#I CAN’T WAIT THIS LONG FOR THE NEXT CHAP | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luvergirl-866 · 5 days ago

Text

something like love

part - 8

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 7.0k

c/w - angst, language

a/n - i am so sorry for the wait you guys, but i’m so happy to finally be putting this chap out!! i hope yall enjoy 😈

When Paige wakes up before the sun rises, she knows something is wrong.

Ever since she was a little girl, Paige has been a sleeper. While the other kids were fighting off naps, she was begging for them. While the other kids began bothering their parents during the early hours of the morning, she would be konked out until noon if her dad let her.

And then she met Azzi. Became her friend. Had their first sleepover.

And ever since that morning so long ago, when Azzi had shyly jostled her awake so they could get breakfast, Paige will not wake up early unless it’s Azzi doing the waking.

But this morning, it’s silent—eerily so. The AC is humming and there’s traffic noises from outside, but something’s missing. In Paige’s half-sleep state, it takes her a moment to realize what exactly it is: the absence of Azzi bustling around, getting ready for the day, calling room service to ask about breakfast options.

Paige cracks her eyes open, to find they feel dry. Shit, did she sleep with her contacts in?

No—she didn’t. She took them out as soon as they got back last night.

As soon as they got back. Tipsy and flirty. Paige, still too aware of the feelings brewing uncomfortably in her belly, asking if they should drink some more, just the two of them. Azzi, reaching into her pocket with a sly smile and pulling out a joint. Paige, thinking she looked so fucking beautiful, moonlit and blowing out smoke from between her lips. Azzi, confessing things, Paige, asking for more. Azzi, shy and giggly—

Paige, giving in to her urges. Letting the marijuana in her system cloud any rational thought she could have. Pressing their lips together and going lower, lower, down between Azzi’s thighs, watching in awe or wonder or reverence as she bared herself completely. Like she trusted Paige. Like Paige deserved it.

Carefully, almost as if afraid, Paige glances around the dark room. She’s on the edge of the bed, facing the window. Senses suddenly overflowing with something acutely familiar, Paige can picture the girl on the bed next to her, almost knows exactly how she’s laying without even seeing her yet.

Deep breath. Don’t get sick, Paige. Be normal.

Roll over. Onto her back, at first, to stare at the ceiling, and then, finally, onto her side.

And there she is. Lying on her back, the sheets bundled around her waist, one arm over her face while the other spreads out to Paige’s side of the bed—Azzi is breathtaking like this.

Breathtaking, and beautiful, and vulnerable. Oh-so vulnerable, while Paige lays beside her, fully clothed. No part of her bare, because she was unwilling to show herself to Azzi last night. She wonders why, now. She doesn’t really have to.

Cautiously, Paige reaches a hand out, brushing a strand of hair from Azzi’s face almost instinctively. Azzi doesn’t stir, and it emboldens her to move her hand lower, fingers tracing delicately over her jawline, down the line of her neck, to her collarbones. It’s only when Azzi does stir that Paige pulls away, reluctantly, because she’s not sure if she’ll get to see Azzi again like this.

And it’s that thought—the thought of Azzi waking up, naked beside a clothed Paige, angry and hurt—that scares her out of bed, ambling quietly over to her suitcase and throwing on a pair of running clothes. She glances furtively at Azzi while she gets dressed, but not once does she wake up, and Paige doesn’t know whether it’s relief or bitter disappointment she feels when she leaves the room without having words with the younger girl.

Paige comes to a stop outside the hotel, Google mapping a running route, and while she’s at it her fingers move of their own accord, navigating to her messages and then to Azzi’s contact. But as she stares at the screen, she can’t find anything to say. Seeing that their last text thread was from last night, she scrolls up to read it:

azziiii where’d u go

u been in the bathroom too long

shoulda let me come w you

for real we’re abt to play a drinking game come back

i’ve been gone for like five minutes paige

the line to the bathroom was long

u guys in the living room??

yeah

bro it was definitely longer than 5 mins

not letting u out of my sight again fr 🙄

ok drama queen

just missed me that much huh?

yeah and what

missed my girl

ok p chill

i’m omw

hell yeah we’re up

The conversation ends there, and Paige distinctly remembers it, how Azzi had left to use the restroom and Paige had sat there, talking to old friends and boring strangers, not even pretending to laugh at their jokes while she waited anxiously for Azzi to come back. And how when she did, she took a mental snapshot of Azzi’s smile when they saw each other, her dimples lighting up the entire room.

The memory, unlike all the alcohol-hazy ones from last night, is vivid. Too much so. Paige shakes out her limbs, stuffs her airpods in her ears and her phone in her pocket, and runs.

She hates running. With her heart and soul, she hates it. If ever she needs to take her mind off of bad things, she goes for a run, because almost nothing could be worse than the feeling of her feet hitting pavement, her chest hurting, her side seizing.

Today, it doesn’t work. Even with music pounding through her earbuds, memories come back to her in crushing tidal waves: Azzi sat on her lap on the couch, Paige’s hands on her ass, Azzi’s lips on her neck. The two of them pressed close together when they migrated to the kitchen, Paige wrapped around her from behind, listening to Azzi talk to a few other students. She remembers how at one point some guy had approached them while they were snuggled up on the couch and asked Azzi for her snap; remembers how she’d practically snarled at the guy telling him to go the fuck away, Azzi teasing her about it afterwards and asking, What if I had been interested? but there was a satisfied smile on her face when Paige only pulled her in closer, as if she’d known exactly the reaction she’d elicit.

She remembers the way they’d held hands in the Uber, and all the way up to their hotel room.

And maybe it was inevitable, their only option, really, to end up the way they did—Azzi spread out naked on a hotel bed and Paige situated between her legs, licking her clean after she came.

Paige doesn’t know why she asked for a second time. Even in her slightly cross-faded, pussy drunk haze, Paige recognized that it might be because this is the only chance she’d get. Because fucking your best friend once is a simple mistake, something the two of them can laugh about later, even. Fucking your best friend twice is a slippery slope.

Azzi had given her another one, even though she was surely overstimulated and tired. Paige never wanted to stop tasting her, but once they were done, Azzi whimpering above her, she got this strange feeling—a need for affection, maybe even comfort? Like she not only wanted sex and fun but also some emotions attached to it, too.

Paige shakes her head, tries to survey her surroundings, tries to enjoy the view of mothers walking their babies, friends going to early trips at the mall, people commuting to work. But with each pound of her feet, something new hits her and it feels like getting smacked in the face.

As Paige crawled back up to Azzi, as they whispered sleepily to each other, Paige didn’t acknowledge the heat between her own legs, didn’t think about how the fact that she wanted affection from a hookup is somehow a larger revelation to her than the fact that she and Azzi just fucked, and she of course didn’t allow it when Azzi offered to return the favor.

She could never ask that of her. So she lulled her asleep instead, holding onto her like she’s afraid she’d disappear—and maybe she was. She wouldn’t have blamed her.

The truth is, Paige thinks that this was a long time coming. Maybe she knew it when they were fourteen and fifteen and slept on each other on the flight home from USA basketball, after a few weeks of knowing each other. Maybe she knew when Azzi’s family invited her to the state fair for the first time and Paige won Azzi a prize before they held hands on the Ferris Wheel. Maybe she knew when she spent the entire summer at Azzi’s house, and they spent nights tracing shapes and hidden letters into each other’s skin, trying and failing to guess what the other was saying. Once, Azzi had written something longer than usual, and when Paige had been unable to guess, she’d begged for Azzi to tell her what she’d said. But Azzi had stubbornly shook her head, told her that was against the rules.

When it came Paige’s turn, she lifted Azzi’s shirt and traced three words into the skin of Azzi’s back. Azzi had always been good at this game, and so there was a long pause afterward, and Paige thought maybe something real was about to happen, but then Azzi had simply rolled over and said, “No idea.”

Paige didn’t believe her then. Doesn’t believe it even now.

If she’s being honest with herself (and she’s never been very good at that) things between them have always been electric, charged by small moments between them, things that always went unacknowledged because both of them were too scared to bring this sacred little thing they had out into the open.

Paige stops to catch her breath, a little lightheaded, clutching her sides in pain. Running has nothing to do with the ache that’s overtaken her or the way she’s finding it hard to breathe.

The sun is up now, and she walks off the sidewalk into the little park she’s stopped at, heading over to a large oak tree in the middle which will hopefully provide some solace from the morning heat. She wipes at her brow, and the shade helps, but her palms are sweaty, back of her neck still hot, and it might be from the memories of last night, the taste she swears is still lingering on her tongue.

It’s not long before her phone buzzes and she knows it’s Azzi before she even checks. She’s always been good at that—sensing when it’s her best friend on the other end of the line. It’s a blessing and today it’s a curse, because she’s nowhere near ready to face the hurricane of emotions wreaking havoc on her mind. She takes a few deep breaths after the phone buzzes, putting it off, afraid of what she will find: an angry message, how dare you; a heartbroken one, why’d you do this to me; the truth, you’re a bad friend, maybe even a bad person.

With one last steadying breath and trembling fingers, she pulls up the message, only to find four words, so non-threatening they’re almost vulnerable: Hey, where’d you go?

She should be relieved, but her heart sort of sinks a little more at that. She deserves the anger, doesn’t she? The heartbreak, the truth?

Leaning against the tree, letting the rough bark bite into her skin, Paige checks the time and types out a reply. Went for a run, I’ll head back now

But she won’t head back now. She needs some more time. So, she deletes the message and tries again. Just went out, want me to grab u some breakfast??

The answer will be no; Azzi is picky about her breakfast, will only eat a certain few foods and never store bought.

So, sighing, Paige sends a simple: Went for a run. Be back by eleven. And before Azzi can reply, she turns her phone on silent, shoves it into her pocket.

She wonders what Azzi is feeling now. If its anything similar to Paige’s train of thought, or more likely, worse: that maybe this was all a mistake, that they can’t continue to be friends like this, that last night was real and that’s really fucking scary.

If Azzi just woke, she’ll be needing more time to think things over. So, jogging back over to the sidewalk, Paige starts running again, further away from the hotel. Further away from Azzi.

—————————————

When Paige steps into their hotel room, her shoulders are tensed, breath held as she waits for confrontation. But with a quick glance around the room, she realizes she can put this off a little longer—the bathroom door is closed, running water coming from inside. She sighs, shoulders relaxing, and closes the door as quietly as she can.

But it must not be quiet enough. Because a moment later, the faucet turns off, and then there’s a set of slow footsteps approaching the door. Paige tenses all over again, watching in what probably looks like terror when the bathroom door opens and there’s Azzi, in a hoodie and sweatpants, braids tied back, eyes and nose a devastating shade of red.

“Hey,” Paige starts, a softly as her strained voice will allow, but to her surprise, Azzi gives a firm shake of her head.

“No,” she says simply, sniffling, looking Paige up and down. “Get in the shower. We check out soon.”

“I…I know,” Paige stammers, caught off guard by the way Azzi looks both heartbroken and angry. But, of course, she shouldn’t be. Not after what she did to her last night. Taking a tentative step forward, Paige tries to meet Azzi’s eyes. “Az, listen. I’m sorry about—“

“Stop,” Azzi hisses, stepping out of the bathroom, closer to Paige. “I don’t want to hear it. Not—not fucking now.”

Paige opens her mouth, but Azzi holds her hand up, swollen eyes flashing. “Get ready. We’ll leave once you’re done.”

Everything good and stupid in Paige tells her to fall to her knees, beg for forgiveness, take whatever anger Azzi has to give about last night. And maybe, a few years ago, she would’ve. But she’s never seen Azzi like this, and that alone raises enough alarm bells in her head to do exactly what she tells her to do, hanging her head as she sidesteps her into the bathroom, turning the shower on to cold to try and ease the burning behind her eyes, in her throat.

Leaning against the shower wall, Paige rubs a hand over her face, and wishes she were anybody else.

————————————

It’s one hour into the drive home that Azzi speaks to her—really speaks to her—for the first time all day. And when she does, it’s so unexpected that Paige flinches hard enough to jerk the car aside.

“Let’s go to the park, first. So we can talk.”

Once Paige has righted the car, she risks a glance over at Azzi to try to get an idea of what’s going through her head, but her face is turned away, gazing out the window.

Turning back to the road, Paige doesn’t respond. She just drives.

It’s a hot day but once they pull into the park an hour later, the basketball court is empty, and she’s barely stopped the car before Azzi’s getting out. She goes to the backseat and grabs one of the balls Paige keeps there.

“Az,” Paige says, unbuckling.

Azzi looks at her and slams the door shut. Paige watches her walk away through the window before getting out and following her.

It’s clear at this point that talking won’t get Paige anywhere, which is okay and also not: she’s bad with heartfelt stuff, anything too touchy-feely—it makes her uncomfortable; but talking is also what she does best. She’s never been one to stand in awkward silence or take it when she’s told to shut up, because she always has something to say and it’s why Azzi often affectionately refers to her as ‘my yapper’.

There’s nothing affectionate in the way Azzi looks at her now, nothing soft in those doe eyes, nothing sweet in the dimples borne of a scowl. Paige doesn’t know what to do with this version of Azzi.

After a moment, Azzi starts dribbling the ball, and the mere sound is enough to get Paige kneeling a little bit, body reacting before her mind can, ready for a game. But Azzi doesn’t pass to her. “You wanna play?” she asks tentatively.

Azzi stares at her for a moment, then slowly shakes her head. She drops the ball and it rolls a few feet away from them. “No. Not really.”

Paige nods. Shoves her hands in her pockets, then takes them out.

It’s a torturously long stretch of silence before Azzi says, “What are we doing, Paige?”

Paige looks at her best friend, but she finds she can’t really look her in the eye, and she hates that, so she looks at the asphalt underneath her instead.

“And don’t say we’re pretending,” Azzi continues when Paige opens her mouth to say just that, “because last night—that wasn’t pretend.”

The odd thing is her tone lilts up a little at the end, as if she’s asking a question rather than making a statement. But maybe that’s not odd because Paige wonders, too.

Trying to recall everything she thought about during the long ride here, Paige glances up, takes a small step towards Azzi. “I’m sorry.” She tries to sound both casual and heartfelt, but instead it comes out all raspy and choked, and she cannot cry right now. “For this whole trip, this whole thing—I shouldn’t have asked you to do this for me.”

Azzi inhales like she’s going to interrupt. Now, it’s Paige’s turn to stop her. “Just, let me, okay?”

Azzi’s brows are furrowed, but she nods.

Almost immediately, Paige regrets saying anything. It’s now, with Azzi staring at her expectantly, that she realizes she has nothing to say. She has been thinking about it nonstop, all day, and still she doesn’t understand everything going through her mind—the guilt, the fear, the feelings.

She decides it’s safest to start with the guilt. “I need to say I’m sorry. About last night…” she fumbles, tries her hardest to right herself, “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this for me. Shoulda treated you better, instead of taking out my shit with my mom on you. And I shouldn’t have let things get so…real.”

Azzi doesn’t react much. Her stance doesn’t change, expression doesn’t really waver. Eventually she steps forward, so they’re an arms-length away from each other. “Paige,” she says.

Paige shuffles from one foot to the other. “Yeah?”

“You’re sorry,” she reiterates, and Paige nods, a little confused. Fuck, she’s really never been good with words. “You’re sorry for—last night?”

Something inside her wants to correct Azzi, tell her if she could go back and do last night over, she wouldn’t change it, and she doesn’t think she’s ever had to act when it comes to loving her best friend. But she doesn’t say that, instead opting for something less weighted, more trivial—“And for asking you to pretend to love me.”

Azzi’s stare is flat for another second before her eyes widen, and she turns around, pushing her hands into to her hair and shaking her head. And Paige can’t see her but it almost sounds like she’s…laughing?

“Azzi,” Paige mutters.

Azzi turns on her, then, and there is a smile on her face but it’s bitter, nothing humorous in it. “I can’t believe you.”

It’s Paige’s turn to stare. “What?”

“Paige,” Azzi says slowly. Then again, “Paige. You left me this morning. You fucked me last night and then you left me to wake up alone and you couldn’t even look me in the eye all day and now, what? Now you’re fucking—“ two steps forward, and then she’s jabbing an accusatory finger into Paige’s chest, “apologizing about last night? About everything? Like it was all a mistake?”

Paige can’t help but take a step back, heart racing. “I don’t…I mean, exactly. We’re all weird now—honestly we have been since the first week we started pretending—and I don’t want us to be like that. I hate this, Az. I just wanna be normal again.”

Azzi takes a step toward her. “Have we ever been normal?”

That gives Paige pause. Hands, legs, intertwined; fingers creeping under shirts while they lay together at night; stealing glances when they think the other isn’t looking. All things Paige never let herself think about too hard, because it made her nervous, jumpy. And now, after so many years of buildup has finally come crashing down on both of them, they have no choice but to talk about it.

She has nothing to say.

When she’s met with silence, Azzi scoffs. “Even now, you’re too fucking stubborn to admit it.”

“What?” Paige nearly whispers. “I’m not being stubborn,” and she’s really not, “I just—things were good, between us. You’re my best friend and I’m trying to apologize for—for the way I’ve been acting, for being distant and…and rude, and for being a shitty friend and complicating things and—“

“I don’t care!” Azzi screeches, and it startles Paige into silence. “God, Paige, you are so fucking stupid sometimes. Did you ever stop to think about why I dropped everything and came to Montana for you? Why I let you kiss me and look at me and fucking go down on me last night?”

Paige opens her mouth, closes it, and something curls in her tummy, this coiling in her gut warning her of how dangerously close they’re getting to everything she wants to leave unsaid. “I don’t—“

“Of course not,” Azzi scoffs, and Paige hates the anger in her tone. “I should’ve known. Because you’re only ever thinking about yourself. Making sure everything you do aligns with your little moral compass to make you feel good about yourself—well, guess what, Paige? You did fuck up this time.”

Paige steps forward, trying to wrap her mind around anything else other than the way Azzi’s looking at her like she hates her. “I know, I know,” she says, pleading.

Azzi stands her ground when she says, “You left this morning.”

Paige nods, understanding now. “I know.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed—time to think.”

“And, until just now, you didn’t realize that might make me upset? Waking up alone after last night?”

Paige watches her, and seeing the way her eyes get shiny makes her own throat constrict. “I guess, no, but I—things were going to be awkward, and I felt bad, and I was scared.” She finally admits it, the fear, and it doesn’t do much to loosen the knot in her throat. “I thought it was a—a mistake.”

“Well I didn’t think last night was a mistake, Paige,” Azzi says lowly.

And it’s then—just then, seeing the way the tears threaten to fall but don’t, trapped behind the words she wants to say but can’t—that realization dawns on Paige. And it’s enough to make her chest constrict because, no, it can’t be true.

Still, like watching a car crash, Paige can’t bring herself to stop looking. “Why?” she whispers, already knowing the answer.

When Azzi looks up at her with a quivering bottom lip and nothing left in her eyes but heartbreak, it’s all the confirmation she needs.

Paige stumbles back, and Azzi lifts an arm like she’s going to reach out, but drops it helplessly as the first tear tracks down her face. “I thought—maybe, you knew. I thought you knew and you were acting the way you have been because—“ she hiccups like a little kid, and it breaks Paige’s heart, “because you were staring to feel the same. I thought, last night, there was something real. Did you not feel it, Paige?” she doesn’t give her time to answer before she’s continuing. “And now I’m wearing these clothes in this weather because I couldn’t stand to look at the marks you left on me and you’re standing here telling me you’re sorry for wanting to fuck me, and God, Paige—I’ve loved you since I was fourteen. I loved you since I was fourteen and I should’ve fucking known you’d end up doing this to me.”

“Azzi,” Paige chokes out, the knot unraveling and giving way to free-falling tears.

