing friction like it might answer the ache inside you. His skin was slick with water, warm and wild. His jeans rubbed with exquisite cruelty between your thighs.

And his eyes—God, his eyes were flame.

He dipped his head, brushing lips to your throat—once, soft enough to almost hurt. Then he bit. A sharp press of teeth that said mine, that said run again and I’ll follow.

“You left, you ghosted me,” he pulled the soft skin beneath your ear between his teeth, like it was penance.

“Ah,” you moaned, your head tipping back, hair plastered to your face, his heat bleeding into you as steam still clung to your skin. One of his hands slid to your breast, bold, hungry, and you could barely think around it.

“I—I’m…”

But the words died in your throat. Thought scattered.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered against your mouth. Hot. Shaking. And then—

He moved.

Devastating.

One hand wrapped around his cock, dragging it out of his jeans with a groan that sounded broken. The kind of sound that could tear open ribcages. The kind that made your breath catch, knees press inward, thighs shake. The other— He hooked rough fingers into the lace clinging to your soaked skin, yanking your panties aside like they’d offended him by existing. No finesse. No delay.

You spread your legs before you realized you had. The want in your chest curled like claws—sharp, urgent, feral.

Then he thrust.

Hard. Deep.

You cried out. His name caught on your tongue like a spell gone wrong. He filled you—inch by inch—with a slowness that wasn’t mercy, but control. You arched. He didn’t stop. Buried to the hilt, the stretch a brand, a claim.

He felt perfect. Like he’d been made to wreck you.

You remembered—fuck.

The condom. It hit you mid-moan, a flash of ice through the heat. You weren’t on the shot—you never were. Not with how it messed with your body, your reflexes. Not in your line of work.

Your hands flew to his hips, trembling as you tried to stall his rhythm, tried to choke out words through the haze.

“JK—ah, fuck—Stop. Wait—”

He started to pull back, the motion sudden, his breath sharp, panicked. His eyes found yours and they pleaded.

“No. No, please. Baby, please—”

A breathless laugh fell from your lips. You couldn’t help it. His desperation—it was fucking adorable. You dragged your nails down his back, slow, soothing. “We forgot the condom.”

Relief transformed him, but he didn’t waste a second. He slipped out cursing under his breath, and was on his feet in an instant, already moving.

“Bathroom,” you said, still catching your breath. “Second drawer.”

He came back fast, foil in hand, eyes locked on you like a man starved.

You were already on your knees, waiting for him at the edge of the bed. One hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss was slow, deep. Sin-drenched. You toyed with the damp strands at his nape, shivering at how they curled against your fingers.

Jungkook pushed his soaked jeans off. Finally. Your mouth watered. The white boxers clung, transparent, and left nothing to the imagination. You licked your lips.

You helped take them off too. Then his inked hand found your chest, pressing you back into the mattress. A smirk playing on his lips. The condom hit the sheets a second after. You chuckled, low, breathless.

And then he was on you.

His weight pressed into yours, lips at your ear, voice low.

“Tell me again what you said that night.”

“What?” you breathed. You could barely remember your own name.

“That you hate me,” he bit your jaw. “Lie to me again, and tell me that you hate me.”

“I hate you,” you said—except it came out soft. Like a kiss. Like a confession.

His mouth traveled down. Kisses trailed heat. You whispered it again. He sucked one nipple.

“Fuck, I hate you.” and again. His chest rumbled, a dark chuckle as he closed his eyes and trailed down. He dragged his teeth through your lower belly. It coiled. You fisted the sheets.

“Mhm, I hate you.” you kept chanting like a shield.

He reached between your legs and moaned into you.

“Ah— I fucking hate you,” you gasped, back arching, fingers clawing at his hair, desperate to keep him there.

“I hate your mouth…Those goddamned hands,” and as if on command he squeezed your thighs, his tongue circled, teased, playing with your rationale. “I hate— I—” you started losing yourself, hips undulating, trying to meet his pace.

Jungkook groaned—devouring you like he’d never tasted anything real before. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just moaned, begged, burned.

“Don’t stop,” you panted. “Jungkook—”

He didn’t. He ate like a man dying. Sucked and swirled and bit until your body broke, splintered into light, your orgasm ripping through you like it had claws. You cried out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other holding him there.

“Oh, God— Fuck!”

He looked at you from between your legs, licking you through it, slow.

Then he rose with one last long lick, grinning like a feline, crawling back up, mouth crashing into yours—letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You kissed him back hard, wild, lips swollen, mind reeling.