“Paige,” Azzi replies, and there’s desperation in her tone like she wants to reach out, but instead she wipes furiously at her face before crossing her arms, effectively creating a barrier between them. “I need to know.”

Watching tears stream down Azzi’s cheeks, it’s all Paige wants to do to comfort her, to wipe them away. But her own vision is blurring and Azzi has this look in her eyes—like she hates her, like she loves her and she hates herself for it.

“Know what?” she whispers, the sun beating down on the back of her neck in a way that makes her nauseous.

“If you—“ Azzi’s bottom lip quivers, “if you feel it, too. If you love me, too.”

When Paige blinks the moisture from her eyes, there’s a moment of darkness and behind it she sees every moment, every fucking moment where they toed an invisible line, only to never speak of it again, to act as if nothing happened.

She opens her eyes, and realizes maybe they’ve spent their whole lives pretending, and only really stopped when they were just supposed to start.

There have always been feelings. Always an intensity when it came to Azzi, evident in the way Paige would get jealous of any of her other friends, the blowout fights they’d have over small things, because they couldn’t talk about the big things.

Paige has always wanted Azzi as something more. But—love.

Love is so complicated and scary and Paige doesn’t think she’d even be that good at it, anyway. And what if they did this—addressed the feelings between them and dated, for real? Azzi would be perfect, like she always is. Kind and gentle and soft, and Paige can only exhale at the thought of having her best friend that way.

But she inhales deeply, and imagines how she would is. She’s stubborn, hard-headed. Bad with words, bad with apologies.

“Azzi,” Paige says for the nth time, the only word she knows anymore, so she says it like a prayer. “We did one thing last night and I couldn’t even do that right. I couldn’t do any of this right, this entire trip. You don’t—you don’t want me. Trust me. You don’t.”

“You don’t know what I want!” Azzi cries, uncrossing her arms to push again at Paige’s chest. “You’re not perfect, Paige, and I am really fucking mad at you,” she bites, “but you have no idea how much I want you.”

“And you have no idea how much that scares me,” Paige replies, eyes downcast, a few tears dripping onto her sneakers. “I’m good at being your friend, Az. Let me be your friend.”

Azzi lets out a sob at that. “Paige, please, I know—you have to feel something, you don’t act the way you do and not feel anything, I—“

“I’m not saying I don’t feel it,” Paige admits shallowly. “It’s just like I said. I’m scared.”

For the next few moments, there’s silence, and in it Paige hears the birds singing, the distant voices of kids laughing at the playground. But then there’s a sniffle, a scuffle of shoes, and she dares to look up only to find Azzi facing away from her.

“Okay,” Azzi says, voice cracking heartbreakingly. “That’s it, I guess.”

Paige clutches at her belly. “What do you mean?”

“After everything that’s happened,” Azzi whimpers, “you think we can just go back to normal?”

It’s stupid, but that’s what Paige was hoping for. But she knows neither of them can forget this, leave it behind. And she doesn’t know if Azzi can forgive her, either.

She wouldn’t blame her if she never did. Even though the notion kills her.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can say, but it’s weak, broken, and Azzi just shakes her head, not bothering to look back as she heads slowly to the car.

“I’m tired, Paige,” she says. “Just take us home.”

————————————

When Paige walks through the front door, the house feels empty—her parents are gone again for work—but when she walks into the kitchen she finds Lauren on a barstool, eating cereal and watching TikTok. Paige tries to slip past her but Lauren perks up, spinning around and grinning when she spots Paige. “You’re back!”

“Yup,” Paige says, trying for a smile.

Lauren hops off the barstool and as she walks up to her, she gets this weird look on her face, like she’s studying her—but then she’s hugging her and Paige breathes a sigh of relief. “You guys have fun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where’s Azzi?”

“She’s, uh…out in the car.”

Lauren pulls away to scrunch her nose. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Paige says evasively, unraveling herself from her little sister’s arms. “Listen, I gotta headache, I’ma be up in my room. But lemme know if you need anything.”

Paige makes her way to the staircase, and Lauren follows after, the way little sisters do. She hears the footsteps padding behind her and remembers when she was a teenager, and Lauren was just a toddler, and their mom would always joke that Paige had a little shadow because Lauren would follow her everywhere.

Back then, it was annoying—and it is now too—but it’s also comforting, endearing.

Still, Paige gets midway up the stairs before turning around to face her sister. “I wanna be alone, Laur.”

Lauren frowns up at her. “Why?”

Paige picks at her thumbnail. “Don’t you wanna be alone sometimes?”

“I guess.”

“Well, this is like that. Just need some time.”

She takes a couple more stairs, but Lauren is still following behind her, and she turns around again. “Dude.”

“I wanna hang out with you!”

“I’m sorry,” Paige says, and she really is, guilty about the disappointment etched on Lauren’s face. “I promise we’ll hang later, okay?”

“Like later today?”

“I dunno, Laur.” The thought of doing anything but moping with her own thoughts sounds exhausting, and it’s evident in her exasperated tone. “I’m tired, we had a big night.”

“Really?” Lauren’s face morphs into a teasing smile. “Doing what?”

Paige fumbles, covers it by reaching to play with the cross at her neck. “Don’t, Lauren.”

“I’m sure you spent allll night kissing your girlfriend, didn’t you?”

Paige takes a breath so deep it’s nearly a gasp, for air, maybe, and she spins on her heel, taking the last steps two at a time. “I’m going to my room now,” she says, eternally grateful that Lauren doesn’t follow her this time. As a last thought, she calls over her shoulder, “And don’t bother Azzi, either.”

Once she’s in her room, she heaves against the closed door, looks around. They’ve been here eight days now, and it doesn’t seem like long but they’ve already left their imprint on this room: their scents mingling into the sheets, bed unmade, toiletries scattered in the bathroom.

In her back pocket, her phone buzzes. For a wild moment she thinks it’s Azzi, calling to ask if she wants anything from the coffee shop or to lay out their plan for the day, but she remembers quickly enough that Azzi has no reason to be calling her. With trembling fingers, she pulls the phone out, and is relieved to see it’s Drew on the other end.

“Hey,” she says when she picks up, plopping down onto the bed as casually as possible.

“Guess what,” is what Drew starts out with, and Paige smiles tenderly as she watches her brother give her an expectant look.

“Aw, I missed you, too,” Paige says, and when Drew’s expression turns to a scowl she laughs. “Okay, what?”

“You’re ’posed to guess.”

Paige sighs; she hates this game. “Fine. Um, Dad got us a puppy?”

“No.” Drew frowns. “I wish.”

“Lame. You’re coming to see me?”

This makes Drew frown even harder. “No, but I wish that too.”

“We’re going to Disneyland?”

“Aw, I wanna go to Disneyland!” Drew is downright pouting now. “Your guesses suck.”

“You didn’t gimme any context!”

“The heck is context?” Drew looks at her as if she’s the dumb one, but before she can retaliate he says, “Fine, I’ll just tell you. Dad said when you get back he’s gonna get us those shoes we wanted.”

“Shit, really?” Paige should be reluctant to match with her eight-year-old brother, but in her opinion he’s way cooler than most eight-year-olds. And also, those shoes are pretty dope. “Sweet. I thought he wasn’t gonna cave.”

“Yeah, I gave him my cute eyes.”

“Thought he said you were too old to be cute.”

“He was lying, I guess.”

Drew widens his eyes and pouts, the look Paige taught him when he was a toddler because if she was too old to mooch her way into things, her baby brother would have to do her dirty work. And it looks different now, without the chubby cheeks and missing teeth, but it’s still just as adorable as it was then. “You’re a real one, Drewski.”

“Mm-hmm.” They settle into momentary silence, Drew’s eyes wandering from the phone to something ahead of him—Paige thinks maybe his TV—and his gaze stays faraway when he mumbles, “I miss you, Paigey.”

Staring at her little brother over the phone—the little brother who’s her best friend, who has never been complicated or scary, who is taller every time she comes home from college—Paige’s throat constricts again, a constant ache beginning to form there from how tightly knotted it’s been all day. “I miss you, too. But I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Still another week.”

“Less than that.”

“Feels like forever.”

“I know,” Paige sighs, suddenly grateful that her too-old-for-emotions little brother is avoiding eye contact, because she can see her own nose and eyes growing red over the screen. “We got the whole summer together, though. By the end of it you’ll be sick of me.”

Drew shakes his head firmly. “No I won’t.”

Again, Paige sighs, trying her hardest to exhale all the feelings creeping up on her. “Me neither.”

“I wish I could come to college with you.”

Paige gives an exaggerated groan at that, causing Drew to look back at her. “No you don’t, I promise. It’s boring.”

“You go to parties every weekend!”

Paige looks at him in surprise. “Who told you that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Was it Ice?”

“KK, actually.”

“Yeah, well, KK’s a dirty liar. I’m way too studious for parties or any of that.”

“KK also said you kiss a lot of girls.”

At this, Paige gasps, downright scandalized. “I do not!”

“Well, she said that you used to, before you dated Azzi.”

Her very name is enough to yank Paige out of this bubble Drew pulled her into, and it’s like getting out of a warm bed on a cold morning. “I guess so.”

“Where is Azzi, anyway? I wanna see her.”

“Uh,” Paige hesitates—she hates lying to her brother, because they may be over a decade apart but they are each other’s confidantes—but she can’t just go telling the truth. Not now, and certainly not to a third-grader. “She’s out right now.”

“Out where?”

“The…gym.”

“But you always go to the gym together.”

“Well, I didn’t feel like going.”

“Why not?”

“Drew,” Paige says, a little too firmly, immediately guilty at the confused look in his eyes, “listen,” she says more softly, “I’m sure you can talk to her later, okay? Just not right now.”

Paige expects more complaints, but what comes instead is a bout of silence and then, “Are you okay, Paigey?”

Drew leans closer to the screen to get a better look at her, and instinctively, Paige pulls the phone away from her face. “Yeah, I’m all good. Why?”

“You just seem a little sad.”

Sad generously understates Paige’s state of mind. But, at the same time, he’s right on the nose, reading her incredibly.

“Promise,” she lies. “I’m good.”

By the time they end the call, Drew still seems suspicious.

————————————

When, ten minutes later, Azzi still hasn’t come inside, Paige peeks out her bedroom window. The car is still in the driveway, and the sun is glaring unhelpfully on the front window but Paige can just make out Azzi’s form in the passenger seat. She can’t tell what she’s doing—she’d assumed she’d be calling her mom, because she knows Azzi and when she’s hurt she calls her mom.

Paige has never made Azzi call her mom before. She is officially the very person she’s always hated: somebody who could hurt her best friend, so heartless and cruel she could make the unshakeable Azzi Fudd cry.

She hates herself for it.

Hates herself enough, in fact, that she almost wants to go out there. To apologize a million times over—something she’ll end up doing anyway—and to comfort her and to let her break that last barrier away, the barrier that kept her from saying yes in the park, the root of all her fears and inhibitions. To ask Azzi to give her a chance and to be brave enough to take it. To risk everything they’ve so carefully built over the years for something that could be even better.

But then, Azzi glances up. Paige ducks away from the window, wincing at the sound of the car door slamming.

The front door follows soon thereafter, and Paige presses her ear to the bedroom door, trying to make out Azzi and Lauren’s conversation downstairs. She can’t hear them, though—she can only hear enough to know that Lauren is doing most of the talking. And she doesn’t have nearly long enough to prepare when Azzi’s familiar footsteps ascend the stairs, coming closer to her with each rapid thump of her heart.

Paige barely has the common sense to back away from the door just before she comes in. And then, it opens, and they’re standing face-to-face, Azzi’s eyes red-rimmed and stone-cold as they avoid Paige’s.

“Hey,” Paige says hesitantly.

When Azzi doesn’t answer, Paige steps out of the way, wondering if maybe Azzi wants to come in, but she stays put. Her gaze goes over Paige’s shoulder, to the bed. She looks exhausted.

“You tryna sleep?” Paige asks. Azzi only shrugs, making a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat.

“Aight, I’ll…leave, then.”

Still, Azzi doesn’t move from the doorway. Finally, her eyes find Paige’s, and she holds them there when she says, “I think…I think I’m done, Paige.”

She’d implied it, earlier—That’s it, then—but hearing her say it out loud like this is a whole other thing, and it makes Paige want to double over. It’s instinctive, the way she reaches out to beg Azzi to stay, to let her amend for her wrongdoings and make everything right again, but Azzi flinches back and her arm falls limply to her side. “Okay,” Paige says, helpless. “I was looking at flights, earlier—I could get you one for tonight, or tomorrow morning, I know you prefer morning flights. But if you want good seats you might have to wait a couple days, but I could maybe call the airline and see what I can do? Just, whatever you want.”

Azzi winces, shaking her head slowly. “No, I meant—I’ll stay, for the trip. So your parents don’t get suspicious.”

“You don’t—“

“But after that,” Azzi interjects, “I think I have to be done. With you.”

Paige doesn’t react much, not outwardly—she takes a small step that’s more of a stumble back, and her eyes widen—but on the inside it feels as if she’s being ripped in two. “Azzi.”

“Don’t,” Azzi murmurs. She kicks at the floor. “I—we—need this. If we ever want a chance at being us again, we need space, okay? We need time.”

Paige stammers, so many words lunging up her throat but stopping behind her lips, creating a torrent so strong she can only make a weak, helpless sound. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“I don’t blame you,” Azzi mutters, looking up at her as she takes a small, tentative step forward. “You can’t help how you feel.”

Paige wants to scream at her, to say I feel it, too, to take her by the shoulders and hold her close and whisper, I love you, too—but she can’t.

So instead she says, “I wasn’t—I meant—I’m sorry. For leaving you this morning, for acting distant a couple days ago—for sending so many mixed signals, for being rude to you at the lake and for being mean when we got here—“ as she says it, it all becomes very clear to her, just how much she has managed to damage the trust between them in such a short amount of time. “It might not help, but I need you to know, you know?”

Slowly, Azzi nods, and her hand brushes against Paige’s arm. “I know you are,” she whispers. “I just—I don’t know if I can…”

“It’s okay,” Paige is quick to fill the silence, her arm burning from where Azzi touched her, “I know, it’s okay.”

Azzi bites her lip, and when her eyes trail back to the bed Paige shuffles awkwardly. “Hey, how about I sleep downstairs tonight, okay?” when Azzi opens her mouth, Paige stops her. “We’ll tell my parents that you kicked me out because I was—snoring too loud, or something. I dunno.”

“But won’t they think—?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Paige waves her off, stepping aside, relieved when Azzi finally comes in. “You deserve some sleep.”

She doesn’t expect her to, but when Azzi doesn’t protest any further, doesn’t say I can’t sleep without you next to me, it comes with a bitter disappointment.

She really, really fucked up this time.

@azzibuckets @smiths-fan--13 @ch12334 @makethemhoesmad @the-other-half @rosemariiaa @router2260 @guesswhoitsn @patri-ots87 @unadulteratedcyclepaper @ijustreadignoreme @pazzilover101 @tropics43 @bueckersss @bigheadfudd @surferandskater5 @iknowth35nd @rhyxanwaters @graceinshade @azzilov

#lilah’s works #something like love #sll #pazzi #pazzi fics #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #angst #wlw #fake dating #uconn wbb #wcbb #wbb

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lovelettersforthedamned · 11 months ago

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ugh I love the way you write frat Peter <3333 am thinking of how he would react when his frat brothers flirt with his girl jus to rile him up - ❄️❄️

A Little Reminder

--genre: fluff, slight smut, MINORS DNI.

--pairing: frat!tasm!peter parker x f!reader

--word count: 1.4k

--warnings: language, kisses, slight smut, mention of hickeys, fluff!!!

love this request! i have something similar (more angsty) if you want more, "Let Me Be There, Let Me Be Yours".

You were drained, to say the least. Your last lecture wiped you out, followed by a tutoring session to bring up your plummeting English Literature grade. Peter’s the one to blame for that one. Sure, you scheduled an early morning class knowing that it would be hard to get there, but Peter keeping you hostage in bed also didn’t help.

As you walk back to your apartment, you’re mentally cursing him knowing that you’ll realistically not do anything about it. With your headphones blocking out the world around you, your only goal was to get home and to Peter. Your bed calls out for you.

Switching songs, an arm is suddenly wrapped around your shoulders, making you jump out of your skin. Pulling off one side of your headphones, you look towards the person whose arm is around you, finding one of Peter’s frat brothers grinning widely at you. You barely have time to deal with whatever is going on, but still decide to play along not to seem rude, “Bryce, what the fuck is going on?”

“Oh nothing,” he replied nonchalantly, his arm still on your shoulders, “ just walking you home, that’s all.” His tone still holds one of a joke, but now that you’re approaching your apartment he still doesn’t give up.

You can’t help but laugh and scoff, you wonder how long he’ll keep this up. Ducking out of his hold, you stand in front of him, “I didn’t ask you to do that, but thank you so much for your generosity, Bryce. Your heart must be so so big!” You bring a hand up to his shoulder and pat it a few times, “I’ll make sure to tell Pete about this. Just to let him know how caring you are.”

“You do that, (Y/N)! I cannot wait to hear back from him,” his smile is wide still, but sarcasm drips off of his tongue.

You start to walk up the stairs to your building, waving Bryce goodbye as you giggle to yourself. He’s going to get an earful the next time he sees Peter.

****

“Hi, Pete! I’m home,” you call out as you close and lock the door behind you. It doesn’t take long before you hear heavy footsteps approach you from the bedroom, Peter’s disheveled state greeting you. He’s shirtless, his boxers the only thing on his body, but you’re not complaining. Peter’s even wearing his glasses, which is a rarity recently. You’ve noticed he only wears them around you.

As he approaches you, he takes your school bag and your headphones, placing them on the couch before he envelopes you in a bone-crushing hug. You breathe in his scent, the natural musk combined with his body wash makes you melt. Your ear is placed directly on his heart, the rhythmic beat acting as a lullaby. You look up at him again, craving to see him in his glasses again to see that he’s already looking at you. You stand on your toes to reach his lips, catching him off guard in a kiss that he quickly gets accustomed to. His lips are slightly chapped.

Pulling away he sighs, giving your lips one more quick peck, “How was class, bug?” Brushing a piece of hair that fell into your eyes away, he holds the side of your face.

“It was long and boring,” you close your eyes, the mere thought of it reeling in another wave of exhaustion, “but guess who I ran into on the way home?” You pull away from his hold to walk over to the kitchen, Peter following loosely behind you. There are a few beats of silence as he goes through the list of who it could be, but he soon gives up with a sigh. “Bryce fucking Quinn,” you reveal.

He leans against the cabinet as you reach into the fridge for a bottle of water, his eyes widening, “I haven’t seen him in a while. How is he?”

“He’s good,” you open the cap and take a sip, before dropping the bomb on him, “he’s very nice.”

This sparks Peter’s interest, his head cocking to the side as his brows furrowed in confusion, “Oh really?” Your impression of him shocks him. He knows Bryce Quinn to be a jokester, he’s never taken anything seriously, and if he did, it was always because it was part of a running bit that he carried.

You smirk as you take another sip, trying not to reveal how amused you are, “Yeah, he even walked me home! He even threw his arm over me to make sure I got here safe.” You leave Peter to go into the bathroom, the sudden urge to pee coming over you.

Peter’s once relaxed demeanor was now one of rigid shock, he once again followed you. “What do you mean ‘threw his arm over you’?” You’re sitting on the toilet when Peter opens the door and stands directly in front of you, looking for answers.

“You need me to answer that right now?”

“Well,” he doesn’t see anything wrong with asking right now, “when else am I gonna ask you?” He’s dead serious too.

Reaching for the toilet paper, you gather a few pieces, “Maybe when I’m not actively on the toilet?”