He groaned into it, and the condom was in his hand in a second. He ripped the foil and rolled it on. His eyes—blown and wild—never left yours.

His hands found the back of your knees, and he pulled, fast. Like he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer.

He dropped.

And thrust into you—no warning, just heat and pressure and that tight, perfect stretch.

Your mouths clashed. You kissed like addicts, like two people who had tried everything else but nothing ever came close to this.

Your nails sank into his shoulders, searching for something to hold as he drove into you. Over and over.

Jungkook moaned. Deep and raspy. Feral. One arm braced beside your head. The other—he slid under you, gripping your ass, dragging your hips up to meet every punishing thrust.

He fucked you like he was possessed. Like he wanted to possess you.

Your orgasm started building again—fast, feral. He felt it. The way you clawed at his back, your moans climbing in pitch against his neck.

“You thought we were done?” He wrapped that hellish inked hand around your throat—not tight, just there, a tether. His pace slowed. Unbearably slow. His eyes dark, locked to yours. “I’m not done. Understand?”

You barely had time to gasp before he slid out, flipped you like you weighed nothing.

A whimper escaped your lips, thighs clenching.

He reached out, his hand gripped your jaw, angling your head back to him. His breath came hot over your lips. “Head down. Ass up.”

You stared at him, defiant—because you could. Then, slowly, you leaned even more toward him, let your tongue flick his lip piercing. A challenge.

“I’ll let you be the boss tonight, then.”

You caught how his tongue poked his cheek. How rage and lust twined in his eyes, before going on all fours and sinking your head further into the mattress, tauting him.

“You—” he shook his head, jaw tight. He gripped your waist with one hand, the other guiding him to your entrance. “I swear you’ll be so spent you won’t be able to run. Not tonight.”

Then he slammed into you.

The sheets muffled your moan. Your clit throbbed as he forced your knee out and drove in again—Hard, fast, vicious.

“JK…” you cried out.

His hand fisted in your hair, tugging, arching you flush against his chest. Mouth to your ear. “Ngh, fuck, baby—it keeps getting better–”

He pounded into you. You could barely breathe. Barely think.

“Yeah,” was all you managed, and you squeezed your eyes shut, taking it.

Your walls clenched. Hands pressed into the sheets, rocking back into him, chasing every stroke.

You arched again, his hands pulled, squeezed—slick skin on his thighs, water still clinging to both of you, and all you could think about was that you could be doing this for two weeks had you not been such a coward.

He hit deep. Again. And again.

“Harder,” you whimpered. “Ah, right there—!”

He grunted and gave it to you.

“Jungkook, I— Mhm–” You shattered. Your orgasm burst white-hot and ruined you.

He kept going, chasing his own end. His hand closed around your breast as he came, groaning against your back, filling the condom with that sexy, throaty moan of his. It echoed deep in your core.

You both collapsed—sweat and steam and aftermath.

“Fuck,” he panted against your shoulder blades.

A second passed, just your breaths filling the bedroom, then—

“JK… You’re crushing me.” You chuckled against the sheets, and he pulled out, breath ragged, rolling onto his back beside you.

You stretched out your legs, sore and blissed out. Watched as he rolled the condom off, tossed it toward the bin.

Then he dragged you to his chest. Lazy grin. Warm eyes.

You kissed him—lazy, honey-slow. His throat rumbled with a sound that made your stomach flip.

“Stay with me,” he breathed against your lips. “Just—”

“I missed you,” you whispered, fingers sinking into his damp hair.

You felt more exposed than when you were beneath him, neck bare and exposed.

“I missed this.”

He went still. Eyes finding yours. Then—he kissed you again, deeper, longer. You wondered if it would ever stop being this… head-spinning.

When he pulled back, he nuzzled your nose. “I fucking missed you too.”

You lay there. Still breathing. Still burning. Still tangled.

“They can’t know. No one can.” your voice was barely a whisper.

You didn’t say why. You didn’t need to. Jungkook knew.

If your superiors caught wiff of it—worse, if whoever was your enemy next did… You’d both have a grave marked with your names.

“I know,” he said. Then added—grumbling, “But that informant of yours should. The nerve on that guy!”

You snorted. Rolled your eyes. One hand untangled from his hair to cover his face, pushing gently.

He bit your palm with eyes closed. Dragging the flesh there. The vision did something stupid to you.

In a swift motion, you straddled him.

And he looked up at you like you were everything. Just laid there beneath you, round eyes ravaging on the shape of your body on top of his.

Your hands slid to the space between his chest and abs, feeling him, pinning him. He started to breathe hard, slowly hardening under you again.

Holy fuck.

His grip returned—your hips in his rough palms. Fingers curling.

You arched, dipping towards his mouth. Brushing, featherlight, teasing.

“You should know by now I’m not the most patient guy,” he grunted, fingers running along the expanse of your legs. You laughed against his mouth, low, satisfied.

Then you bit. His lip. His jaw. His throat.

When you returned to his mouth and he tried to kiss you—eager, barely in check—you stopped him. Smiled. Your lips just hovering, his breath rough.

You held him there, hand on his jaw.

Then you rolled your hips on his cock, slow, hard.

Jungkook moaned, head tipping back.

“My turn,” you clashed your mouth against his.

A faint rustle broke the silence.

Cold air kissed your bare skin—an empty space beside you where warmth used to be. Your arm instinctively reached out, fingers curling into the mattress before you stirred, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

Jungkook…?

You blinked awake. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, lit only by the soft morning sun sneaking in through the curtains. His back was to you, spine a canvas of light and shadow. He bent forward, pulling something from his jeans. The screen of his phone lit up once, a low buzz vibrating through the silence.

Shit. You’d soaked his phone the night before. Please be working—

He answered it with a rough, still-sleep-heavy “Yeah?”

You moved before your thoughts could catch up—sliding across the sheets like you were weightless, drawn by the scent of him, the pull of him. Your body folded around his, forehead pressing to his shoulder, your mouth tucked into the space just beneath his jaw, breathing him in. He smelled like sweat, like cotton, like you.

He shifted, pulling you closer.

Jungkook was so deliciously warm it hurt.

“You owe me, you know,” a voice crackled through the line—male, lazy drawl layered with something sharp underneath. “You dropped a bomb on me last night. Took me four hours to cover it. I want answers.”

The contact.

You hadn’t known a name, hadn’t needed to. But Jungkook had mentioned someone last night. Someone who could clean up a mess. Now, the puzzle was whole.

Jungkook’s fingers found your thigh, skimming over your skin like it was habit. Like he didn’t need to look to know where you were.

“You’ll get them, Taehyung,” he muttered, mouth brushing your hair as he spoke. “Got anything for me?”

A pause. “Yeah. I have what you wanted. Meet me in thirty.”

He turned, lips catching yours—barely there, like he couldn’t not kiss you. Then his hand slid lower, slipping between your legs, teasing, slow and confident.

“Make it two and a half hours,” he said into the phone, voice quieter now, voice that always made you ache.

“Two and a half? What the hell are you—”

“I’m busy.” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Send the address.”

He ended the call without waiting, phone thunking softly onto the nightstand. His body turned fully, slow and heavy with sleep and want. He looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

“Morning,” his lips found your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Where were we?”

You laughed into his skin, teeth grazing the scar on his shoulder—the one you’d given him that first mission, when you didn’t trust him and he’d called you reckless.

“You were just about to take off my stitches and then make me breakfast.”

Jungkook grinned, unrelenting. “Then round three in the shower?”

You groaned, but you were already folding, fingers running through the soft and haparzed strands of his hair again, lips catching his.

“Regroup. Round three now, everything else later.”

And he was already on top of the situation. Already on top of you.

#jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook fanfic #jungkook #jungkook oneshot #bts smut #jungkook ff #bts jungkook #bts fanfic #jeon jungkook

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hwaslayer · 10 hours ago

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the space between us three (jyh) | nine.

⇢series masterlist | series playlist

⇢summary: while juggling the demands of life, yunho continues to do his best to raise his independent 11 yr old daughter, seora. throughout the years, they've built a strong foundation, an unbreakable bond— one that consists of late night talks and food runs, father/daughter dates, and sideline cheerleading at her basketball games. so when you unexpectedly come into their world, things shift. despite the uncertainty and the fear of stepping outside of their comfort zone, yunho and seora eventually learn how to open their hearts and learn how to rebuild a home where three can thrive together.

⇢pairing: single dad!yunho x f. reader

⇢genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, single dad au | fluff, angst, smut

⇢word count: 4.4k

⇢chapter content/warnings: something a little light and soft for their comeback (hehe ty for waiting <33), kisses, affectionate moments, mentions of death, visiting eunha at the columbarium, very brief descriptions of the cemetery/columbarium/religion/death, some doubts especially from family members, overthinking, small tinder talk lol, a bit of a calm before the [small] storm 🥹

⇢a/n: also made this quick wooyoung piece in case you missed it! enjoy!