He finally comes to his senses as he turns around, facing the wall, and leaving you to do your business. “It’s not like I haven’t seen every part of you before,” he adds, before turning back around when he hears the toilet flush and the sink run as you wash your hands.

Washing your hands, you look into the mirror only to see Peter behind you, giving you a scare. “If you’re really worried about this babe, you know you shouldn’t,” you dry your hands off on the towel next to the sink. Turning around to face your worried and slightly angry boyfriend, you reach up to hold his face, his head slightly flinching away from your cold hands, you giggle, “Shit, sorry!”

Pulling down his face, you kiss his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands find their home on your waist. The kiss slowly gets needier, causing Peter’s hands to lower down to under your thighs, hoisting you onto the counter, his arms caging you in as he places both of his hands on either side of your head. Your fingers are weaving themselves in his hair, slightly tugging on it, causing a soft moan to escape his lips. You pull away, his lips chasing yours as you back away. “Peter,” you whine.

He’s not listening, his only objective was connecting your lips again. He’s panting as he responds, his voice breathy, “Yeah, baby?” You can’t help but smirk at his current state. It seems like he forgot all about your previous conversation.

As you tilt your head back and forth to look into his eyes, he follows. His lips are desperate for your touch, and it shows. You grab his chin, forcing him to look into your eyes, “Don’t be too hard on Bryce when you see him next.”

Peter groans as he tilts his head back away from your touch, a breathy chuckle leaving him, “Why are we still talking about Bryce when I’m so close to taking you back to bed?”

You blush at his response, “I’m just saying…I don’t need to be the damsel in distress when it comes to you, Petey.” Peter brings his hands down to scoop under your thighs once again, pulling you up to his chest, making you wrap both your arms and legs around him to not fall, a big smile on your face.

“Oh, bug,” he starts to walk to your bedroom, “you’re never the damsel in distress. But sometimes they need a little reminder that you aren’t theirs to play with, are you?” You shake your head in response, the heat in your cheeks starting to pool lower on your body. “And sometimes they forget that,” he places you gently on the bed.

Peter can’t help but admire you as you lay in front of him. Pulling off his glasses and tossing them to the side, he kneels on the bed to kiss you again, leaving a few marks on your neck to serve as a physical reminder to those around you. Bryce is so fucked.

--author's note: I LOVE FRAT!PETER AND I'M SO HAPPY YOU LOVE HIM TOO ❄️ ANON!!!!!! this got a little spicy at the end and i'm so sorry i have no idea what happened LMAOO. don't forget to like, comment, and reblog. my 300 follower celebration is happening now, so don't forget to send things in!! rules are pinned to my blog!!! ok, ily bye <333

#tasm!peter x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker #fluff #marvel #andrew garfield peter parker #tasm!peter parker #spiderman #college au #frat!peter parker x f!reader #frat!peter parker #frat!peter #tasm!peter parker smut #frat!peter smut

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madamechrissy · 2 months ago

Text

Take Me Home Tonight

♡ ♡ Pairings ♡ ♡ Law Professor Satoru Gojo x Student Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Warnings ♡ ♡ MDNI- Gojo is like 29 here, reader is like 22 or 23. Nothing too crazy. But is Professor/teacher forbidden type love. In this chap- oral sex (fem recieving) titty fucking, light slapping, breed kink, basically them being cute!

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ this chap- 7k

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ After passing your LSATs, your friends take you out to unwind. You never go out, so you are awkwardly agree, and you end up in the arms of a super hot man named Satoru. You end up screaming Satoru's name as he drops down on his knees before you, only to lose him in the club. All you have is his first name. Two months later, in your Criminal Law class, your heart stops. Your teacher? Professor Gojo. Or as you soon call him, Professor Dickhead. You can't fuck up your law school, and he won't fuck up his career, not just because he makes you wet in class, no, he's a dick. Right? That pout and blue eyes don't wreck you, right? - Lawyer AU

Chapter 13 ♡ ♡ Masterlist ♡ ♡ Playlist

Chapter 14

Right inside the little courthouse, standing in your wedding dress, with Maki holding your hand, you look at your soon-to-be husband Satoru Gojo. There's a hung over Suguru standing next to him, Nanami and Yuta are clearly hung over in the bench seats as well, but you still focus on that gorgeous man directly across from this room, in his white tuxedo.

Satoru Gojo.

Professor Gojo.

Or, as you know him, Toru.

You’ve come a long way from ‘Professor Dickhead’ and ‘Miss Brat’ haven’t you both? From a bathroom at a club to an undying love, from aching for his touch in your seat to him being constantly all over you. From tentatively becoming boyfriend and girlfriend to being insane and getting married in the span of a few months, it feels so surreal.

You should be worried it’s too soon, worried about this or that, but all you can do is be so damn happy. You just feel euphoric, so enamored of him, by how much you adore him, love him, need him, and are unable to imagine your life without him. Can’t imagine yourself before him.

His eyes catch yours then, and he’s looking up and down your body carefully, before he gets the biggest grin on that handsome face, and instead of waiting for you to walk up to him… well, this is Satoru Gojo we’re talking about… he decides instead to run to you and pick you up in the center of the room, spinning you in the air, making you giggle breathlessly.

“Toru, stop it! Put me down!” Nanami and Suguru are chuckling, though tired, hungover chuckles, and Maki is just smiling at you two.

“You look so fucking gorgeous . I’m such a lucky man.” He eases you down, hands firm on your waist now, and you look up into his sparkling blue eyes, your lips trembling, arms wrapping around his neck.

“You’re insane too, you know. You’re supposed to wait up there for me!” He sighs, stepping back and looking at you again.

“God, this body in this dress…” He kisses you then, lips pressing on yours. You’re clinging to him, sighing into his lips, as his big hands take over your waist, cinched in the pretty wedding gown. “So beautiful.”

“And you’re the most handsome man in the world.” You whisper, looking up at him then, he’s exhaling, blue swirling gaze drinking in your face, as you drink him in, how perfect he looks, how he is your everything.

“Of course I am.”

“You’re also the most insane.”

He smirks now, grabbing your hand and yanking you along to where the justice of the peace is smiling, watching the two of you. “You knew that already.”

“You already kissed the bride!?” Suguru says, hiccuping then, you click your tongue at him.

“Too many shots, Suguru?”

“Yeah, yeah. Your fault.” He grumbles, you just giggle.

“How are you so bright eyed?” Nanami demands, leaning his head back on the bench with a grimace.

“Because I only had like two drinks, silly boys.”

“Silly boys! I’m older than you.” Suguru says.

“Hmm, still silly.” You stick your tongue out, and Suguru chuckles.

“You have your hands full.”

“Oh, I will.” Satoru says, wolfish grin, wiggling his brows, all of the room is laughing now, even Yuta, before he goes back to looking sick.

“Water.” He pleads, Maki hands him a bottle, he chugs and sighs. “I’ll be fine, promise!”

“Ahem, is everyone ready?” Says the young man in front of you now, amusedly watching you all, you nod shyly, taking Satoru’s hands now, your own are getting all sweaty with your nerves.

You’re doing this.

You’re marrying your Professor.

You’re marrying the best lawyer there is.

You’re marrying Satoru Gojo, the love of your life.

It’s like a dream, but it’s your reality, this goofy, silly, gorgeous man, that since you met him, you just cannot stand to live without. How could you ever spend even a day without being in his arms, without looking into the most beautiful set of eyes that existed? Without your favorite person, who has become so dear so fucking fast, as if he’d always been yours?

“Should I bother to say the typical stuff?” He asks Satoru then, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Keep it to the basics. We have our own things to say to each other.” The man nods then, looking at you now.

“Then would you like to go first, with what you’ve prepared?” You nod, taking several breaths to prepare. “Perfect, so we’re gathered here to celebrate the union of…” He says your name, making your heart race faster. “And Satoru Gojo. They’ve both got… well, a lot to say as I’m sure you all know.”

They all laugh, then eyes are on you. You look up into his eyes again, snowy lashes lowered, his face a little more serious, big hands clutching yours tightly, then you know, Satoru is just a little bit nervous too. The most calm and collected lawyer, who can laugh right in the face of any danger, is a nervous thing just like you, something about it melts you even more.

“Satoru, we met… well, in a nightclub. It’s not the most romantic place, is it? But somehow, it was romantic, when I bumped right into you, spilling my drink all over your very nice shirt.”

“It was four hundred dollars.”

“Stupid.” He snorts and you playfully shove him. “Let me finish!”

“Always.” You blush at his tone, then take another breath.

“It was romantic regardless, because it’s you, and you make any place in this world something beautiful, with your presence, with your light that just shines from you, with your beautiful soul.”

“Fuck off, brat.” He whispers, eyes glimmering with tears. You smile, blinking back your own emotions.

“You never let me finish my sentences, you’re so annoying, you’re childish, and you’re basically a hyper kid on chocolate.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true.” Suguru agrees.

“You… Satoru Gojo…” You hold his hand, bringing it to your lips, brushing them along the backside of his knuckles. “You fight for what you believe in, you are so authentically yourself, no matter what. You hold true to your convictions, and never waver. You’re so amazing, just as amazing as you like to say you are.” He smiles just a bit.

“I sure am.”

The room rolls its eyes. “You are also the love of my life. Truly, with you, it’s like I finally have a home. I meant what I said that day, the day I confessed my true feelings, the love in my heart, that I will always be by your side. You never have to worry, or wonder, I’ll be right here. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” You say, shaking as you do, overwhelmed by so much emotion.

Now you’re wiping his tears, he huffs, swiping them with the back of his hand, as are your friends, even the usually more stoic Nanami is swiping at his eyes. You feel your own tears falling, as you pour your heart out for him, knowing it’s safe to do so, knowing that.

“You accept everything about me, without question, you challenge me, make me think, make me do more, do better . You are the best man I’ve ever met, and I know you’ll be the best husband. And one day, I hope, an amazing father.” Satoru sighs now, resting his head on yours. “I love you Satoru Gojo, and I will love you, until the day I take my last breath, and even after.”

“Shit.” Is all he manages, and you giggle a bit, as now he’s kissing your salty tears, cupping your face.

“I’m ready for this, it’s insane, it’s probably too fast, but our relationship has been fast, intense, a hell of a ride. One I’m never getting off. I love you.” He kisses you again, your hands gently gripping his wrists as he keeps kissing you.

“You know you’re supposed to wait?” The man says, but even he has tears in his eyes.

“She’s a brat, she loves to make everyone cry like her.” Satoru says, and you glare, shoving at him.

“Now, it’s your turn Mr. Gojo. Can you top that?” He teases, clearly he is one of Satoru’s friends. Satoru grins now, nodding, swiping back that silky white hair, and looking down at you, eyes still glassy.

“Miss Brat.” You roll your eyes, giggling at him, looking at Maki for a moment who’s snuggled with Yuta, tissues smushed on her face with Yuta’s hand, not a sight you thought you’d see. Then you look back at your love.

“Professor.” You tease.

“I knew you were trouble the moment you ran into me, you were so clumsy you know.” You glare, and everyone laughs. “You didn’t belong there, something about you just seemed… different. When I first saw your pretty face, it was like a punch to the gut, like I couldn’t breathe for a moment.”

Your turn to be a ball of emotions, you are choking on a sob as he speaks. “You really felt that way?” You ask softly, he nods then.

“Fuck yeah I did, I played it off cool, or tried to, but you tilted my world on its axis, I knew you were so special, without even knowing you. Then, when we reconnected… god I couldn’t get you out of my head. I thought to myself, if I don’t have this girl, I can’t even go on, I need her in my life in some way. I couldn’t get the feel of your lips on mine out of my mind, like a brand on my mouth.”

His every word intoxicates you, touches you so deeply, how can you keep falling ever deeper into him? “Satoru…”

“I love you so much, I can’t even begin to really explain it, me… a man who can never shut the fuck up.” You smile, but it’s getting hard to see now, the tears flowing down your cheeks now. “But you left me speechless, you left me breathless, but then… now, I need you to breathe.”

“Like oxygen.” You whisper back, and he nods eagerly, cupping your face gently once more, thumb brushing your lips.

“Like oxygen. I need you, there is nothing without you, you are my world, and I will do everything to take care of you, every day, no matter what.”

“Oh Satoru…” You’re barely hanging on, in this little court house with a beautiful dress, and a gorgeous soon to be husband, saying things you once only heard in your dreams from him. Now, he’s yours.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? In sickness, and in health, for as long as you live?” He asks now, and you nod, taking the beautiful ring that Maki runs up to you, Satoru’s eyes widen at it.

“Of course I do.”

“The ring! It’s badass as fuck.” He says, earning more laughter in the emotional little room, you slide the gleaming jeweled ring on his finger, your own hands shaking so much that he has to hold them again.

“And do you, Satoru Gojo, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? In sickness and health, for as long as you live?”

“Oh, even after I’m gone, I’ll always love you.” He says, and fuck... You hope your waterproof makeup is doing its job, because you’re officially a wreck, when he pulls out a gold band that matches your ring, delicate with little diamonds all around it. Your heart swells when he kisses your hand once more.

“I now pronounce you both, husband and wife. I mean… you already kissed a ton, but, kiss again.” Satoru grins, as do you, then he’s got you lifted in his arms, spinning you in a circle, you cling to him like you did the night you met, when he’d first kissed you.

Your lips meld together, salty tears mixed with sweet breath, he finally eases you to stand, and your friends are clapping for you all, but your eyes are locked on his, as if he is the only thing in this room, in this world. You choke on your cry, sniffling now, but Gojo’s emotional too, as he strokes your cheek with the backs of his fingers, tilting your chin up.

“I love you, Miss Brat. Wife. Bratty wife.” You giggle again, leaning up and pulling him down by his jacket, kissing him over and over.

“And I love you, husband. My Toru.” It takes damn near everything to separate the two of you, friends dragging you apart just to get to reception (basically a big ass party you all are throwing) when all you can think of is fucking your husband .

Six Months Later

“All done for the day, Professor Geto.” You are interning with Professor Geto, you finally are done with your first year of law school today, the end of a very insane year. Though the school allowed you and Satoru to have class together, they took you out of any running of his internship, for favoritism reasons.

Little did they know Gojo was still hard on you in class, and pushed you to your limits, he certainly wouldn’t have given you that internship if you had not earned it, but you were lucky enough that Suguru chose you to do his. It was brutal, long hours, but you learned so much with him, it worked out perfectly.

The bonus was that Satoru, Nanami and Suguru all worked close together, and Maki and Yuta interned with Nanami, so you all saw each other constantly. The six of you were extremely close, even though you all had your own lives, especially you and Satoru now more so than ever.

Suguru smiles at you now, lips quirking up. standing and taking the thick binders you have for him. You’re the last one there in the office on his team, as you were trying to get all your work caught up to finish the semester, so that you can help Satoru with his next big case. You yawn again, and he pats your head, tilting his own as he studies you.

“You work too hard, you know. In your condition.”

“Hush!” You shut his mouth with your palm, looking around, and he’s chuckling against it. “What if someone was here!”

“They’re all gonna know next year, anyway, you know you’re gonna have a big ass kid with those Gojo genes.”

“Ugh, you’re telling me! Can you tell!?” You turn now, and he hums to himself, smirking now. “Oh tell me, already Suguru!”

“Not by your tummy, no… but…” He wiggles his brows, and you scowl.

“Oh you perv!” You cover your breasts with your jacket, fuming as you realize it’s not buttoning, only to hear more of him snorting in laughter. “Shit, you’re right.”

“I’m sure Satoru’s loving that.” You roll your eyes with a smile.

“You know he won’t leave me alone for two minutes-”

“Shnookums!” Satoru pounces into the room now, leaping to you and bringing you into his strong arms, kissing your neck over and over.

“You all are going to do great, promise.” He says to you both, and you melt, as does Satoru, grinning big at his best friend.

“And you’re gonna be the best Uncle, Sugu.” He says, before grabbing your breasts, and you smack his hands, as Suguru blushes, looking up at the ceiling of his office.

“Jesus, Satoru.”

“Toru, really!?”

“What they’re so comforting to squeeze. Fine…” He lets your breasts go, pressing on your tummy instead. “I just love touching you, been all day I just missed my girl…”

“Go on now, good luck with him, love.” Suguru says, waving you all off as Satoru drags you out of the building, you can barely keep up with him as you dart to the car waiting for you, Ijichi is there to greet you both, smiling tiredly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Gojo.” You give him a peck on the cheek and a smile, making him blush, before Satoru slides in next to you in the back of the car.

“You can’t just grab my tits like that in front of Sugu!” You huff, shoving at him, and he’s pouting, like he’s an innocent baby, and not a fiend.

“I’m sorry, but they’re so pretty! I just wanna love on you.” He nuzzles your throat now, pulling you to him, and you sigh as you sink into his embrace, inhaling that scent you love so much, body reacting quickly.

“Fine, you get away with it this time. Oh gosh, Toru, everyone will know I’m pregnant next semester. I’ll be a whale.”

“Will not! Don’t be a meanie to yourself. Gonna be beautiful.” He has you on his lap now, sideways, rubbing your tummy gently. You blink back emotions now, and he notices, kissing your lips softly. “Promise you will be.”

“I’m so excited, but so nervous! Do you think I’ll keep up with these studies with a baby?” Your hand joins his over your tummy now, bringing a sense of peace that washes over you, every time you’re with him.

“You are a nerdy brat, you can do it.”

“Hey!” He just chuckles, cradling you in his arms.

“You can do some at home studies for a while, maybe come back to campus in a bit, you know we can just bring the baby to law school. Get it in early.”

“A little scholar, huh?”

“Mmm… it’ll be a challenge, but you got it. We got it, you’re not alone in this, ever. I promise.” Satoru kisses you deeper now, still gently rubbing your tummy, you’re only three months along so not much has changed yet, but you both know, and can tell the smallest changes.

“I know you’ll help me no matter what, we are a team.” You caress his face softly as you speak.

“Damn right, also you’re young, you don’t have to knock out law school so fast, it’s not like you can’t come with me and learn any time. And I’ll be there to teach you, my favorite student.”

“Teach me, hmm?” You tease now, he grins.

“Yes, Miss Brat. You still have a lot to learn, you know. You’re a good student but you have some discipline issues.”

“Me!?”

“Mmm.” Satoru is stumbling with you as you kiss fervently, inside your home now, lips barely leaving yours, only to breathe, you all kick off your shoes, you toss your purse, he tosses his wallet, you yank off his tie, he shoves off your blazer.

You’re slowly just leaving a trail of clothes and items everywhere, until you’re in your bra and panties, tits overflowing already, aching and tender. Satoru’s full lips part, thin nostrils flaring. He’s unbuttoning his dress shirt, shaking his head slightly, you’re biting your lower lip, eyes lowering shyly, the whirl of the giant fans overhead cooling overheated skin.

“ Fuck… these tits, lemme see em, baby girl.” He pleads, and you unsnap your bra then, exhaling at how good it feels when they’re released, they bounce as they do, and Satoru’s on you in a flash, picking you up and sitting you right on the kitchen table, squishing them in his hands.

“Mmm, be easy, please.” You whisper, as his thumbs brush over your nipples, making you tremble at how sensitive they are already. He exhales, eyes locking as he presses you back gently, one hand sliding up your chest, the other playing with your breast easier now.

“They’re so sexy. Imagine when they’re all full of milk.”

“Toru!”

“What, it'll be hot.” You’re a blushing mess, and he chuckles, kissing down one of your breasts, to your nipple, sucking a peak in his hot mouth. “Mmm.”

“Mmm!” You both moan as he sucks on one, the pressure between your thighs building, the tension coiling in your lower tummy. “Toru…”

“Let me take my time, eager little brat.” He murmurs, now kissing your other breasts, tongue swirling around an areola, before he sucks the nipple in his mouth, making you wetter. You’re grinding your hips on the table, biting your lip, aching for more and more.