The next morning, you wake up to Yunho making coffee in your kitchen. He's back in his clothes from last night while working with your Nespresso machine. You turn a bit, pulling the sheets up while yawning— causing Yunho to shift his attention to you.

"Goodmorning baby." He takes two mugs in his hands before walking over to you, sitting on the edge of the bed as he hands you a cup.

"Hi." You sit up and wrap the sheets around your naked body, taking the fresh cup of coffee into your hands. The first sip is just what you need to wake up, to start your day off on the right note; along with Yunho by your side.

"How'd you sleep?" He kisses your temple before brushing your hair back affectionately.

"Good. You?"

"Perfectly." He chuckles. "Why are you being so shy now?"

"Yunho!" You playfully scold him, continuing to sip your coffee.

"What? I'm just asking." He continues to look at you, causing the heat to rise to your cheeks. "You look so beautiful in the morning."

"Okay, I definitely need to get used to this." You giggle. "Thank you, Yu. You're too good to me."

"Nah." He lets out a little breathy laugh, free hand still lightly brushing your hair off of your shoulder. Caressing your cheek.

"So, what time do you wanna head out to the cemetery?"

"Mm." He looks at the clock on your nightstand. "Soon? I need to change and grab something from the house."

"What is it?"

"It's uh, Eunha's necklace. I wanna place it near her urn."

"Yeah, okay." You take a huge gulp of your coffee before setting aside on the nightstand before looking at him. "Let me go get ready." He nods, keeping his eyes on your bare back as you scoop your panties and clothes off of the floor.

"You can just walk over without it."

"Jeong Yunho." You at least throw on your panties and longsleeve before getting up to fix the bed. Yunho helps you on the side he occupies, grabbing your cup from the nightstand before asking you if you want more coffee or if he's good to wash the dishes. You shake your head, heading over to the bathroom to wash up and get changed. Yunho already washed up a bit this morning, taking the extra toothbrush you left him to brush his teeth and slapping some water to his face. You take a good 20 minutes to freshen up and change into a quick, comfy outfit consisting of leggings, a plain light grey pullover and an olive, long Nike quilted trench coat. You slip on some slouchy, crew neck socks before dipping into your white Nike P-6000's.

"Yeah, let me get home so I can look decent." You snort at Yunho's comment while he eyes you up and down. Sooner or later, the both of you are headed out the door and off to Yunho's. The ride is silent, mainly because Yunho feels nervous. Scared, even. But, having you here makes it a lot less daunting.

It's nice how real it feels when he holds your hand.

He pulls up to his place, parking in his usual spot. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, mostly quiet.

Until—

"Oh shit." You say to yourself when you see your mom pop out of the house, noticing Yunho's car. You quickly unbuckle your seatbelt and dip forward to hide yourself when you see her observing a little harder than you'd like. "Yunho! Oh my god, that's my mom!" You harshly whisper and tug Yunho's arm. "Yunho!" He laughs.

"Baby, what?"

"She's gonna see me!" Yunho shakes his head and watches your mom trying to get a peek into the car.

"She won't. I'll distract her and I'll be quick, okay?" He laughs. "Wanna give me a quick kiss? She isn't looking, hurry, hurry, hurry—" He says in a strained but playful voice, causing you to smack him on the arm.

"Stop it! Go!" Yunho laughs again before stepping out.

"Yunho!" Your mom calls out.

"Morning!" He says, waving near his car.

"Who was that? Was that Seora? Is she hiding from her Auntie Love?" Your mom comes down the steps and Yunho shakes his head.

"No one. It's just me." He shrugs as he comes towards her, subtly blocking her from moving any closer to the car with his tall frame.

"I swear I saw someone in your front seat."

"Nobody." Yunho chuckles. "I have to go pick up Seora in a bit from Chan-mi's house. I just forgot to grab something I needed."

"Huh." Your mom says, making her tilt her head. "I know." She smiles. "You're seeing someone, aren't you?" Yunho's ears turn red and he shakes his head while laughing, slowly easing towards his door.

"I promise you, Auntie Love. There isn't anyone there." He checks his watch. "I gotta start heading out. We'll see you later?" Yunho jumps up the steps to unlock his door and rushes in, making your mom furrow her brows before getting back to her plants and flowers in the front yard. Yunho rushes into the house, straight to his room to change and grab Eunha's small necklace.

Seora had mentioned leaving it in her mom's niche eventually, and Yunho can remember the way her smile fell when it came up. And maybe she'll wanna do it herself, but he isn't entirely sure how she'd feel overall. He knows it's his fault for shielding her after Eunha passed, heavily based on his own feelings and not being able to accept his new reality.

Their new reality.

He walks into his room, quickly washing up and changing into something a bit more comfortable. He throws on some dark denim jeans, a hoodie and a jacket, ruffling his hair a bit with some water so it isn't too messy our out of place. He heads to his nightstand, letting out a small sigh when he finds the necklace shoved in the back of the drawer— something he purposely did because he knew he needed it for his own comfort, some sort of safety blanket, but he couldn't exactly look at it. He holds it in his hand, the necklace sparkling under the soft morning sun peeking into his room. He swallows the lump in his throat because he remembers having to take the necklace off of her; wanting to keep it as the last bit of Eunha that he had left. It has Seora's newborn foot print printed inside the lock.

Something he gifted her on her birthday as a token of his love, Seora's love, for her.

But, he was ready to reunite Eunha with her favorite necklace.

He lets out another breath when he carefully slips it into the pocket of his jacket, rushing through the house and back out the door. Your mom is still tending to her flowers and plants, but she's more distracted over the sick plants than Yunho's presence now. He gives your mom one last wave before slipping back into the car, noticing you're still bent down in hiding.

"You know she's busy tending to her plants, right?"

"You can never be too sure with her." Yunho laughs when he begins to drive off. You let out a small groan when you sit up, buckling your seatbelt as you sit back and finally relax.

"You could just.. tell her?" Yunho gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze that makes you chuckle a bit.

"I will. Just.. when the timing feels right. I know she loves you and Seora to death, but trust me, I don't think she believes in me enough to think that I could care for you and Seora."

"Well, I beg to differ." Pause. "I do plan to open up to Seora about it, too."

"W-would she be ready?"

"I don't know, but I don't like keeping any secrets from her. In the end, I know she'd open up to you and warm up to you."

"Hm. I hope so." He stays silent as he continues to drive off to the cemetery, also unsure of how things will play out. Not in your ability to care for Seora because he knows you'll do amazing, and you'll be able to give her the care and love she had been yearning for. You'll adjust beautifully.

But because of how Seora will react, your mom. All hurdles he knows that are inevitable.

He does a good job of keeping his worries on the down low, especially when he turns into the familiar entryway of the cemetery. It's been so, so long. Maybe since Eunha was placed in the columbarium niche, Yunho doesn't even really know. It feels like a blur because he's done all he can to avoid this place.

Having you here really makes a difference.

Yunho parks to the side of the columbarium entrance. There's only one other car parked nearby, and the entire feeling is eery [as with any cemetery visit]. You look at Yunho when you find his eyes planted on the front doors, sliding your hand into his and giving it a good squeeze of reassurance. He responds with a very tiny, easy-to-miss toothless smile before walking in and leading the way. The columbarium is cold, and it smells lifeless. Though, the bright flowers and decorations on every niche give it a bit more color. He turns the corner at the end of the hallway before bringing you down another and doing a left turn. His steps slow when he approaches the small hallway with a window at the end, a glass painting of Mother Mary coloring the surface. Yunho plants his feet in front of Eunha's niche, and.. he doesn't say anything at first.

So, you let him hold that space, give him time to process. You rub at his arm in a soothing motion before he gently lets go of your hand and unlocks the glass-front niche with his key. He grabs the framed photo of her, along with another photo of the two of them hugging toddler Seora.

"She's beautiful, Yu." You look at Eunha's picture, admiring the way Yunho looks at it with stars in his eyes. You can see Seora in the both of them, and it aches your heart knowing she didn't get as much time with her mom.

"That's Eunha." He looks at you with a soft smile.

"Seora is a good mix of you two."

"Yeah. I used to tell Eunha she was my twin, but I see remnants of Eunha in her the more she grows up." He lets out a breath before setting the photos back down inside the niche neatly, feeling a bit bad and guilty for leaving it so bare besides the two items. He's sure Seora will bring more life to it, though. "Eunha." He says, running his thumb over the surface of her urn. "I'm here. I'm sorry it's been so long." He digs into his pocket and takes the necklace out, laying it nicely along the bottom of the urn. "Brought you your favorite necklace." You softly smile to yourself, remaining silent to give Yunho his time with Eunha. "I promise I'll bring Seora next time. She's growing up so well." He chuckles a bit. "I see you in her more and more every day, and I know she misses you. She thinks about you all the time." He pauses.