“Please…”

“Impatient, hmm?” Satoru’s big hands now slide up your thighs, smirking so sexy as he studies you. “Oh, those thighs love to shift for me, rub together, don’t they?”

“F-fuck off.” He glares then, yanking you off the table, turning you and unzipping your pencil skirt, you laugh breathless when it gets stuck then. “I’m getting all big already.”

“Shut up, you are not. I can’t wait till you do though.” He unzips you finally, revealing your lacy panties, he presses you down now, your breasts on the table, he’s kissing a trail between your shoulder blades.

“Mmm… Toru please touch me.”

“Not yet, patience, remember?”

“Fuck that- ow!” He smacks your backside, making you tremble at how good it feels, eyes fluttering shut when he grabs your ass now instead.

“You know I will still be your professor next semester, expect me to take it easy on you?” He smacks your other cheek now, and your thighs are trembling.

“Well, yes! I’m pregnant with your little baby lawyer!”

“No exceptions or favoritism in my class.” He says, acting so stern, you can’t take how sexy his voice is.

“But you’ll beat my ass, Professor!?”

“It looks so pretty with my hand prints.” He smacks each cheek again, stinging and burning, his free hand now sliding up your spine, entangling in your hair and pulling, you’re soaking wet against your panties, craving his touch. “Aw, you’re so, so eager, aren’t you baby?”

“You’re a tease, Satoru Gojo.” You whine out, earning that sexy chuckle. “I’m hornier more than ever.”

“I know, I love it. And so wet… oh fuck .” He’s rubbing you over your panties now, which are hopelessly soaked, wet spot soaking through. “You’re that wet?”

“Please, Toru…”

“Begging?”

“Mmhmm.” Is all you manage, normally you’d both play, a push and pull, tug of war of sorts, but you are needy for him, you’re clenching around nothing, wanting his fingers, his cock, wanting him .

“So easy for me?”

“Just for you.” You whisper, then he moans, and you hear his belt buckle, you arch up, earning another laugh.

“That easy!?”

“Put it in, please.” You are begging, pleading, arching your ass up, wanting more and more of his touch.

“Fuck…” Satoru is not one to just do that, he loves foreplay, but when he finds your dripping wet folds, pulling your panties to the side and rubbing, he’s moaning. “You’re stupid wet.”

“I know, I know. Please, just- ah!” Satoru slips his tip in barely, groaning as he feels you, you’re dripping all the way down to the kitchen tile, it’s so bad. You look back at him and watch his face contorted in pleasure, then your eyes roll back as his tip hits your clit, rubbing. “Mmm!”

Your clit is twitching under his tip, rubbing on it, and you’re just wetter and wetter, Satoru slides his cock up once more, coated in your slick now, pressing into your entrance, and you’re so ready you fall apart from his tip stretching you. Satoru is groaning, gripping your hips tightly, you’re nearly sobbing it’s so fucking good, when he presses further.

“Toru!”

“Oh my god… you’re so tight.” He whispers, sinking inside fully, so much pressure, you’re cumming then and there, and he stays there for a moment, unmoving, tense behind you. “You cummin already?”

“Fuck it, yes. More, please. Please .”

“Needy little brat.” He’s fucking into you now, tip dragging on your g spot, making you stupid, one hand back to pulling your hair, your thighs he spreads, to slide in with a long stroke once more, filling you so full.

You scream out now, hands gripping on the table as if it will tether you, but you’re falling apart under his strokes, getting wetter and wetter, walls clenching tightly around his cock. His balls are smacking your clit over and over, your ass is jiggling with every thrust of his pelvis, an ass he smacks again, stinging as the cool air above hits it, making you tighten around him more in response.

“Feel so fuckin good, baby girl. So good…” He huffs, slamming in and rolling his hips, tip grinding on your cervix, pulling you more until he has an entire arm wrapped around you.

“You feel s’good Toru…” You whisper back, then he’s flipping you, exhaling and kissing you deeply, you’re shivering when he sits you back on the table, sliding his cock back in, cupping your face with a free hand.

“Need to see your pretty face.” He whispers, and you shudder as he’s sinking deeper, clutching to his bare chest, kissing his lips softly, biting his plush lower lip, before your head falls back, and he’s kissing down your neck.

“Love you. Love you.” You whisper it over and over, now Satoru’s leaning over you, rolling his hips just the right way, until you unravel again for him, he presses every button, pulls every switch, he knows every bit of you. He has known you, the night you even met.

“I love you baby.” He whispers back, your lips slam together, tongues so messy, teeth clicking against each other as you feel his muscles ripple under your hands, as you feel his cock thickening. “Got you pregnant, hmm?”

“You did, you d-did…”

“Making you a mommy.” He murmurs, making your thighs tense around his hips, hands clutching in his silky white hair, desperately kissing him now.

“You did. You - ah - did!” You’re closer to the edge as your husband’s thickening now, throbbing in you, and your eyes lock, those glittering blue eyes that you could drown in for eternity, and never want to take a breath.

“Gonna fill you so good… f-fuck…” Satoru’s crying out right with you, his cock is pumping those ropes of cum inside your velvety walls, filling you so deep. You’re both drinking each others’ cries, moans, whispers, as you both come down, and you’re still feeling the aftershocks, pulsing his cum out down between you.

“Mmm… Toru…” You’re cock drunk, eyes fuzzy as he comes into focus, Satoru is stroking your hair, sighing, pecking little kisses all over your face now. “How is it even better than before?”

“I don’t know, it is though… you never could take me like that. You’re so slutty pregnant.”

“Slutty!” You glare, and he just laughs again, the sound filling you.

“Mmm, still just as tight, just sluttier.”

“Oh you- ah!” He pulls out of you then, picking you up carefully, bridal style, even after half a year of getting married, he likes to carry you to the room like this often, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t love it.

Marriage has been not without some trials, sometimes you both got on each other’s nerves, you had little debates and spats. Satoru was messy as fuck, and you didn’t like leaving a mess for the cleaners, he thinks that’s the job anyway, and just wants you to focus on school, or fucking him in every position possible. Or just wants you to look pretty when he gets home.

You are independent and strong willed, he knows you’ll never be his little housewife, and you know he really doesn’t want that, but he jokes all the time. He always pays for everything, and spoils you, buying too much jewelry, too many clothes, and any new gadget he thinks is cool, sometimes you have to take things back you don’t need, and earn his puppy dog eyes.

There are beautiful moments of being married to him, too, like having him constantly be there with you, hold you in his arms at night, and wake up to see his precious face next to yours. And the most beautiful moment so far, was when you all found out you’re having a baby, although you were on birth control, you both were surprised but then both of you had been elated.

You love the little peanut already, that’s what you all call them, they’re too tiny to know a sex yet, and they looked just like a peanut on that ultrasound. Satoru and you had it framed and sitting right on one of the dressers in what would soon be the baby’s nursery, you all have set up some of it already. It’s too early for all that truly, but Satoru got too excited.

And that’s the best part about Satoru, his excitement, his infectious happiness, in the face of anything, though he always shows you how he really feels, when he’s genuinely so happy, it radiates. He makes even the worst days so much better, massaging your back, buying your favorite cappuccino (decaf now, Satoru is reading too much about babies) or anything to comfort you.

And you comfort your husband, rubbing his neck after a long day, running him a bath and washing that silky white hair, bringing him his favorite drink after work. You both constantly read each other, it’s like you can feel what the other is feeling, a constant connection, a beautiful one.

“What are you thinking about, Miss Brat?” Satoru asks softly, he’s sat you on the edge of the sink, starting a hot shower, already steaming in the bathroom, the warm fog filling your lungs.

“How happy we are. How good this is. It feels like…”

“Perfect.”

“That.” He is between your thighs, cupping your face, your head falls back to look up at him. “It’s so perfect, us together.”

“And there are going to be three of us soon.” He murmurs, making you smile, looking down at your tummy, it’s a little poochy, perhaps only you and Satoru notice for now.

“A baby Gojo.” You whisper, smiling then, and he’s hugging you tightly, burying his face against your neck. “I want to be the best parent ever.”

“You will be.”

“And they’ll be… rich already. Holy shit.” You murmur, Satoru’s family had sent a cool five million for the baby, to have when they’re eighteen through a trust. Satoru had scoffed at it, but you did appreciate the gesture, of course Satoru had plenty of money, but your future baby Gojo could do a lot with that to start with.

“They did one decent thing, it’s still fuck them.”

You laugh then. “I’m still team fuck them.”

“Now… let’s shower, we have all weekend to relax.”

“You mean study your case!”

“Well that is relaxing for us.” You step into the hot shower now, head falling back when Satoru begins to suds up your hair, eyes shutting in bliss.

“I so love your hair washing skills.”

“Of course you do. I love washing your hair, little shnookums.” He kisses your forehead after he rinses the fragrant shampoo out, then it’s your turn, but of course he’s so tall he has to sit on the bench seat in the shower for you to wash his hair. “I’m so glad I fucking built this at the right height.”

He’s burying his face between your breasts now, making you giggle, as the hot water cascades down your back, easing stiff muscles. “I was curious that day when you told me to stand there.”

“Had to be at titty height.” You rinse his hair out now, before he stands, turning and sitting you on the new bench, a pretty black granite he’d recently installed. “I also had it made for…”

You hold your breasts together, and he slips his cock between them, already hard again, you whine out at it, at the sexy, lewd sight of his pretty pink tip pressing up between your lush breasts. “Fuck… that’s so…”

“Hot.” He finishes, whimpering out now, and you nod, looking up at him, holding your breasts together for him as he pumps, his free hand caressing your face. “God you’re so pretty .”

“You’re pretty.” He smirks down at you, now you’re spitting down his cock, making him lose it, he kneels once more, spreading your thighs right on the bench. “Aww look, she missed me.”

“You just fucked- ah!” You scream out when he’s lapping at your pussy, your head is resting back on the tile walls, his mouth devouring your pussy, blue eyes looking up at you, lashes dripping wet, water falling all over his perfect skin. “Toru…”

“Shh, let me and her talk. Rude.” You laugh but it’s cut off as he sucks your engorged little clit into his mouth, humming on it then, you’re gushing arousal all over his mouth, legs shaking violently, panting as it overtakes you. His hands glide down and up your slick thighs, fingers pressing in as he works you.

Your pussy is drooling down his mouth, he’s groaning as he keeps lapping at you, your screams echoing in the shower now. You’re starting to come down, so sensitive just his breath makes you jerk, and he relishes in it, in making you so weak and losing all your senses except how good he feels, how your entire body is just humming for him.

“You’re so yummy, Miss Brat.” Satoru slides back up, sitting on the bench with you now, pulling you into his lap. You look at him, grinding against his length. “Look at you, such a mess.”

“You make me that way.” Your words damn near slur, the heat of the shower, the orgasms, Satoru himself sapping it all from you.

“I love this bench.” You smile just a bit at his enthusiasm.

“You’re so cute- ah!”

“Cute, huh?” He’s shoved his full eight plus inches so deep in your pussy, grabbing your ass and slamming you down his length, stuffing you so full.

“Toru, fuck !”

“Not so cute, now. Aww, poor baby can’t take dick?” You glare, earning his grin, positioning your knees on either side, clinging to his back with your fingers, slipping and sliding, and lifting yourself, breasts pressed against his chest.

“Give it to me, Professor.” You whisper, only for him to pick you up then, pressing your back against the shower wall, fucking into you so deep it hurts, but it hurts so fucking good you’re falling apart in his grasp.

“Bratty, slutty student.” He huffs, shoving up, your thighs clinging to his slender hips as he pumps into your eager little pussy.

“I’m a… good student… fuck, fuck, fuck!” He bites the fuck out of your neck now, with those sharp teeth, you gasp as your pussy is clenching around him.

“A good girl, are you?”

“Yes!” You breathe out, between pumps.

“Mmm… you feel good, but I don’t know. Should I let you cum?”

“Please!”

“Since you asked so sweetly.” He pulls back his head, shoving his cock inside you, watching you, studying you, your eyes flutter shut as you’re about to cum once more, but he grabs your chin. “No, look at me.”

So you do, you struggle to keep those eyes open, looking at him as you’re cumming even harder than before, so hard you’re crying, tears slipping down your cheeks. “T-Toru…”

“Aw, you crying?” You just nod weakly, moaning out, and then he’s pulsing inside you. “So fucking pretty crying for me, too.”

He busts inside you now, groaning as he finds his release, clinging to your body, crying out, filling you up so full. “Yes, yes… fill me.”

“Two loads already, so slutty.”

“You… you’re slutty.” You manage, both of you laughing then, he eases you down on wobbly legs now, holding you by your hips.

“And you’re weak.”

“Fuck you!”

“I just did.”

“Sure did.” You’re grinning, and you both laugh, before you kiss each other, and clean up further.

Later on, you both are having dinner, while Satoru has his next case sprawled all over the table. You both snuggle up next to each other on the couch as he spreads files, pictures, and notes out on the table, nibbling on take out together, the white boxes and little red symbols and chopsticks, no dishes for you all. You look over the glossy eight by ten photos as you nibble on your rice.

“She was my age, fuck.” You say softly, as you look at the picture now, she was a pretty young woman, a young environmental activist as well.

“The worst part, she had a kid.” You sigh, putting the food down, and touching your tummy without thinking, and Satoru wraps an arm around you, protective and strong. “I know, baby.”

“Fuck… so the suspect is this guy?” You tap a nice looking guy with glasses.

“Mmm, yeah but I don’t know if I should buy it.”

“You think he’s a scapegoat?”

“Sure the fuck do.”

“So who are the suspects?”

“Him, him and him. They’re all super corporate, rich as fuck, whereas the guy I’m representing is Pro Bono, so he’s…”

“Not wealthy at all.” You finish.

“Exactly, they wanna pin this shit on him. This is something on the higher ups, too.” The distaste is apparent in Satoru’s voice. You snuggle to him now, and he brushes your hair back, kissing your forehead gently.

“We’ll help them, if he’s wrongly convicted, you’re the best defense attorney there fucking is.”

“And you’re going to be the best prosecutor there is.”

“Imagine us going against each other!?” He laughs then, shaking his head at you. “Bet I’d kick your ass.”

“Nah, I’d win.”

“Whatever!” You both pour over more of the documents together, it’s been a while since you could help with a case with school, but the break will be so lovely, so much time spent with your husband. “I’d win.”

“You wish, little brat. Damn, our baby is gonna be a menace.” He says, smirking, and you grin so big, images flitting through your mind.

“The most competitive lawyer ever!”

You both laugh then, eventually setting aside the evidence, Satoru is putting on a movie, but you’re not paying much attention, starting to feel sleep tug at you. You’re yawning, and Satoru is stroking your waist gently, you snuggle even deeper against his hard body, letting the warmth sink in.

“You’re always sleepy now. Can’t make it past a trailer.” He teases, you sigh, hiding another yawn.

“It’s the baby I think. It’s like sucking all my energy.”

“Gonna be a six foot tall kid.”

“Let’s hope they take after the shorter side of this family!” His shoulders shake with his laughter.

“Ugh, family though.” He says softly.

“Family.” You repeat lovingly, cupping his face and looking up at him. “Let us get some rest, we can study more tomorrow.”

“You wanna cuddle, hmm?”

“Yes.”

“Anything for you, Shnookums.” Satoru carries you to the bed. “Spoiled, lazy little thing.”

“You spoil me on purpose.” You snatch his best pillow with a wicked grin, earning his narrowed eyes.

“I’ll tickle you to death.”

“No! Fine, we’ll share then, meanie.” He snuggles behind you, long limbs taking over much of the bed, even as big as it is, wrapping around you tightly. You feel such peace, so comfortable, you can barely hold your eyes open for another minute.

“You’re like a little old lady, always crashing out. Drooling.” He says then, stroking your tummy gently, he’s been doing it since he found out. Your hand joins over his own, looking back at him over your shoulder.

“I’m too comfy, your fault.”

“Is it now?”

“Admit your guilt.” He’s grinning, you’re trying to keep your eyes open, but Satoru feels too heavenly.

“I admit no fault, brat.”

“Mmm… contempt of my court.”

“You’re silly. Go to sleep.” You both smile against each other’s lips, and you fall fast asleep, dreaming about this baby on the way, dreaming of Satoru holding a baby in his arms, and the love in your heart, like you’ll burst.

Satoru studies the smile on your sleepy face, wondering just what it is his pretty student thinks of, before burying his face against your neck, and falling fast asleep, where he feels so damn good, with you in his arms.

Taglist: @jjknanamin @chiyokoemilia @marie-is-in-the-dark @seeing-stars-alt @maskedpacific @aldebrana @toffeebrat @antisocialinlw @trishiepo0 @jkslaugh97 @makingtimemine

Final Chapter

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morgluvsconnie · 6 months ago

Text

BOUND, c.springer

chap.11 | fluff, comfort, short ending | chap.10

self defense.

they didn’t justify it as murder, they justified it as self defense.

just as you prayed they would, the videos of it proved everything they needed to prove. what reiner did to you proved everything it needed to prove. but that only shortened his sentence.

sitting down at the chair and tapping the table with your fresh set, sitting for a minute before they finally brought connie out. his uniform tied around his waist while his muscle shirt showed.

for some reason he looked different every time you visited.

the whole year he’d been locked up, you saw him every time you could.

his hair was slightly fluffier, somehow faded on the sides, probably some trick he learned. he looked stronger, boredom had him working out, but in your eyes he was still the same old connie.

you both grabbed the phone and held it to your ears, as you looked at him, a smile creeped onto your lips, him immediately mirroring your actions.

“hey babyyy.” he dragged along, realizing you were happier than the first few times you visited. “hey connie.” you smiled and looked down. connie smacked his lips and leaned back a little, the phone still to his ear. “don’t act like you ain’t happy to see me.”

you couldn’t lie, all you wanted to do was go home and go to sleep so the next day could come quicker.

so he could be standing in front of you without the uniform and the cuffs, without holding a dumb phone to his ear.

“you got yo nails did? lemme see.” he said, looking at your hand. you looked up and held your hand up. “i put your initial right there, and your favorite color, ‘cus i love you.” you teased, making connie looked to the side out of embarrassment.

“i love you more. i got sum to show you tho.” he mumbled. you tilted your head, resting it on your hand.

connie pulled his shirt up, showing your name tatted across the top of his stomach. you covered your mouth with your hand and looked at him. “how’d you do that?” you smiled. connie sucked air through his teeth and pulled his shirt down.

“shittt, a mirror, pen, and hope. almost got in trouble, ian worried though.” he laughed a little before crossing his arms, putting the phone to his other ear. “but yeah, i miss you. ready to see you.” he mumbled, staring at the table.

you slowly nodded. “i can’t believe it’s been a year without you. ian go out in so long, or rarely, it just don’t feel right when you not there.” you pursed your lips together.

connie bit the inside of the cheek. “you visited mama?” he asked. you smiled. “yesss, she so nice every time.” you looked at your nails more. connie nodded.

“you been eatin?” connie tilted his head a little. “yeah it’s different from when you first came here.” you waved him off. “ight now, don’t be lyin.” he pointed at you. you laughed and nodded.

connie huffed. “shit i can’t wait to eat right. this shit in here weak as hell, boys is too.” he shook his head. “you been in any fights, baby?” you asked. connie looked at the ceiling for a few seconds before looking back at you. “been on my best behavior.” he flashed a quick smile, making you laugh.

“i can’t wait to hug you, i miss you like a bitch.” he rubbed his eyes, staring into yours. “me too.” you mumbled, but connie shook his head. “you ain’t no bitch.” he said, leaning up on the table. “you been on yo best behavior right? don’t end up like me, ima lose my shit.”