You think he wants to save the rest for when Seora is with him. Or, maybe when he's alone. And he deserves that. He deserves that time and to sit in peace with her.

Yunho doesn't say anything else and continues to poke at the necklace before pressing his hand against her urn once more and shutting her niche close. Locked.

"Think we can sit here for a bit?"

"Of course. Whatever you wanna do." Yunho pulls up the two chairs nearby and you sit with him in front of Eunha. He takes another moment before he's diving into memories and stories he's shared with Eunha, and you can tell how much it still aches Yunho to have lost his bestfriend. You can't even imagine how it feels, and even as early as it is, you can't imagine losing Yunho like that already. It's too scary a thought.

But, the stories bring some comfort and you love that he's comfortable enough to share this with you.

He revisits the way they met, the way Eunha got pregnant early and how their family seemed to be against them. How they pushed through and persevered no matter how difficult it got. Seora. Enjoying time outdoors, trying to explore as much as they can in between working hard just to expose Seora to the world. Show her new things together. Their trips, activities. Crafts she'd do with little Seora.

He already touched on this before so he doesn't go into too much detail, just enough. Enough to be reminiscent of other stories, memories. It gives you and Yunho an extra 15 minutes with Eunha before Yunho is satisfied.

"Alright. Ready?"

"You sure you're good?" He nods, standing and reaching for your hand. He bids his last farewell to Eunha for now, pressing his fingers to his lips before running it across the glass. "You okay?" You ask him softly, gently squeezing at his arm as you walk out side by side.

"Yeah. I feel a lot better, actually." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you for coming with me and for doing this with me. You have no idea how much I appreciate you for it."

"Of course." You give him a smile before he kisses you again, this time on the forehead. He gives the small of your back a little tap before opening the passenger door to let you slip in. He lets out a small breath when he settles in the driver's seat, starting his journey back to your place to let you go for the day.

And he already misses you.

When you approach the familiar, narrow street and building, Yunho parks his car to the side before helping you out of the passenger's seat. He quietly walks behind you, hands dug deep into his pocket until you reach the door. You turn to him, a soft smile on your face as Yunho looks down at you.

"Thanks again for coming with me today, baby."

"You're welcome."

"Any other plans for today?"

"Wonwoo texted me saying he wanted to come over. He said he'd buy me food if he can swing by."

"Can't go wrong with that." You nod.

"What time do you have to pick up Seora?"

"Whenever she texts me." He shrugs. "Which, she's very much in no rush to do." You chuckle.

"She'll come around soon."

"Yeah." He says, wrapping his arms around you before dipping forward and kissing you sweetly. "I'll see you at work tomorrow? Wanna do our usual lunch dates?" You smile and nod.

"I'd love that." You tiptoe to kiss him on lips again, his large hands coming up to cup your cheeks. If it hadn't been for his phone, you wouldn't have pulled away— maybe invited him back inside. But alas, you rest your head against his chest as he continues to hold you and answers his phone.

"Speak of the beast." He jokes, making you chuckle. "Hey ace. You're ready now? That's surprising." He laughs. "Of course I miss you and want you home, I was just joking. I wasn't expecting you to call me so quickly cause you're usually attached to Chan-mi's hip." You slowly pull away and look at him, admiring his softness. His beauty. His kind, warm soul. "Okay, I'll be on my way." He ends the call, looking down at you with starry eyes. He kisses the tip of your nose before smiling, brushing your hair back. You love the way he looks at you. "That timing."

"Oh, you can always blame it on the timing." You laugh. "Get to Seora. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. Bye baby." He slowly steps backward while biting his lip. You slip into your place and wave before shutting the door close and texting your brother to come through.

It gets harder and harder to leave you.

But, Yunho can't wait to hang out with Seora for the rest of the afternoon. It always tugs on his heart strings when she's eager to get home to him so they can spend time together.

He can't wait until both worlds collide in the best possible way.

When Yunho leaves, Wonwoo pulls up to your place within the next 30 minutes. He's got a bag with two big bowls of black bean noodles, purely self-indulgent but you won't complain about getting free food [ever]. He plops himself next to you on the couch, slurping away as soon as he removes the lid from the bowl. He starts talking to you about the promotion he's getting, along with a separate surprise you were definitely not expecting [but you're happy for him].