“yep, just like you asked. no fights, no serious arguments, nothing.” you assured connie, him trying his best to detect a lie.

“i’m glad.” he smiled a little. “you know i did that tattoo like… three months ago. the day i gave you yo tattoo is that day i did this one.”

“and we missed our lil one year anniversary.” you smiled. “now i gotta surprise you with yo name.” you laughed, making connie laugh. “nah, nah. you good.” he scratched his head.

“don’t cut your hair when you get out, connie. it’s cute like that.” you looked at his head. connie hummed and nodded. “gotchu.”

“two minutes.” the man behind you spoke, making you glare at him and look back at connie. connie stared at him before looking at you, playfully rolling his eyes.

“well.” he leaned back again. “ima see you tomorrow, ight?”

you nodded, looking at connie. “i love you.” you said, blowing a kiss. connie held his hand out to catch it and put his hand over his lips, like he always did.

“i love you back.” he said, waving bye as he put the phone down. you did the same, glancing back as the guard walked back over to you and a different one walked to connie, grabbing his wrists and cuffing them before standing him up.

“can i kiss my girl?” connie asked the guard.

he’s been asking the same question since he first got locked up, and it was always a no. but as the guard looked at you, then at connie, he led connie back to the table, you leaning over the plastic screen that separated you, grabbing connie’s face and pulling him into a long kiss.

just like he did you.

as he pulled away, hands still behind his back, he smiled at you, finally being able to feel your lips again after a whole year.

“i love you.” he mumbled as the guard pulled him back.

you smiled.

“i love you back.”

ANDDDD SCENE.

THIS was lowkey very fun to write even tho it’s short but thank you sm to the people that stuck around the whole story, if it was on wattpad or something it would’ve been sm longer tbh 😭 BUT I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKED IT, yk i would never (i think) finish yall off with a bad ending.

THANK YOU FOR READING, I LOVE YOU!!!

#𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚟𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚎₊✩ˎˊ˗#aot connie #connie springer #connie springer x black reader #connie springer x reader #connie x black reader #connie springer headcanons #connie x black y/n #connie x reader #connie x you

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captainwinterrsoldierr · 6 months ago

Text

Title: Trauma

Percy Jackson x Fem!Reader

Syn: reader and Percy comfort each other after experiencing Tartarus

You limped through the Argo ii. You desperately wanted to rest and shower. Percy paced behind you with a hand on your shoulder. With an unspoken agreement you two went to his cabin on the ship. “Do you mind if I shower in here Perc? I’m not ready to be alone yet?” You urged. Percy looked at you with a worry glint in his eyes. You knew he wasn’t ok. But he always put on a such a strong act for you.

“Of course I’ll wait right here,” he gestured towards his bed. He flopped onto his cabin’s bed and closed his eyes. You grabbed fresh, clean clothes from your room quickly and made your way back to his restroom. You closed the door and looked at yourself in the mirror. Your face was scarily thin. You had soot everywhere. Your lips were incredibly chapped and damaged. Your arms were scattered with scrapes and bruises from the horrors of Tartarus.

You turned on the water to a nice temperature and removed the garments you had gained from hell. Aching is all you felt. You stepped into the shower and instant relief washed over you. You closed your eyes and breathed in. Flashes of Tartarus raced through your head. Mansion of the Night. Drinking fiery red hot river water. Almost losing Percy to the Arai. You cried. You couldn’t tell the difference between your tears and the water from the shower. As you sobbed you slid down onto the floor. You were safe now but all the images kept recycling through your head.

*knock knock*

“Hey love are you done now?” You heard Percy asked. He must’ve cracked the door open.

You wiped your tears and stood, “Yes sorry Percy I’ll be out in a sec.”

You didn’t hear the door closed. “Babe are you ok?” He questioned.

“Yes- I’ll be out now,” You choked out. You heard the door reluctantly close. You quickly swung the curtain open and changed. You propped open the door and found Percy showered and dressed, sat on the edge of his bed.

“Frank let me shower quickly in his room, I really needed that stench off of me,” He said. He studied you. You sat next to him.

“They’re replaying in my head too,” He muttered.

Your lip quivered. Without even saying out loud what was wrong. He knew. He knew exactly what was wrong with you.

“Percy- I,” You sobbed. “I’m so sorry I dragged you down there, I’m so sorry you almost died multiple times cause of-”. Percy pulled you into his chest. His hands cradled the back of your head. You sobbed into his chest. “I was so scared Percy I thought I was going to lose you.”

“It was never your fault, it was that damned earth goddess.” He kissed the top of your head gently. His warmth. His sea salt scent brought peace to you. You pulled away gently and his hands grasped your face. His sea green eyes seeped into yours.

“I was scared I was going to lose you sweetheart, I don’t… I can’t live my life without you,” He breathed.

You hadn’t realized how scared he was from Tartarus. How much did he actually put up a brave wall for you.

“We’re going to be ok,” You assured.

“As long as we’re together,” He confirmed.

Your thumb grazed his cheek. You pulled him closer. Your lips touched softly. He kissed you. His other hand pushed your head for a deeper kiss. A mew escaped your lips. You were safe with Percy now. The war wasn’t over yet. But for now you two were safe. The kiss went on for long. His embrace was all you ever needed to feel ok.

He pulled away and kissed your temple, “Now let’s get some proper rest.” You nodded and you got cozy in his bed. He wrapped his arms around you and you sighed contently. “I love you seaweed brain,” You murmured as you drifted into a peaceful sleep with your soulmate by your side.

#pjo fandom #pjo #percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson headcanon

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pearlfeline · 7 months ago

Text

rookie

peter parker x fem!reader

word count: 900+

tw: black eye

a/n: this is short and it was in my drafts forever. and it was shorter than this before i added some stuff last night. posting it now for some validation and i want to feel better for my job interview tomorrow lol. hope its good enough.

“plwase unlokc your window!! OMW”

“I told him not to text and swing.” You mumbled to yourself.

You huffed, making your way to the window to save him the trouble and just lifted it wide open.

Peter flops in immediately, earning a yelp from you.

“Are you crazy?!” You held your hand to your chest.

“Heeeeelp.” He groans. Peter tugs at his mask, rolling his head back for you to see.

He had a black eye. “Make sure when you fall, you don’t land face first into a fire hydrant.” He tries his best to pry his swollen eye open.

“Since when do you fall?” You shake your head. Not expecting an answer, you walk off to the kitchen and open the freezer, grabbing a bag of assorted frozen fruit.

You come back to Peter flipping through channels on your TV, slumped on the bed.

“Put this on your eye.”

Peter gingerly takes the bag, holding it up to his bruise.

”Why are you getting hurt in the middle of the night?”

“Avengers make mistakes too.” He grumbled.

“Peter. It’s late.” You sighed.

“I know I know but I needed your help specifically.” He sits up mirroring the posture of someone who would hold a corporate meeting.

“Do my makeup please.”

You stare at Peter expressionless.

“Like with the skin paint thing.” He adds.

“For your black eye?”

“PLEEEAAASE! I can’t have May see me with another black eye. She said if the kids keep picking on me she’s gonna call the school.”

You roll your eyes, motioning him to follow you to your makeup drawer.

“Concealer.” You handed him the small bottle and heard him repeat after you.

“Concealer.” He nods.

“How long will this last?” He twists it open.

“Stop, you’re gonna dry it out. And not forever. So I’ll let you borrow it to reapply in the morning.”

“How do I do that?” He starts blinking rapidly the same time your finger pats into his under eye.

“No blinking! Just do what I’m doing here. See? You don’t even need a sponge sometimes.”

You try to ignore how close you were to him. Seeing Peter from this proximity was something you’d never think to do. You never noticed how many little freckles he had. They’re so faint. He had a little stubble from running around all day and chapped lips. Your eyes follow the line of his bottom lip, like a crack in the pavement. You could feel his breathing hit your hand as you pat into his skin. As you look up from his lips, you find him staring at you back.

“Done.” You reeled your hand back, clearing your throat.

Peter looks at himself through your small light up mirror. Seems simple enough.

“See? Good as new. Just a little swollen.” You comb his curl away from his forehead so he could clearly see the coverage.

“You’re the best.” He stares at his reflection in awe.

“I know.” You shrugged.

“Don’t touch it or it’ll come off.” You grab a small pouch to put the concealer in.

“Here. Don’t lose it. I splurged for this one.” You hand him the pouch and he nods profusely.

“Guarding it with my life.” He puts it in the small pocket of his backpack.

“Thank you.” He smiles.

“No problem.” You avoided his eyes, hopefully he didn’t see the heat rising to your cheeks. “Don’t keep May waiting.”

Peter nods, giving an awkward wave. “Right. See ya.”

Peter jumps out onto the fire escape. Quietly this time. Out of sight.

“See ya.” You said quietly to yourself.

The next morning, you woke up to a series of messages from Peter.

“she didnt suspect a thing HAHAHA” 12:32 AM

“thank u again btw” 12:33 AM

“it hurts to blink.” 12:34 AM

“ok goodnight ill let you know how it lasts thru the night.” 12:34 AM

“hi it disappeared a little bit but im gonna add some more i hope that’s ok” 9:12 AM

You bit your lip, your finger hovering over the facetime button. You click it without thinking too much of it, waiting for him to answer.

Peter comes into frame with a newly pale complexion. His entire face was covered in concealer.

“Hi.” He grins at the camera, oblivious to how ghostly he looked. This would’ve scared you if he didn’t answer the call in that ridiculous angle.

“Peter…” You sighed.

“What? Did I miss a spot?”

“…No. You can’t possibly miss any more spots I don’t think.”

Peter frowns at the camera, he thought he did well.

“Too much?” He chuckled, embarrassed.

You roll your eyes.

“This stuff covers everything. I don’t have freckles anymore.” He runs away at his cheek, showing that it wasn’t coming off.

“Did May see you yet today?” You sighed.

“No.. Should I take this off?”

Before you could answer, May quickly knocks on Peter’s door, and doesn’t wait to open the door.

“Hey, I’m thinking pizza for lunch-“

Peter turns to look at May and you could see her blurry face peek through behind Peter's shoulder on your screen. She widens her eyes and blinks a couple times.

“What… What is that?”

“Sunscreen.” Peter blurts out.

“Y/N and I are going to the beach.”

May knits her brows together, thinking if that’s really believable or not.

“There’s no beach near by.”

Peter silently stares at his aunt.

“...I’m eating this pizza with or without you .” May shrugs. “Have fun at the… beach.” She gives Peter a look and then closes the door.

Peter turns his attention back to his phone.

“The beach?” You squeaked out, attempting to stifle your laugh.

“I would hang up if I didn’t need help taking this off.” Peter says flatly.

You let out a groan. “Just get over here.”

#pearlfeline #peter parker #spiderman #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #mcu!peter parker x reader #mcu peter parker #mcu!peter parker #peter parker x fem!reader #marvel mcu #mcu imagine #mcu #peter parker fluff #peter parker x you #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you

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sexyandcringe · 7 months ago

Text

Hopeless romantic

Part 2 ◇ Part 3 ◇ Part 4

Warnings: none, osamu feeling inferior to tsumu :(

Content: osamu x reader, Angst (to fluff in the next chapters), hurt/comfort

A/n: Osamu's POV! I swear i'm gonna continue the story-line in the next chap.!

All of his childhood, Osamu felt like he was divided in half because of his brother: half food, half clothes, and half affection from their parents. It was almost like people didn’t see him as his own person. To the world, they were “The Twins”, never just “Osamu” and just “Atsumu”.

Time changed, things changed, they each started to become their own person, dreaming of different futures and places to go to.

Osamu always felt like he was the shadow to the light named Miya Atsumu, but he loved him dearly, so much that even today he half-expects to find Atsumu tangled up beneath the sheets of their childhood bunker bed, only to be greeted by the disappointing sight of his mirror, where his reflection gets blurred with the lines of his twin brother.

Osamu loved Atsumu but he didn’t want to hurt people like Atsumu often did; he told his brother that he was never going to become like him, so he became a little less selfish, less stubborn and less greedy.

With you, though, he is greedy. And he wants all of you.

He wants to hold you while you two watch some stupid anime called Haikyuu that you’re obsessed with, he wants to listen to you rambling about your day and your disdain for Alice, the insufferable colleague of yours; he wants to cook for you and feed you with his own hands and he wants to wait for you in your shared bed.

Osamu didn’t want a lot of things in his life, except his restaurant and his family, but since the day he saw you walk in with wet hair and drenched clothes, he started to want a lot more than he could afford, from the most mundane acts of waking up together to the intimacy of making love to you.

He is patient though, he lets your relationship grow steadily.

He thought that he would be happy with the leftover crumbles of affection that you gave him, but when you stopped coming to his shop, Osamu lost it completely.

He was waiting for you around 7 PM like every Friday, he was feeling confident that day and wanted to suggest a casual outing to the neighbouring town's food fair.

(Nothing like a date, just a friendly hang out, he told himself).

His resolve wavered when you didn’t show up, not for one, not for two, but for three weeks in a row. He thought of all the possibilities as to why you didn’t come for so long, and he tried his best not to imagine the worst-case scenario. That can’t be. Nope.

On the third Friday of your absence, Osamu was crumbling. He closed the shop earlier than usual and went straight into the supermarket to get his guilty pleasure: the Butter Cookies.

His grandma always used to get them for him and unlike many other children, he never found sewing tools or anything of the sort in the box; his grandma knew that that kind of disappointment would be far too great for a six-year-old, food-enthusiast ‘Samu.

Well, grandma, that kind of disappointment is too great for a twenty-six-year-old ‘Samu too, because the guy was nearly panicking when he couldn’t find the boxes of Butter Cookies at their usual place.

He was positive, though, because even after searching everywhere and not finding them, he didn’t lose hope. They will be available in another grocery store for sure. He got his priority straight and redirected his steps to another store across the town.

Luckily for him, the store was still open for another hour and it didn’t take him long to finally see his comfort food, in all its glory, staring at him from the shelf in the second aisle.

He was just about to go and pay for his box when he caught a glimpse of your silhouette, halting him in his tracks and confirming that it was, in fact, you.

Concern etches across his features as he looks at your tired and empty eyes, wondering if you have been taking care of yourself. Did you eat enough? Sleep enough?

The desire to call out to you is strong, leaving him no time to think before he is already approaching you, “That one will go bad in like 2 days.”

You look like a deer caught in headlights, doe eyes staring at him in what he wants to believe is awe. You smile timidly before saying: “Hi Osamu, long time no see.”

Yeah, long time no see, indeed. Osamu wants to be mad at you for making him so worried, for not coming to his shop, for not letting him know if you were doing okay, but he is just the owner of a restaurant and you’re just a regular client.

At least, you used to be a regular client. He can’t force you to like his company or his shop, no matter how much he wishes it.

Despite this, he can’t stop the bitter remark that slips past his lips,“Yeah, because someone hasn’t been coming to my restaurant lately.” you visibly wince, though he can’t seem to care enough.

You stutter some poor excuse as he inspects the other vegetables in the aisle, handing you one with a clean surface that will last at least five days, per Osamu’s calculations.

His hands touch yours and it makes him blush like a middle schooler.

You both talk about nothing and everything and in between the mundane banter and playful jabs, Osamu finds himself agreeing to a cooking lesson at your apartment.

And he couldn’t be happier.

Reblogs are really appreciated!

Tags: @lees-chaotic-brain @writingsofanomnivore @pressuredtreasure @k4sumis0u

#haikyuu x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu fluff #haikyuu #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu comfort #osamu miya comfort #osamu comfort #osamu angst #haikyuu angst #i love him sm

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oimitocat · 22 days ago

Text

TSWCP — CHAP 3

lee minho x m!reader

chapter summary; you just can’t live with the silence. you can’t bear it. this time, you prove minho you really will risk it all for him. will he take it or leave you with your heart bleeding in your hands?

content warning; subtle internalized homophobia + subtle insecurity + tension + constant change of pov (mainly minho’s) + crying + makeout session

content genre; idol au + actor au + fluff + angst + 9th member! reader

word count — 6.4k | m.list | a/n; this sucks btw ;(

it’s cold. frozen and heavy.

that’s how you could describe your heart after what had happened days ago. your mind? static. looking for signal. waiting on connection.

concert tours are coming up. your management had managed to sort something out with the executive directors of the drama so that once you come back from tour with the group, shooting wouldn’t be delayed or a hassle. the thought of it is dreadful. you still have to pull off a few conferences and amidst your tour dates some photo shootings have been crushed into your schedule.

as much as it pisses you off, it also can’t be helped.

“what’s your favorite scene?” an interviewer asks.

you blink, having zoned out. gayoung’s soft touch on your knee brings you back to your current position.

“me personally,” gayoung says with her fluent english. “i really loved the scene where i had to ride a horse.”

you stare at her before smiling. the other actor, another close friend of yours on set is minwoo, he laughs.

“i had to help her five times to climb on that thing because she kept slipping.”

“ah, the cons of being a gnome,” you tease automatically.

everyone busts laughing while gayoung gives you an offended expression. she starts an argument, you feed it.

minho clutches his phone as he watches the interaction from his screen. the video had been posted not so long ago now. he can’t help it, seeing you from a screen and aching. why had he been so stupid? kissing you? confessing?

you two could never be as perfect as you and gayoung are. your chemistry is absolutely beautiful. it’s so natural. how could he ever compare to something like that. much less now? he ruined what he had with you. was a kiss really worth it? absolutely not. not after the rift he created with you became unmendable.

“y/n, since the drama is based on a book, it has been said that the first few episodes on the next season you’ll have to portray heartbreak, betrayal and desperation. will that be hard for you?”

he watches how you shake your head immediately, that joyful expression you had dropped “i have to display a raw emotion, most of the time we as actors have to study how to display something we’ve never experienced but in this case, i’ve actually experienced heartbreak and desperation.”

minho’s eyes widened a bit. are you insane? how could you say that with your girlfriend right next to you?

“could you maybe give us some insight on that?”

“well,” you look up at the ceiling for a moment. then you look back at the screen but for some reason it feels like you’re looking at him. as if you knew he was watching. “as an idol and actor you need to let go of many things you end up carrying, i think everyone does and everyone has someone to seek out and trust enough to simply rant and be yourself with. yet, things kind of change when you grow in the industry… maybe the fans don’t know this about me but i cherish those who i’m close with and will always find a way to keep our bonds, despite how i seem like i’ll let people come and go- it’s nothing like that. filming this drama took a lot out of me…”

“it not only took away my sleep but it took something else away. i loved shooting it, but if i had to do everything all over again…” you pause, sighing, “i think i would… but i’d change a lot of things and work hard not just to keep my career going but to keep those around me too. yeah, maybe we can’t stop people from leaving when they decided they will no matter what but it doesn’t change how horrible that feeling is.’

“you have gayoung though, as a couple i’m sure you share your burdens with her now, right?”

bitterness flashes across your features for a moment. no one has caught that, no one will. only minho.

because as much as it hurts… he’s the only one that knows you more than you know yourself.

“of couse,” you smile. bitter. “just shows that when someone won’t be there for you, someone else will.” you pause, “and be better.”

ouch. minho turns off his phone, he covers his face into his hands and breathes wetly. he really is the worst, isn’t he?

fans have started to notice the distance between the two of you. bubble messages flood in every now and then saying they hope you and he are doing okay. he sees the comments questioning the silence that has been built between you two. the members know.

well, they don’t know you two had kissed or that he is inevitably in love with you.

but they know you two are not in good terms.

chan had questioned you about it and when you didn’t give him a believable answer he had seeked minho out. all minho said was — “y/n is just too busy to keep what we have, i made sure he focuses on his career.” which in turns absolutely outed the fact minho caused all of this. the look of disappointment chan gave him is the same one he gives himself after crying and looking in the mirror.

even crying feels illegal.

the worst part is you and jisung share the dorm with him. he hears jisung question you about your distance. he hears you talk to people— to gayoung — over the phone. he bumps into you on the way to the laundry, to the bathroom, in the kitchen.

he works with you.

he lives with you.

he misses you.

yet, you’re not his to seek out anymore. you’re his coworker now.

nothing more…

“where’s y/n? we’re about to board the plane,” jeongin says with a pout.

minho unconsciously looks around, equally wondering where you are. they had driven to the airport at around 10 and you weren’t in the dorms. through check ins, you still hadn’t popped up.

later, however, the video of you running through the airport with your bodyguard and manager blows up. minho finds that out in the van after landing in tokyo. he had wondered why you were so disheveled when you entered the plane.