The promotion you expected, yes. Your brother is always working so damn hard, being the team player that he is.

This other surprise, no. Because all he does is work and hang out with his boys doing whatever boys do. Travel, fish, camp.

"I met this girl on Tinder."

"You said what now? Since when were you even on Tinder?"

"Me and some of the boys decided to hop on for a week just to see how it is. See if there's any potential."

"Uh huh?" You raise a brow before taking another bite of your noodles. "So, how was the app in general?"

"Fine. Nothing too special. But, yeah. I met someone on there, and we got as far as exchanging numbers. Been texting every day. She seems cool. We vibe well and have lots in common."

"That's cute. What's her name?"

"Chaeyoung." You nod.

"So, what're you gonna do? Are you gonna take her out and see if it develops, or is this purely casual? Were you on there looking for something casual?"

"I just put unsure."

"You can do that? That makes it worse!"

"No, it doesn't! At least I'm being honest about it, right? Besides, I can't really tell what's gonna happen right away. I just wanna keep myself open to the possibilities."

"Touché." You drink some of your Coke Zero. "So, back to the plan. What're you thinking about doing at this moment in time?"

"Yeah, I wanna kick it with her and see where it goes."

"Good for you, baby brother." He laughs.

"Aye, this doesn't let you off the hook. What's going on with you and Yunho now? Are you guys official?" You dig your fork into your noodles, shifting your attention away from your brother so that he doesn't see the small smile building on your face.

"Yeah."

"Nice. I like him. I can tell he's a genuinely good guy." You nod.

"He is. And the best dad." You continue to look down, which triggers your brother to ask—

"So, what's the issue?"

"What? There is none." You bluff.

"You must forget how bad of a liar you actually are." He snorts. "Plus, you mentioned it at the club. Seora. Mom." He mimics you, making you roll your eyes.

"Well, it's true. I don't know how his daughter would feel, but I can't imagine she'd be happy about it."

"She'll just need time because she's young. She doesn't know how to navigate big changes properly yet."

"I don't know. I'm just scared, and I already feel guilty for changing the dynamic already."

"It'll be fine, I promise. Just don't rush her, and she'll be good over time." You nod.

"Then, you know mom."

"Yeah, I do."

"She's gonna give me an earful and call me out. She's gonna say I don't know how to take care of a child, let alone an 11-year old that isn't mine."

"Don't worry about it. I'll talk to her when the time comes. You know she says things without thinking first. Once you knock a bit of sense into her, she'll step back and think."

"I guess so. We'll see how it unfolds. Can't say I'm not scared, though." Wonwoo nudges you playfully.

"You scared? Never." You laugh, always grateful your brother is there to remind you of who you are. "It'll all be okay. It'll play out the way it should."

"Yeah."

"For now, you're happy with him and you're solid. Take that. Keep going with it."

"I will." You give him a soft smile before laying your head on his shoulder, the energy more lighthearted when Wonwoo jokingly cringes and shrugs you off.

Speaking of Yunho, he's currently at the grocery store grabbing more ingredients for dinner tonight and running through the list he didn't get to since he spent his weekend with you. Seora is wandering around aimlessly, trying to slip in some snacks before her dad can reject her choice. She asked for steak tonight, which caught Yunho by surprise. Steak, mashed potatoes and some veggies specifically. She claims she saw it on the show last night and it made her crave it ever since. So, Yunho being the dad that he is, finds ways to deliver. He finds the juiciest cuts of steak while grabbing other ingredients to make the mashed potatoes from scratch, along with a mix of vegetables he can boil. When Yunho is heading to the checkout line, he notices how many additional items have piled into the cart— making him roll his eyes and laugh playfully as he checks out. During their ride home, Seora continues to tell him about her weekend with Chan-mi and how her parents are always so sweet to each other.

She says it almost reminds her of him and mom.

Yunho isn't sure how she remembers it so well, but who is he to say? She'll remember small, odd details like the shirt he wore on their camping trip a trillion years ago, or how she fell at the park and nicked her knee on that play structure when she was 3.

He thinks tonight'll be a perfect time to ask if she wants to go see her mom next weekend.

When they get home, they each shower and get comfortable for the evening— Yunho throwing on his usual hoodie and sweats before throwing down in the kitchen. Seora sits in the living room, finishing up some homework in between watching and conversing with her dad. She wants to be close to him even though she's a little distracted and is getting hungrier by the minute from the smell of the food being cooked. She watches her dad go to work in the kitchen, laughing when he animatedly reacts and tries to keep himself together [aka not burn the food].