“we have four concerts here in japan,” seungmin mumbles to himself, “we have one day to roam around, one morning left and then we’re off to the states.”

“doesn’t y/n hyung have a private conference in the states?” jisung asks.

“what?” minho frowns.

chan sighs, “he really needs to take a break. this whole year is going to be packed.” he rests his head back on the seat, “he barely managed to pull off the concerts in korea.”

“well we do have a few free days in between our concerts,” seungmin offers, “he’ll have some sort of rest.”

minho swallows. are you really that busy?

he still doesn’t get to see much of you. he’s had to hear hyunjin recap how you have 2 interviews a day before flying with them to japan. how you had to pull an all nighter to review a script for a morning commercial schedule. it’s crazy, he thinks. how are you alive.

when all of you come to the venue to rehearse, he sees you thrudge in after chan, who seemingly had to drag you here. your hair is everywhere, your face puffy from sleep, your large hoodie and baggy joggers make you look small. minho forces himself to look away, his heart clenching at your adorable sight.

practice goes alright, minho thinks. sound check goes well, jisung and changbin goofed off with the autotune. they had tried to pull you into their fun scheme but minho noticed how you grimly looked at them. it didn’t change how you still went along with it, always willing to entertain the guys. they’re your family just as much as they’re his. still, everyone is tense around you two.

because they know.

they know their favorite hyungs are in weird terms. they don’t ask, they don’t have to. it’s visibly written in the air.

“minho can you go check on y/n,” chan asks him the morning of the official concert.

everyone went through the same checks and passed. everything is ready. minho hadn’t really seen you today regardless, despite dancing and singing beside you. he truly does not recall you being around other than on stage, not even during lunch break.

“why me?” he asks without thinking, it even comes out bitterly.

chan stares at him for a moment. no one is around, just him and minho. “are you really going to drag this out?” he asks, tone evidently showing how angry he is, “everyone else is checking up on him except you. what are you two doing?”

minho looks away, fists clenching at his sides. “we’re just… not in a good spot-“

“and how long will that last? huh? y/n isn’t prideful like you are, so who is dragging it out?”

that was like a slap in the face.

“minho, don’t shut me out.”

yet minho closed the door and never dared get near it. you never begged again. verbally. he took notice of your sad eyes after the fight. he felt your presence begging to call for him. yet you didn’t. because you knew the door that was slammed in your face would never open again.

“i’ll check up on him before we get on stage,” he says softly.

chan sighs, “i’ll take it.”

backstage, as he’s getting in his outfit, he sees you thrudge around. on your phone. clearly you’re talking to gayoung. he sees you smile for a second before walking out. he can’t help but follow you out discreetly. you step behind a wall, he stays around the corner.

“i’m screwed,” you whisper. “so fucking screwed, you have no idea.”

minho steps back. well you’re alive and that’s all that matters. why would he check up on you? you don’t need him. you have the guys. you have gayoung. that’s clearly who you’re talking to.

he doesn’t need to overstep. your life isn’t something he’s involved in.

“minho! y/n!”

minho whips his head around, his heart pounding. does hyunjin have to be so fucking loud!? outing him like this!? he should leave before you realize he was right behind you- he makes the mistake of turning around again and coming face to face with you.

he’s caught.

he swallows and stares up at you. your dark eyes boring into him. you’re all ready to get on stage. he couldn’t even speak if he wanted to. there’s nothing to say.

the way you walk past him makes his heart drop.

the act was unfamiliar until 2 months ago. that’s how long he’s been dragging it out. that’s how long it’s been when he hurt your feelings and smashed his along. it felt like so little time but it felt like an eternity ago.

an eternity that is burned into his skull and haunts him.

not even the roar of the fans when they come on stage silences the thousands of thoughts in his head.

he’s on the stage feeling like a puppet. except his strings tangle with yours. the amount of times you bumped into him from stumbling were too many to count. he hates it.

and he hates how much he worries.

above all, he hates that he can’t near you.

and it’s his fault.

it’s probably the fourth concert day, the last concert in japan. they’ll be here for a day or so before flying back to korea.

your chest feels tight.

you get nauseous a lot. you can’t really stomach much. at most a soup you get at the hotel you’re all staying at but even that leaves you with an upset stomach.

you had filmed a commercial in japan, gayoung had been flown out here. it frustrated you, didn’t matter where you went, gayoung had to be involved somehow. the girl isn’t at fault, it’s the company, you know that.

“oppa are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

you raise your head and look at your phone. the video call started thirty minutes ago when she finally landed and finished going through security. you don’t hate her, she’s a good friend. you haven’t kissed her, both of you strictly left that for the scenes only. you hug her, you cuddle her, you carry her but she’s not who you love. maybe as a friend. not as a lover.

“you look like shit ever since we finished the drama, i didn’t want to point it out,” she says, there’s a bit of a teasing tone but she’s also dead serious.

“a pretty girl like you shouldn’t curse,” you say with a sigh.

she stares at you before starting a string pf curses. you chuckle softly, shaking your head. you groan, your migraine returning. she immediately pauses.

“oppa, i’m worried for you. joking aside, you really do look like shit.”

you grunt, looking around the room, “i think i’ll feel better when i’m back in korea…”

she puts the phone close to her face, as if she could see you more clearly that way. “i hope so or we’ll have to shoot a ‘taking care of my boyfriend’ blog.”

“ugh no,” you whine.

she laughs, “just kidding, the company is going to make me show my concern though if something happens.”

you give her a face, “nothing is gonna happen gayoung, i’m fine. just not a hundred percent.”

“well as long as you get back home safely,” she says softly, “i care for you y/n.”

all formality is out the window. it always has been with her, you see her as a little sibling from how long you two have worked together for. almost a whole year and a half. you had known her before the drama but contact wasn’t fully established until then.

“i have to get going to the venue,” you finalize, dread expressed on your features.

“okay~,” she sing songs as she gets inside her van, “don’t push yourself, okay? see ya!”

“bye,” you throw a peace sign and she quickly mimics you before hanging up.

you drop your phone on your bed before scrubbing your face with your hands. sometimes you’re thankful that you’re dating a friend instead of someone you don’t know, you’ve heard companies do that so this isn’t bad. yet, it isn’t good either.

you’ve been like a zombie these last few weeks. taking all sorts of pills and gummies that would give you energy and help you get through concerts with a smile. you know the guys are worried about you, but you’re not the only one feeling overworked. still, you’re the one with the worst of it.

“let’s put on our best show,” chan says as he pats everyone’s backs. he pauses when he comes to you, “let me know if you need a break-“

“hyung, seriously,” you grimace. “you make me feel like i don’t belong sometimes.”

he frowns, realizing he overstepped. “shit, no. y/n that’s not what i meant- i just- you know that i know.”

you stare at him, almost mortified. “uh-“

“please get to the stage quickly!” a staff member says.

chan gives you a once over before heading out, you follow suit. your migraine hasn’t stopped. the roaring of the fans feels like a hammer being pounded on your skull from the inside. you genuinely contemplate taking up chan’s offer, especially when you zone out and step on minho’s shoe accidentally.

“my bad,” you say automatically, stepping away like you had been burned.

and maybe you were, with the way he looks at you annoyingly. when did you feel so left out like this?

you execute the choreography perfectly, smiling at hyunjin whenever he comes across you on a part. fans fawn over each and every one of you. yet, when your part comes during the bridge, you stop mid verse when something oozes out of your nose onto your upper lip. immediately, you look away from the camera and wipe it with your sleeve. the worst part is minho was behind you for the formation, his brows furrowed when you immediately stumbled when walking to the next formation.

“are you bleeding?” jisung asks ushered as jeongin sings.

you walk past all of them, jogging to the backstage. the bleeding won’t stop, normally you can just wipe it away and it’s unnoticeable but you knew this isn’t as easy. you’re hyper aware of your physical status.

“oh, here let me,” a staff member says as they guide you to a chair.

the fans are worried, chan clarifying that you’ll be fine makes it worse. how weak could you be?

“the bleeding stopped,” you say as you look at the clean tissue you pull away from your nose.

“ah, are you sure you want to go-“

“thank you for your care, if anything comes up i’ll let you know,” you bow low before heading back out after the second song.

there’s a moment where the members speak and chat, you anxiously return to the stage as jisung speaks to stay. you could stand beside anyone, they’re all dear to you and have been with you during tough times. yet, you unconsciously went to minho’s side, awkwardly standing there when you realize you shouldn’t have chosen him.

even now, does he really give you comfort? why are you lying to yourself like this?

“oh! hyung! are you okay?” hyunjin asks out loud on the mic.

you swallow before looking down at your mic, “minho hit me with his mic when i went to formation.”

what.

minho spins and looks at you. you clearly lost your mind.

“i’m good though hyung, no need to apologize.”

everyone on stage is looking at you like you really have lost it. minho’s eyes are like saucers. he hesitates before bringing his mic up to speak, looking away and nervously fidgeting with his inear.

“uh, my mistake, i didn’t realize you were that close when we turned.”

“hyung doesn’t realize his strength either,” hyunjin jokes nervously.

there’s no way to verify or deny that fact. in the formation you and minho are pretty hidden, so in the end, it’s a possibility no matter how slim.

“the fuck was that,” minho grits when all of you are backstage for an outfit change.

“hey, don’t fight,” changbin huffs.

you stand there stiffly, changbin between the two of you. everyone has run off, not wanting to get caught up in it. chan comes up to you two. minho glares at you before stepping back.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, like he really did hurt you on the stage.

“but you did.” you say automatically.

“hey, hey, what matters is that you’re okay,” chan says, believing the words that came out of your mouths.

neither chan or changbin know that minho’s apology and your accusations are not from what happened minutes ago, but from what happened two months ago. you look away, turning to change.

now, things are worse. the anger you had from what minho did dwindled down into your suppressed sadness. you meant everything you said- you’d leave anything and everything to keep him. yet, why didn’t he want you?

you cover your face before your stylist fixes your makeup, you ask for a few moments and she goes on standby. your head is killing you, you want to cry from frustration, you absolutely want minho.

he always knew how to make you feel better.

how come the last time you fought him he kissed you? isn’t he hurting too? why is this so difficult?

by the time you’re back on stage with the other members, you can’t really stay focused. you trail behind anyone and everyone down the stage when some of the songs are free reign across the stage. you stick to jisung, the second closest member to you… well, maybe the first one now that minho wants nothing to do with you.

you watch him across the stage.

during the song there’s a beat pause. everyone looks at each other playfully, but minho’s eyes latch onto your gaze.

you smile at him, painful but yearning.

he at least has the decency to wave back.

and the flame of hope ignites in your heart again.

your life feels suffocating.

you can’t remember how many times you’ve been seen only as gayoung’s boyfriend. the idol with an outed relationship that bloomed from a drama. you get back to korea. you fly out for concerts. you fly out for interviews.

it’s constant movement.

everyone found out your nosebleeds come from stress and your lack of sleep. chan knows the most of it, he does lack sleep too. still, your life is busy even with not scenes to shoot.

minho isn’t handling that well. he hasn’t exactly stepped up to confront you about the situation between the two of you. nor has he approached you on terms outside of fan service. it’s not even as often as before, it’s crumbs of what the two of you used to do. ever since you started a relationship there’s constant war between fans when a member is too touchy with you.

you’re not an object, you don’t belong to gayoung. if only they knew the relationship was strictly a job on top of all your jobs. you were called in for modeling, for drink commercials, a cafe wanted to have a theme with the drama and you and gayoung had to sponsor their promotions for a week. the drinks were okay.

the food was okay.

nothing could beat minho’s cooking. sadly, you don’t think you’ll ever get the chance to eat it ever again. you and minho’s situation hasn’t gotten better nor worse. it’s just.. still.

you often stare at your ceiling at night when you have the luxury to be home early to rest. it’s not often but when you do… your mind drifts.

to how soft minho’s lips are. to the hunger you two had demonstrated. the way his soft breathes ignited a fire in your stomach. he took that chance and built a wall between the two of you.

“yah,” a voice calls out.

you jump, sitting up and whipping around to face your door.

“i made dinner.”

you look at the door as if minho opened it and stared at you. he’s behind the wooden pallet. he’s talking to you. your body twitches before you stiffen.

no.

you can’t.

you’ve waited all these months for this but you just can’t. something won’t let you. is it your self restraint? you don’t want to fight again. if you tried to bring up the topic he’d run away. he’ll somehow blame you. he’ll do everything possible to keep you at a miles distance.

he’s just being a coworker.

he’s obligated to show interest and care.

“i know you’re awake,” minho says.

is his voice trembling?

“i’m good.” you say softly, staring at the bottom of the door to see his shadow. it’s loud enough for him to hear.

if you accepted, two things could happen. you argue and make things worse. or you lose all control and take the riskiest bet of them all.

neither is good.

you don’t particularly care for your fame. you have enough in your bank to survive if you get fired or blacklisted. you have backup plans. yet, you’re not ready for it yet. you’re just waiting on minho to accept that he’s the one at fault, even if it’s indirectly.

when that will happen? you don’t know. maybe him wanting to eat a cooked meal was it. yet, your instincts tell you not now.

so you lay back down, hearing minho huff and stomp away.

he definitely thinks you hate him. you love him, but you want him to feel a little sting. it’s nothing compared to the scalding he gave you months ago, but giving him a little taste of his medicine won’t hurt.

at least you don’t hope so.

he has to reach out the right way.

and… you close your eyes and toss and turns…. and if he doesn’t do it before you finally decide, then you’ll have no choice to make the move.

just a little longer…

you hope your heart handles it.

he doesn’t near you. you’re used to it now, despite how much it hurts you.

it’s the end of the year and all of you are preparing for the award shows. you have many to attend— mma , mama, the baeksang arts awards. probably some more.

the biggest is mama. it’s one of the ones at the end of the year. the acting award is in may, or so you heard. thing is you’re a nominee and they’ll announce that further on, right now your main focus is the award shows of the month of december. it’s a stressful time, but not as stressful as when you were fresh of the drama.

since last month, you’ve had more time to breathe. to sleep too.

you do have the obligation to keep going on dates with gayoung. instead of being home alone with minho when jisung is stuck in the studio you choose to hang out with her. unknown to you- that hurts minho. well, maybe you do know.

“sound check done, thank you!”

all of you bow.

“hyung!” changbin runs to you, “i’m hungry!”

“yeah! me too!” seungmin yells.

you smile, adoring how cute changbin looks as he clings to your side. “and what do you want to eat? we have to start getting ready for our performance tonight.”

“crab!” changbin pouts.

“i want something else,” hyunjin argues.

you laugh, “just order what you want… you know where my card is…” everyone screams happily, “and remember to watch your intake, i don’t need anyone with an upset stomach during or after performance. also!” you point at them, “just buy food, i don’t want to recieve a bill of some video game purchase.” you eye felix who whistles.

minho simply watches you from afar. these past few months weren’t easy. still, he can’t bring himself to face you yet. why would he? your life is as perfect as it gets— you have a successful acting and idol career. you have a beautiful girlfriend. you have millions of doting fans. what would he speak to you for? his feelings? those are worth nothing for you, it’s destroy your image.

assuming you really did mean what you said all those months ago, what benefit would you get? he can’t do that to you. he can’t bear to think that you’d leave everything you worked so hard to build just for him… if he had ever said yes.

but he knows better.

and he knows his spot is exactly where he’s in- watching you from afar. seeing you work as an idol beside him.

“alright guys, let’s go show them what we’re made of,” chan says with a whoop.

minho simply won’t intervene.

despite how much rest you’ve had compared to a few months back, you still don’t feel your best. still, your performance is full of energy and charisma. the whole performance is full of crazy moves and entrances. the acts hyunjin and you pulled were the highlights of the whole stage.

by the second act, your place was to do a flip between two dancers, so that they would soon do a dance break with you. you’d have to wait for a few moments until felix finishes his line and everyone files to the side for you to do your part.

you’ve rehearsed this plenty of times, you know when to enter and when to wait. you know how many steps to take and when to turn. when to breathe and when to blink.

yet, you take the wrong step and fall six feet off the platform stage. bodyguards run to you as you groan, your trembling arms helping you push yourself off the ground. jeongin’s worried eyes are on you, he’s hidden from the amount of dancers before him.

“are you okay!?” a staff asks as they help you get to your feet.

you had fallen on your hands and knees. the impact was rough but the adrenaline makes it feel like you’re fine. your hand hurts bad though, or is it your wrist? you just stare down at your shaking hands, scratched and getting red. you wobble, your knees almost giving out. you need to get back on stage-

the dance break starts.

“help me get up!” you yell, panting.

“if you’re injured we have to-“

“you have to walk all the way around-“

“y/n-ssi you need to get checked-“

everyone is talking but not moving. you growl, grabbing a bodyguard and your stare was enough for everyone to get the gist. they hunch over and hook their hands to give you leverage, your foot wobbles from weak balance as you boost yourself up with their help. clearly everyone is confused and worried, yet you crawl onto the stage and quickly get on your feet.

the impact is starting to reveal where you’re hurt. your ankle is probably sprained, each step is killing you. your shoulder aches, your elbows sting.

still, you run and when your backup dancer catch you on their peripheral vision, they immediately step back to sync with you when you backflip and spin to the floor in a breakdance pattern. it’s the final steps of the formation you were supposed to perform, yet it still blew everyone away and regained the attention of everyone.

going through the rest of the choreography was killing you. it took everything in you to not wobble as you did your lines and performed with the rest of the members.

the worst part? was that after forcing yourself to stand still for approximately one minute as the performance comes to an end for the cameras to stop rolling, you lose your balance when going down the stairs and once more, you fall from the three foot high staircase that lead to the backstage.

“hyung!” jeongin cries out, catching everyone’s attention.

medical staff already surround you as you lay on the floor, groaning and grunting.

“what’s going on?” minho asks, eyes wide and his heart pounding.

“hyung fell off the stairs!” changbin exclaims.

“he also fell off the stage,” jeongin sobs, “and he still hopped on and kept going-“

“hey, hey, let’s let them work,” chan says, gathering the kids away despite his anxiety skyrocketing.

minho doesn’t budge at first, his glassy eyes fixated on your body as the medics put you on a stretcher when you say how much it hurts to move. he’s worried sick, you really pushed yourself that bad? he can’t wonder if you’re insane or passionate. no one really enjoys the rest of the ceremony. during the speech chan mentions how passionate they are for their dream, even mentioning how y/n pushed himself to give the best performance even when he shouldn’t have.

back in the dorms chan texts the chat, saying you had dislocated your left shoulder and wrist. you’re bruised on your elbows and knees, the height would have fractured them but you had placed all your weight in the impact in your hands, causing one wrist to suffer more. two to three months until you’re fully recovered.

they still have to perform. minho can’t help but cry, he knows very well the company will make you keep going through promotions and schedules no matter how hurt you are.

and he’s nervous. how will he put aside his actions in order to care for you? you live right next to his room, how could he feign interest when you’ll be in need of assistance for a while? hyunjin was the same, so how could he not intervene?

his biggest fear is this— what if you don’t let him?

he’d deserve it of course. you have every right to refuse his help and care.

it gnaws at him for the three days straight that you’re in the hospital. it was per your request to stay for a little longer. how will he face you? is now the right time? no. yes?

he isn’t sure if he’s crying from guilt, self hatred or anxiety anymore. so when he hears your familiar footsteps inside the dorm he freezes. jisung is with chan and changbin again, coincidentally saying he’ll be home extremely late, he enters a frenzy.

he hears your gruttal sigh as you walk inside your room, your door closes.

well. it’s now or never.

you either reject him all together — reject what? he doesn’t know. he has no idea what he’s going to say, no idea if he’ll ask to console you or to apologize for what happened or what. something has to be done, though, and if you never let him get close to you again then he’ll understand that it’s the consequences of his actions.

he takes a deep breath as he heads out of his room. he swallows the knot in his throat when he stands before your door.