"Dad, do you need help?" She asks while laughing, writing away for her homework.

"Nope! All good! Almost done."

"I believe in ya, champ!" She smiles at him before returning her attention to the TV.

"Means a lot, baby girl." Yunho laughs. It isn't long before he's setting the food neatly onto a plate, wiping the sides down clean in order to present a picture perfect meal to his little one. He calls for her to come join him at the table, the TV still on as she shuts her notebook close and runs over. She gasps, taking a picture of the food before thanking her dad for the delicious meal tonight. They sit quietly at the table for a few seconds, saying grace before they dig in and enjoy their 5-star meal.

He watches carefully as Seora takes the first bite, nervous about how it tastes for her. But, her eyes glow in response and she claps in approval.

"Oh my god, this is so good! Thank you, daddy."

"You're welcome." He smiles.

"Literally have the best dad ever."

"Yeah, you're spoiled."

"And you keep doing it!" He snorts.

"You're always gonna be my baby, how could I not?" She giggles.

"So, what'd you do this weekend? Is Uncle Hwa still in trouble?" Yunho cocks a brow up before slicing another bit of his steak.

"Uh, yeah. He is, and he will be for awhile."

"Ouuuu."

"That's why you shouldn't always listen to him and take his advice."

"I mean, he doesn't give me advice about that stuff."

"Good, he better not or I'll drop kick him." Seora laughs. "To answer your other question, I just.. hung out and did my own thing. Cleaned." He avoids contact and eats away.

"Huh. Nothing at all?"

"Nope."

"Why didn't you do the groceries?"

"I knew you'd have a request so I waited."

"Hm." She tilts her head. "What's that on your neck?" Seora peeks into his hoodie, making him shy away from his daughter.

"Excuse you, what's with the questions? Is this how you show your affectionate for me?" He furrows his brows at her. "It's a rash." He tugs and fixes his hoodie.

"Please. Kinda gnarly for a rash. Looks like a hickey."

"Don't please me." He scoffs a bit with laugh.

"You never get rashes."

"There's a first time for everything."

"You're so suspect, dad."

"I'm suspect?" Yunho cocks his head to the side, eyeing her. "How do you even know what a hickey looks like?"

"TV shows, movies?"

"The hell are you watching without me?" Seora snorts.

"Goodness, what do I do with you?" Yunho shakes his head.

"You aren't supposed to know that." The two look at each other— Yunho's brows furrowed, Seora with an amused smile. "Anyway, no. I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Like, that? That kind of talk? Hickey talk?"

"No! Stop." He waves his hand. "Stop right now. Stop saying that. You're too young and this isn't what I wanted to talk to you about. Hell, as a matter of fact, let's quickly settle on this now. I won't give you that talk until you're 30." Seora laughs.

"Okay, jeez. Calm down, I'm kidding!" She surrenders. "What did you wanna talk to me about?"

"How've you been feeling?"

"About?"

"Just life, in general."

"Fine."

"No, seriously."

"Dad, I just told you." She chuckles, a bit confused as she pokes into her mashed potatoes and takes a big bite.

"Give me more."

"Mm." She hums again. "Well, school is good. I've been getting good grades, right?" She points to a copy of her latest report card on the fridge. "Basketball's good, I have a good feeling about this playoff run."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm! Friends are good. You're good. We're eating steak and mashed potatoes. I dunno, I can't complain."

"You don't feel like you're lacking anywhere?" Yunho doesn't really know where he's going with this— hence, why he keeps avoiding some contact. Maybe he wants to hear Seora say she wishes she had her mom, or even a motherly figure to do things. Some kind of window to talk about you.

"Not really, no."

Maybe he shouldn't.

There's nothing wrong. Seora doesn't feel like she's lacking anywhere. Why would Yunho do anything to ruin that right now?

He'll just rip the bandaid off at some point. He will. Not now.

"Okay then."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am. As long as you are." She nods, continuing to eat. "Got another question for you."

"Shoot!"

"Do you.. wanna go visit your mom next weekend?" Her eyes light up, but she tilts her head. Almost like all of this is unreal.

"Y-you mean it? You're really gonna take me to see mom?" Yunho nods.

"Yeah."

"Okay." She smiles. "Yes please. I'd like to see her. I.. made some small decorations for her. Hoping I'd get to put it near her urn."

"Then, we can go decorate it together."

"I'd really like to."

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