“leave me alone, minho,” you say before his fist even makes contact with your door to knock.

he stares at the door as if it was it that spoke to you that way. “y/n… i-“

“just leave me alone they way you said you would. you don’t need me so i don’t need you either.”

minho breathes shallow, “y-you don’t mean that-“

“the fuck do you want?” you groan, “what? i get hurt and now you decide to speak to me?”

your voice cracks at the end of your grievance. it breaks minho.

“i’m sorry,” he sobs, “i shouldn’t have been selfish! i shouldn’t have hurt you like that! shouldn’t have shut you out!”

he hiccups and takes a step back when you open the door. through blurry sight, he looks at you. you stare down at him, why are your eyes so tender?

“but you did…”

“i just knew if i didn’t i’d have no restraint,” he sniffles, “i love you.” he whispers, looking down at the floor, “seeing you with her hurt so much. knowing you smell like her made me nauseous. knowing she was your new focus made me feel like i didn’t belong in your life anymore-“

“minho,” you grab his chin with your free hand, tilting his face up. “why does it take me getting hurt for you to speak to me again?”

minho shakes his head, “i just can’t come between you and gayoung-“

“me and gayoung are dating by contract, not because i love her.” you confess, finally letting that out. “you think i want to be with her?”

minho pushes your hand away, hot tears streaming down his face again. “what will the company think? we won’t work! you have so much to lose and-“

“you think i give a damn about all of this!?” you push him forward until he’s trapped between you and the wall. “i love you, lee minho.” you stare at his mortified expression, “i stand by what i said. for you, and only you, i’d give up everything.”

“your career-“

“none of this means nothing if you’re not in it!” you grab his chin again, “you don’t have to love me back, you don’t have to accept my feelings! just, just talk to me again, please,” you beg, your own eyes glassing over, “don’t just be my coworker, be my friend again. be my safe place again. i-i’ll put away my feelings for you, we can forget that i love you but don’t shut me out again.”

“y/n…” he stares at you, realizing how truly broken you’ve been since that day.

“that’s what i meant that day… none of this is worth it if the one person that made me feel like i belonged isn’t with me.”

“oh, y/n…” his bottom lip trembles, “have we really been that blind?”

you close your eyes and sigh, “i understand you’re scared of the public eye…”

“i am…” he whimpers.

“but i’d walk through fire if it meant i’d have you as mine for the rest of my life.”

he locks eyes with you, drowning in the warmth of your orbs. his heart hammers in his chest again, would he do the same? what is he really scared of? loving you and risking his career?

no, he concludes.

“y/n….” he says shallowly before leaning in to kiss you.

he’s scared of losing you and realizing everything he has isn’t worth that.

you kiss him with passion. his soft lips syncing with yours, saliva mixing with yours as your tongue grazes his. your hands grab his waist and pull him flush against you.

“ngh- y-your wrist-“ he tries to say as you eat his mouth.

“don’t care,” you grumble as you attack his lips without remorse.

the pesty sting in your bone doesn’t matter when he’s finally in your arms. his whimpers and moans make you want more. you know he’ll sound even more beautiful beneath you in the sheets, taking all you have to offer.

just the thought accelerates your heart rate. the beautiful man you’ve always wanted is finaly before you. the kiss means more than a confession. you place your hands behind his thighs, he makes a noise when you lift him up.

“ah- your shoulder-!”

“it’s okay baby, what you make me feel is bigger than the pain,” you tease as you carry him to your bed.

he can’t scold you or complain because you attack his mouth again. you grin into the kiss as you sit on the edge of the bed with him on your lap. it’s probably the hottest thing minho will ever experience. he straddles your waist for more comfort in this position, hands running through your hair as you kiss along his jawline. when you kiss a certain spot, he twitches and whines.

with a lazy smile, you pull away and look at him.

“let me take you,” you beg softly, panting.

he swallows, looking down at the tent in your shorts. “but gayoung-“

“can you stop mentioning her?” you growl, pulling him down by the hips so that your boner pokes him through his joggers. “she will never have me the way you can.” you kiss his ear, making him shiver, “the way you will.”

“i’m scared,” he voices out. he wraps his arms around your neck, “i-i want to say yes but… there will be no going back, y/n…”

“it was never a choice,” you say.

and he lets you push him down onto the bed.

🏷️ TAG LIST — @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @gnusihcom @minholover1 @lucianidealz @desafortuno @missvanjii @lisaswifey @yongbokkk

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hoseoksluna · 7 months ago

Text

RASPBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and luna)

genre: smut, angst

word count: 10.5k

summary: a step towards breaking the curse of your life—nothing could be sweeter than that, could it?

pinterest board: raspberries / taglist: join

warnings: anal sex:), blowjob, a bit of an argument?:), bathtub sex, ass eating, pussy licking, this whole chapter is a warning itself, oc and hobi are just horny, anger, crying, daddy issues, breeding kink, praise kink, spitting:), their emotions are all over the place, brief mention of suicide.

note: okay, this chapter might have salvaged this entire series. i wrote entirely through my feelings and the plot took a whole different direction. like i had something planned, but the characters do what they want. :) SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. THE CHAP WAS GETTING LONG. and i want the last (next) chapter to be juicy! please, send me your thoughts via my inboooox. i'll be waiting. do we trust jk or not? skfhskfhs. enjoy, my loves!

Perhaps, you should’ve seen it coming—the fact that Jungkook wouldn’t pick up. The rosily gold sunlight warms your fire of anger as you try and try again, the number beside his name on your screen rising and rising until another digit joins it. Something about it feels like a childish payback and you don’t really know why you like it so much. Why you like making him feel the way he made you feel when he spammed your phone after you made the worst mistake of your life by accidentally sending him the video of you professing that your intimate parts belong to Hobi.

Perhaps, it's as simple as that—it’s childish. And you find yourself to be in a safe realm for your inner child to come out and live. Come out and take revenge.

Another layer of warmth is pressed against your bare back, heavier, more homely. You swivel your head to bump into Hobi’s jaw, to catch the furrow of his brows as they serve as a shadow from the morning sun, along with the antique structure of his body. His trembling hands hook onto your shoulders, squeezing once before they drift down your arms. Inching closer, he wraps them around you in a suffocating hold. And it isn’t until he closes his lips down onto your temple and steals your phone, flinging it away, that you realize he did it in order to stifle the fire.

“That’s enough,” he whispers and it graces you with the notion that it should be saved for another time, the picture of his tremor coming forth and the question of why. It kills you, slowly, the liveliness of his emotions, portrayed so gently by his hands. Why are they shaking?

They snuffed out the fire, but the residue of the painting, colorless and bland, remains. It lines your skin—you can even see it in the streaks of the sunlight. The curves, the message. What was he punishing you for? It’s a question that now unfolds within the strange calmness descending down your body. Was he punishing you for having a man? For returning to your salvation that is in a lung burner? For going against him? Or for raising your fists—feeding him the poisonous negativity of your emotions?

The need to reach for your phone and talk to Jungkook seizes you again and you fight against Hobi’s hold, but he says no. Sternly, seriously. Tightens his hold. Doesn’t let go.

“Let it be,” he adds, rubbing your arm with the hand that lays across your chest. But you can’t, you can’t—

“Hobi, I can’t—”

Your sentence is silenced by the sudden kneading of his hands upon your knotted shoulders. Relief evaporates every need, every black fume of your doused fire. His hands bear strength now as his thumb focuses on the tightness of your muscles and you droop, you crumble. And what you didn’t expect—Hobi droops and crumbles with you.

The violence of his heart against your back, it becomes yours when he pulls you into the shadows of the wavering structure of his body. Its stones ricochet off of your decaying figure, dropping onto the floor with a loud, thunderous thud. You feel the saddened line of his mouth against your cheek, into which he sinks, quietly as a mouse, his whimper. He doesn’t cry and he doesn’t yell, his infelicity, bound to yours, radiates the entire room in gloom. Clouds swim past the sun and linger, the rosy glow snuffed out—just like your fire.

The wedding of your joy has been put off. The groom has been left at the altar, and it’s all your fault.

Why is everything so temporary?

Why are you unable to be stable? To stay submissive amidst the ups and downs of your life? To stay calm, unaffected?

You’re so weary of it. Weary of yourself, weary of your life, of the curse.

You turn around and embrace him. Feel like it’s the only right thing you can do at this very moment. Hobi welcomes you in, lets you sign and recuperate in the kingdom of his arms. Rubs your back, gathers the ends of your hair in his hands as if it were a stream of water he longed to refresh himself with.

It’s so different, to be given love when you don’t ask for it. Something opens within you, a circle of mildness that cracks its mouth wide to consume the edges of the curse until only its axis, its middle core remains. Lightness drives your hands to embrace him tighter, only for Hobi to follow the movement—lungs in sync while your heart tries to mimic his rapid movement.

It’s like a wordless eulogy. Goodbye to the old life, to the old pain, so the new can settle. Hobi can sense it, too. Supports it when he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the crown of your head, wets his mouth, prepares himself to speak.

But then your phone starts ringing.

Your heart lurches forward, but you dwell in motionlessness. You don’t care anymore. Hold the serenity, the lightness in higher regard.

“Let it ring,” Hobi whispers, tracing circles on your back, the same pattern that has opened within you.

You nod against his clavicle. “I will.”

His hands descend to your waist and clenches it for a while, a sensation of groundedness washing over you, cleansing you. You kiss his collarbone. Then, a message dings.

“How about I run you a bath?” Hobi asks in your ear, nuzzling his nose in your hair, muffling out the sound of another Jungkook’s intrusion. The idea resembles a paradise to you and you beg for it with a singular, pretty word.

Scooping you up in his arms, he sets you down in front of your bathtub, your nipples brushing against his chest with the descent, awakening the dried pool of your arousal deep in your core. A fresh spring of water fills it until it brims over and so you don’t waste a drop, you slam your mouth onto his, kissing him. He hums, lowly, into your mouth, not foreseeing something like this, and the sound splashes in the pool, drenching you whole, showering your orchard in the life it needs.

Slipping your tongue inside, he lets you taste him for a mere moment, before he clasps your mouth in his hand and stares you down. “Hold it.”

Hold what? Your incessant stream of horniness for him?

Reaching over, he fills up the bath with warm water with one hand, its mist rising up your body, spreading little dots of anticipation on your skin, erasing the lines, the curves and the message of the painting you never saw, but envisioned. And before he can straighten, you pull him back up. He smiles down at you, kissing you, tenderly, mouths smacking within the briefness and the pool within you heats up.

Except for the orgasm he gave you in the middle of the night, right before dawn, neither you or him got the release you needed when you were connected. Pity ripples in your water and you grasp his manhood in your hand, semi-hard. How did he get excited this quickly? You coo, but only for yourself, drifting your hand down his poor, blue balls, squeezing them, coaxing a pained sigh out of him.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, softly, flicking your gaze up into his. They must be hurting, considering the amount of arousal that swirled inside without an ounce of alleviation.

He doesn’t respond, but that’s an answer for you. Light flows from his eyes as seriousness draws his features tight, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. You kiss his chest, gripping him a little before you let go, threading your fingers through your hair, parting them into three sections and, blindly, instinctively, you plait them into a braid, securing the end with a silk, thin scrunchie. Pink, like his imaginary wings.

“Come join me.”

Hobi shakes his head, though. Holds you steady as you swing your leg over the lip of the bathtub, sinking into the warm, misty water. At the sight of you kneeling, he lets out another pained sigh, prolonged this time and you feel so bad for him that you don’t think twice before you take him into your mouth.

“Pup, fuck,” he moans, grabbing the crown of your head as his knees shake. All of his emotions are expressed through the tremors, you note, and it drives you to open your mouth wider, swallowing him deeper. “Oh, yeah, that’s so good.”

Your walls clench and you mewl around him, dragging your tongue flat on the underside of him as you draw back, swirling the muscle around the tip of him as you grip him. You use your saliva to stroke him, making him cage in his bottom lip between his teeth again. Eyes rolled back, his reddened lip springs back, and he gazes down at you, fingers trailing down until they meet your loose plait, acknowledging themselves with the newness.

“I love your hair like this. You’re so pretty,” he comments, voice so terribly strained, and you hum, pleased to hear such a compliment. You hollow out your cheeks on his tip, sucking him, slowly, and he repeats those words you love so much, your noises of pleasure rising in pitch. “You really do love it when I say that, don’t you? God, I adore you. All of who you are.”

You withdraw, completely, without losing your grip on him, panting. Can feel your eyes send waves of love towards him as you bore them, piercingly, into his. He groans, divulging to you that he received the message, and you could burst, you could fly—turn this water into fire as his godliness from his precum sweetens your throat once you swallow, the aftertaste of him transforming you into an unknown being of holiness. You’re not God, you’re not an angel, either. You’re something else, entirely. A figment of his creation on the cusp of awakening and living. A moving picture of stability, submission and feline softness. Something he adores. Something he’ll soon love.

And it pleasures you, intensely.

“Do you adore me, pup?” Hobi asks as he wraps his hand around your braid. One time, two times, three times—until your hair is pulled so tight that he inclines your chin up to him, waiting for your answer. And he doesn’t have to voice it out—the dark side of his desire, the bad things he wants to do to you. You perceive them clouding his pearlescent eyes, making them brighter.

You wish the moon would turn its face towards you, so it could see the change that is occurring. So it could see the way you’ll use its magnetism to blanket yourself with Hobi’s darkness.

Now you’re able to. Now you’re prepared.

“I adore you, Daddy,” you breathe out, stroking him faster, your chest mimicking the rhythm. “And I want to show you just how much. You said you wanted to make me forget. Let me do that for you.”

His moan transmutes into a vulgarity, a tender shade of pink scattering along his cheeks and you could eat them. Your heart thumps, colorfully, your longing to help him forget the taste of the bane of your life growing and growing like a thick bush of raspberries. He deserves it—needs it, considering the infelicity of his that he poured over you when he held you, his lack of words shared with you. He deserves the fucking world and you’re willing to go above and beyond to give it to him. To give it to your boyfriend. Your husband.

“How? Tell me how you’re gonna do it.”

You draw your face to his cock, but he pulls you back by your braid, coaxing a dark mewl out of you. A drum begins to beat in your clit—the start of his song, incited by his darkness.

“Did I not tell you to use your words?” Hobi scolds, so awfully sternly, and you flutter all over, the peaks of your nipples stiffening, the drum picking up its rhythm. Your eyes widen as that darkness of his overwhelms you and you want more of it.

“Help me say it,” you say, your heart not letting you lie to him as the words, ‘I don’t know how to say it’ were on the tip of your tongue.

Hobi smirks, tightening his grip on your braid. Pain shoots up your scalp and even though you hiss, you like it. He inches forward, his lips a mere centimeter away. The radiation of his pleasure hits you, drifting down to your core. You almost reach your hand down to it, so the ache disappears, but you yearn to focus on him, wholly.

“If you want to suck on this cock and if you want me to praise you, then you’re gonna have to give me those pretty words that I know you’re capable of saying,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue at the halt of your hand around him and you resume, pressing play on the movie of his guttural moans—and you moan along with him, enjoying the sound.

Is that a hint of his pent-up anger? You believe, wholeheartedly, that it’s somewhere hiding in him, that he’s keeping inside, adamant on not letting it out in your presence. You want to unlock that cage and beckon it out, meet it, learn its name and its desires. And you’ll do it—just so Hobi feels better.

You can handle it.

And to do it, you linger, intentionally, in your quietness, ceasing your movement on his cock. In fact, you withdraw altogether. Arch your spine when you sit back, your breasts bouncing a little. And he lets you, unbelief slackening his hold on your braid, mouth parted. Perhaps, he’s thinking you don’t want to go along with the foreplay, so he’s taking a step back, but what he doesn’t know is that what you’re doing is as much of a means of it as it is one of healing.

There’s no way he isn’t angry at your ex-boyfriend for punishing you silently for whatever he thinks you did. There’s no way there isn’t the same fire in him that burned in you at the sight of him marking you with the palm of his hand. He saw the painting, you didn’t. There is simply no way he doesn’t want to explode.

Hobi does lots of things for you. Stifling his emotions until they lash out in the form of his tremor is one of them. And you crave, with your whole being, to do the same for him. Let him feel like he let you feel. Make him come, vividly, like he made you come.

Adore him like he adores you.

“I’m such a bad girl, aren’t I?” you purr, lifting your fingers to your breasts and swirling them around your hardened nubs. His eyes flick to them and enlarge. You spread your legs and let him see all of you, bolts of pleasure swaying your body like the water lapping at your stomach. “Withholding my words on purpose when you’re so hard, when you need me. Hm, don’t I deserve to be punished? Don’t I deserve to be punished so hard that I willingly give you my words?”

Hobi pants and his nostrils flare, chest heaving and slightly shuddering in tandem with the drum in your clit. Sweat coats the antique structure of his body, darkening it as if rain fell upon it, staining it for a little while. You want to stain it with his ivory arousal—make a magnificent sculpture out of him to remember this important moment.

His anger will change everything. His anger will be a step to breaking the curse—to settling the process of the bane, Jungkook’s intrusion. You may have decided to do this alone, but it was wrong of you. He should be the one to make order like the father he is while you stand behind him, clutching the material of his pants.

You will get him there.

“I want you to spank me.”

He doesn’t let a second pass. Doesn’t blink. “I can’t.”

Your heart cracks, but you will strength of the raspberries into it. “Yes, you can. You can make me red and you can show him. You can show him who’s the boss. Who owns me. Who has his handprint on me. It’s you and it’s always going to be you. You have every right to do what I know you want to do, Hoseok.”

He raises his brows, mouth agape. Clenches his fists. “You want me to spank you and send a picture of it to him?”

You nod, dipping your hands into water.

“Why would I stoop to his level?” he asks, scoffing, and your throat dries, struck with shock. You didn’t anticipate this kind of answer from him and you don’t know what to say, his fatherliness and dominance enveloping you in a milky blue aura of smallness. What does he want to do, then?

Hobi steps closer. Doesn’t bend at the waist. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t get on his knees. He lets you look up at him in your smallness. Lets you feel his control, the manliness of his stature and energy and you gulp. Turned on and intrigued at the same time.

“I’m not a boy, pup,” he says and you wish he would touch you, touch your pebbled nipples, soothingly, feeling yourself needing it as he reprimands you. “I don’t need to play games. I’m too old for this shit. This is what pubescent boys do when they feel threatened, when they feel jealous. If I were to play his game for you, I’d only encourage him. I wouldn’t be stopping it, I’d be kicking the ball over to him. Do you really think I want to do that?”

You let out a breath. Your muscles tense, ready to scream out the question that has been boiling in you all this time.

“What do you want to do?”

He sucks in a breath, baring his teeth. There it is—there is that anger, the whole resplendent, monumental rawness of it.

“What do I want to do?” he asks as if he couldn’t believe you’re asking him that question, as if he couldn’t believe you’re allowing him to have a part in it. It thrills you—and as it thrills you, it moves forward your transformation.

“Yes, tell me what you want to do. Tell me how you want to settle this.” You stand your ground, inviting him in, inviting him into your life, to have a say in it, to have a fatherly hand in it; letting the sunlight make it right, make it alive, real and serious.

“Is that what you want? For me to step in?” he whispers, that disbelief still ringing—and you pout, touched by it.

“Yes, Hobi,” you hush out, leaning over and grabbing his hands. He lets you hold them for a second before he untwines your hold and cradles your face, kneeling by the bathtub.

The light in his eyes is too overwhelming and you melt into it, your breath hitching in your throat as you surrender. He presses his lips in a firm line, his thumbs brushing away your flyaways, and you lean into his touch, head tilted to the side.

As he tastes the newness of the conjunction to your life and his, you ask again. “What do you want to do?”

He sighs and takes in heavy breaths right after, seething, pressing his forehead against yours. And as you and him close your eyes simultaneously, he finally answers. “I want to break his fucking face.”

Dots of gooseflesh chill your skin and you don’t stop yourself from humming out your pleasure of hearing that. “Yes, Hoseok.”

You feel his gaze on you as he continues—and it might as well have been him who opened your eyes. “I want to break his hands for creating that degrading, shitty painting of you. And I want to break it. Destroy it. So it never sees the light of the day again.”

You choke out a moan, your whole body set on fire—a different one, this time. A blue fire, milky blue like your aura of smallness. “Yes, Daddy.”

Hobi groans, kissing you, nastily. Tongues and clashing of teeth, hunger and anger gratified as he pours it out into your mouth. Lets you taste it, swallow it. The same fire, but brighter, bigger, scorching hot, so alluring.

You don’t have to fan the flames of his will. He’s already decided.

“Once I’m done with you, you’re gonna send him a text,” he shares his plan with you between hard kisses; you can only whimper in your neediness in response. “You’re gonna tell him that you’re coming over to his place to talk, to look at the painting.” A sigh, a suction of lips, a moan. “Alone.” A swirl of tongues until the details of his plan spiral in the same dance in your brain. “I’ll come with you. And I’ll settle this once and for all.”

He withdraws, letting you breathe. Your body tingles, your lips, especially, every nerve ending crying out in need, whimpering at the way he studies your form—eyes lifting and falling over your swells, curves and marks. And something about the way he ogles you like that makes you feral.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks, that urgency flashing again in the light of his eyes, and you nod—a thousand times. “Repeat it back to me.”

The drum in your clit becomes unbearable and you can hear its song in your brain. All thoughts fade to nothingness, memories, triggers, pains. All of it evanesces, but one thing remains.

His plan.

“I’m gonna text him that I’m coming over to his place alone to talk and you’re gonna come with me and settle this like the Daddy you are,” you stream out, panting, focusing on the sudden numbness of your lips as his kiss still engulfs them as a new memory.

Hobi grins, pleased, and it propels you so fucking quickly to lean over and lick up the underside of his now fully hard length. Even though you can’t see it, you know the grin breaks as he deeply moans, your tongue circling his sensitive, red tip. You begin to suck it, bobbing your head up and down in a short, curt motions, and he fists your braid in one hand while the other digs into your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as you give him what he befittingly deserves.

“Good girl. My good fucking girl. Oh, yeah. Like that, pup. Fuck, it feels so good. Just like that,” he praises and your whole body clenches and doesn’t let up, your nectar dripping into the water. “I’m gonna fix everything and then I’m gonna make you a Mommy, arasseo?”

You growl around him, taking after him, his words intoxicating you enough to withdraw, yearning to have him inside you. But not in the place, where he engraved his enigma, the breaking of the curse. You burn to have him stretch out the hole, where no one has ever been—the one you teased him about on your first date.

He blinks at you, hearing your sound, and his grin grows all over again, massaging the back of your scalp as if you were a puppy. You reciprocate it, devilish with your own plan. Feral, feline, and incessantly horny for him.

The water reaches your belly button and you turn off the tap without breaking the contact. Then, you tug his hand, inviting him into the bathtub.

“Let’s pretend,” you say, knowing beforehand that he’ll get the message, the meaning of your vague words, and Hobi curses, pleasing you, brushing his hair out of his forehead, exposing the undercut that makes you even wetter.

Such a beautiful Father.

You tug him again. Create space for him in your tiny bathtub and he loosens your breath when he gets in and manhandles you—pushing you flush to his body and over his lap, his hands coming over your bum, kneading it, his slender fingers sneaking to the little hole that craves him. The sunlit water sloshes and it’s so intimate—the way it ripples around your body and his, stilling as he looks deeply into your eyes, the two of his digits circling around that virgin part of you.

He’s going to consume the little purity you have left and there’s nothing you want more at this moment.

“You want me here?” he murmurs, growling as he feels you open for him there when he prods it, and you drip, drip, drip onto his thighs.

You kiss him, chastely, in his fashion, willingly giving over your purity. “And from the back.”

He chuckles, flashing his white teeth, and you want them all over your body. The effulgence of his blush, too.

“Lie back. I’ll get you ready for it.”

Preparation, such an important word in your relationship.

You do as he says, giddy, leaning against the rounded wall of the bathtub. Yelp as he raises your hips above the surface of the water and right onto his mouth, delving onto your pussy without a second spared, licking over the entirety of her, mouth open, letting you see everything.

“Fuck,” he moans, smacking his mouth, and your legs hanging in the air begin to tremble. “I can feel you throb for me. You wanna be Mommy so bad, don’t you?”

You can’t stop it, the scream of agreement that emits out of your mouth; that goes on once he swirls his tongue around that drumming pulse, learning its song—because as soon as he does, he sucks it, possessing it. Your orgasm crests and his hands never shake, never waver, holding you up as if in Greek celebration.

You can feel the stone burst forth from your legs, completing, little by little, your transformation. He’s creating a sculpture out of you. Not of Virgin Mary, not of Mary Magdalene, either. A sculpture, authentic, of you. And on the cusp of your orgasm, he takes his tongue to your other, tiny hole, fucking you there with a verve as if he sensed the work of his hands that resume the godly abuse on your clit after he tells you to place your feet on the rim of the tub.

And when you come, you’re white, smooth, magnificent and whole.

You’re you, in the simplest of words.

Mind spinning, swimming in the delight of groundedness, authenticity and love, all your body asks for is to be taken. You go to turn around, but Hobi stops you with a hand on your waist.

“I want to look at you when I fill you up,” he croaks out, shades of pinks adorning him. As he is the God of everything, you think at heart he must be the God of all pink flowers with the way they blossom underneath his skin. You believe the same flowers will sprout out of your stone as soon as you’re stuffed full and feignedly bred. “I want to see the look on your face when you feel our kids inside you.”

Our kids. You close your eyes at the wave of a profound emotion sprinkling over you and you feel like crying, feel like sobbing, begging him for it, wanting your old life to be finally ended, killed, destroyed, wanting to cling to him with your whole being and newness, to his godliness, his flowers, his masculine fatherliness. You want to live in him, and the notion, the craving is so intense in you that you exhale it out with every breath, with every pleading word you give him.

“Please, breed me. Please, please, please.”

He sucks in that breath, eyes large and dazzling, filled with so much tenderness and adoration. Pulls you flush to his body again, raising you just a little bit as he lines himself up at your little hole. Spits on his fingers while boring that gaze into yours, so terribly up close, his knuckles brushing against the flesh of your bum as he spreads that lubrication over his tip. Does it again, rubs it over your hole. And a perverse obsession with it overpowers you, seizes you in its grasp, and you crave it.

You gaze your lips along his, sharing a breath that is perfumed with the scent of roses. “Spit in my mouth.”

Those eyes of his narrow in dark, dark pleasure and he nods in a promise. Driving your fingers up his undercut, you let your body follow his guidance as he sinks you down on him, stealing your mouth in a deep, long kiss that showers your figure in those familiar tingles. Discomfort parts them while you stretch around his tip, though, and he doesn’t stop kissing you, even when you mewl. In fact, he steps into that realm of the painful sensation by thumbing your clit, by toying with your tongue, and whimpering into your mouth when you convulse around him. Gets rid of anything that prevents you from accommodating him.

Your thighs burn at the slowness of your descent, but once he’s nestled, at home, and you feel so full that you could come from it alone, Hobi breaks the kiss; and using the height difference, he spits into your waiting mouth, growling. Even his saliva is filled with powerful godliness and when you swallow and show him, the same power becomes yours.

And he smiles. It seems as though he can see it on you and his mouth widens in a lopsided grin. You clench around him.

“You’re such a good pup,” he praises and you do it again, coaxing a growl out of him. He still remains motionless, waiting for you to get used to him, and your love for him grows owing to that. “That was your reward.” A sigh, a grin. “Now I’m gonna fuck you hard.”

You latch onto his neck, trembling like him. “Yes, please, Daddy.”

It’s not just your life and his that joined. It’s your soul and his that becomes one singular face of joy when he begins to pound you. He whispers to you to keep holding onto him like that as he drives in and out of your little hole with such rapidness and hardness that you lose your own knowledge of your name. All you know is his.

Hobi. Hoseok. Daddy.

And you whisper it, you say it, you scream it. All while the water sloshes around you; all while you stretch and tighten around him and his praises for you are strained, choked out, giving you all of his strength while remaining full of it as if he never gave you an ounce of it.

His eyes never leave you, never stray away from your emotions, your pleasure, the twists of your features, the opening and closing of your mouth. And you look right back, your feline energy dousing him in sweat and ardor, the force that furrows his brows, that tightens his lips in a firm line and loosens it in pleasure as he bares his all.

And suddenly, you’re up in the air and your wet back soaks your bed sheets. Hobi rummages in your Nike box under your bed and you feel yourself stretched open, a gaping hole for him. You gasp when you drift your finger along it and you already miss him there.

Hobi chuckles at your disbelief, your most favorite toy in his hand. A pink egg—a clit sucker and a vibrator at the same time, though the vibrations never did much for you. It’s the pressure, sucking waves that kept you company in your singleness before Jungkook and after, save for the waves of the sea.

“You never thought you could stretch like that, huh?”

The ‘huh’ pinches you, but you shake that feeling away, understanding Hobi’s dislike when you asked him to spank you. A momentary sensation before your horniness washes it away at the soft sound of the toy coming to life.

“Do you have lube somewhere?” Hobi asks, but you can’t speak. You point to the bedside table and he’s quick to slide it open, fishing out your raspberry and strawberry scented lube.

What a coincidence.

And you laugh when he squirts it on you from a distance, its coldness refreshing like a lick of ice cream to your heated body. And Hobi laughs along, smearing it all over you, especially over your still gaping, red hole, fingering you there with two fingers, fleetingly, just to tease you, just to pull those sounds out of you that get his head back in the game.

Then he’s inside, back home. You can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi can’t swallow down his noises, growling and humming as loud as his body asks, ramming into you until all you can hear is his pleasure and the music of skin slapping on skin.

And when you least expect it, he places the pulsing toy on your swollen clit.

Your muscles strain, tense and taut, your throat dead silent as you can’t speak, can’t compose any sort of song of the delight that paralyzes your body. You scratch your nails down his back in effort to declare to him the beauty of his artwork and Hobi whimpers, pounding you into the mattress while keeping the toy steady, your breasts bouncing up and down, gleaming in the sunlight, pebbled, aroused, begging for his tongue when he looks down at them, his blush deepening.

“Look at me,” he commands, stopping, so you can focus, and you begin to inhale quick, staccato breaths as your orgasm nears, the pressure in your tummy coiling and coiling, threatening to rip. You open your eyes, just in time to catch his endeared coo—because he can see how close you are. His lungs mimic the same rhythm, abdominal muscles prominent and defined as he, again, gives you his all. “There, baby?” he asks, speaking of the placement of the toy, and you’re only able to nod. “Ready to become a Mommy? Daddy is right there with you, pup. You squeeze around me so well, you’re doing such a good job. We’re gonna come together, yeah? You want to come with Daddy?” Another nod—because you’re trying your hardest to stall your orgasm as he jackhammers your little hole. You thank him in your heart, like the God he is, that he’s keeping the toy steady because if he were to move it… you’d come on the spot. “Say ‘yes, Daddy’ or I’m not letting you come.”

You hiccup, shuddering so awfully pitifully while your cat-like aura of power strengthens, giving you all that you need to say it. And your eyes narrow in that sultriness, mouth pouts and you dig your claws deeper into his back, making him fuck your ass harder in payback that feels more than fucking delicious.

“Yes, Daddy. Fuck, fuck. Give it to me, please. Make me a Mommy, please, fuck. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—”

And it’s a litany without end as Hobi moves the toy side to side and sweeps you off your feet, bringing you over the threshold of your shared home with you as his bride in his arms. You come, violently, its electric sparks shocking Hobi and he pumps you full of his cum, never stopping his hard motions, even as he twitches, growls—praising you, groaning the two words you like—and shudders just like you. He fucks you through your feigned impregnation, throwing the toy away when you squeak in overstimulation in the middle of your delirium, and he kisses you as if he hadn’t done so in a thousand years, sucking your lips so hard that they must bruise, his mound hitting your clit and stimulating it further. The warmth, the wetness—tears line your eyes and the same ones wet his eyelashes as he presses his elbows on either side of your head, panting against you, his nose brushing yours. He stares down at you, a look full of shadowed, yet pure love, the realization that you’ve done it, at last, but differently, bathing his face in light that blinds you—and blinds your tears, drying them as you smile up at him, running your fingers through his hair, through his undercut.

“I got a big load for you, pup,” he croaks out, fucking you, slowly. “I can’t fucking stop coming. You feel so good. I’m weak for you, fuck.”

You sob, finding your voice, made tender by his cock. “Give it to me, Hobi. I want it all. All your kids.”

He moans and proves it to you how weak he is by emanating such a pathetic sound that forces you, most saccharinely, to clench around him all over again, milking him out of every drop you stirred but never drank.

And for it, Hobi marks you in the middle of your breasts. A big, red hickey, redolent of your raspberries. You hold him to your chest, like the Mommy he made you into, as he sucks onto your skin, nibbling, licking, the noises akin to blowing those raspberries while he makes sure the bruise lingers for as long as possible. Then, he travels to the peak of your left nipple, trailing his tongue flat over the curve on his way up, and you’re wet, bespeckled with his children that trickle out of you as another wave of sopping arousal comes over you, because he begins to make love to that stiffened pebble. You cry out, tug his ruined hair, try to tell him you can’t anymore and Hobi hears you, takes care of you.

Drags his teeth along your nub. Flicks his eyes up to you as he sucks. “Milkie, please, Mommy.”

You burst into a roaring laughter, your shoulders shaking, arousal erased, and Hobi chuckles, lifting himself onto his hands and kissing your forehead. He moves you to your side of the bed, your skin dry and scented by him, soothed by his natural scent and the residue of his patchouli fragrance. And you revel in it, as he leaves you for a moment to fetch some wet wipes, with which he, mirthlessly, cleans you off his stickiness. His aversion to it makes an indentation in his face as his brows curl downward, features solemn and terribly serious.

Such an abrupt, speedy change of energy. Laughter dies out and fades into nothingness that spreads across your private atmosphere shared with him. Your mouth emulates the form of his dourness, cheerlessness blotching your now clean skin with invisible, downcast glitter that scarcely shines in the sunlight—and even that lessens, a cloud expanding over it, dimming it.

You touch his face and he looks up.

“Just a little more time and it’ll be here,” you say, seeping that hope, that promise into his pores by swiping your thumb along his warm cheek. “And then my belly will be big and full. And you’ll be Daddy Hobi.”

He smiles, sadly, eyes glistening, and he kisses your nose, folding into your chest. You caress him, his hair, his back—discover plump, thick marks of your fingernails and you lighten your touch, barely grazing his skin with the tips of your fingers. When he resurfaces, another, different dents embellish his face—the fresh memory of the way he’s accepted hope on your bosom and you kiss him, sealing it. Kiss that downturned smile. That red nose, those brisk cheeks. And his eyelids, wetted by his eyelashes.

“How do you like your coffee in the morning?” Hobi asks, turning over a new leaf, moving past.

You brush his hair back, enjoying the silky feel of his strands slipping through your fingers. “With you.”

He blushes, profusely, and you’re struck by the impression that he’s falling for you. There’s no fight this time, no war, only housewarming, submission and stability. You grip his hair, thank him with the silent gesture that also expresses how much it means to you because you, too, have fallen for him. With your heart, with your soul—with your entire being that has undergone so many transformations.

Now you’re climbing a mountain with him and on its peak, your children, your home, your future await you. You’re almost there. You’ve become who you were meant to become and Hobi has received the promise of his deepest longing.

One more thing, one more lift of the knee and you’re there, hand in hand with him—your husband, your God.

He kisses you one last time, tells you to rest while he makes you coffee and breakfast. Hands you your phone. Helps you think of a short message that you immediately, without a thought spared, send. And while you lightly slumber, you dream of the promise, of the hope. Dream of your swollen belly, the ethereal picture revealing you looking at yourself in a floor-length mirror as Hobi stands behind you, assuaging you of the weight of your child by holding it with both of his hands, his imaginary wings, fully rosy, carrying half of it, folded over his knuckles, your fingers sunk between his and the feathers, silky, soft like his hair. It melts into another scene, in which you both hold the child, hip to hip, gazing at the mountain you climbed together once upon a time and the child, bearing a heavenly, delectable concoction of your and his features, cannot pull away their eyes from the peak. Their hair blows in the wind, rippling like their Father’s wings, and you and Hobi break their hypnotion by kissing each of their cheek.

Hobi wakes you up with the same kiss—as if he was kissing you and not his child. And something about it heals you, gravely.

You tell him about it over coffee and breakfast and he weeps. And while you weep with him, your tears fall for another, secret reason. For the period that you slept, Hobi baked vanilla pastries with raspberries and you would tell him about it, too, but you’d sit at the table all day. He has a curse to break and you don’t wish to prolong the time, not when you sense that it’s burdening him.

Because his shirt is blood-splattered, he takes you to his house. And what you’ve never expected to happen—you meet his roommate.

A munchkin cat with the littlest legs you’ve ever seen. Black and white coat blankets her chunky body and you sink onto your knees, extending your fingers to her tiny pink snout, just like her Daddy’s, and you die as the fur baby sniffs you and doesn’t run away in fear. It keeps smelling you in curiosity and you think it’s due to the fact she can recognize Hobi’s scent all over you. You’re so absorbed by the furry animal that you don’t even care to look around the vastness of its home and, like your child, you get broken out of the spell when Hobi chuckles.

“Pet her. She likes you,” he says and you hear the familiar clanging of keys being set on the table, the leather of his wallet sliding along the wood and the thud of his phone as he empties out his pockets.

Giddiness seizes you.

You stroke down the baby’s fur on its head, cooing at its softness, at the way the wisps whirl in the air the more you pet it. And you squeal when she leans in into your touch as Hobi did not that long ago. Now you know who he gets it from.

You take it into your arms, scratching its neck. It purrs and your heart springs, eager to embrace it.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” you ask, enthralled by it, nuzzling your face into her fur.

Hobi pets your head and you feel as small as the baby. You look up at him, knowing you radiate, visibly, the energy. He smiles down at you, shines down his love and joy clutches you so hard that you can’t breathe.

“A girl,” he says, his smile widening, and before you can ask about her name, he already tells you. “Her name is Luna.”

Luna. She’s your new best friend, your little baby, and you begin to entertain the idea of bringing her along to your misfit visit to your ex-boyfriend’s apartment because you can’t let go of her. Not when she purrs most homely, most happily. Not when she likes you so much that she’s not afraid of you.

You haven’t grown up with animals, so when the opportunity comes and you get into contact with them, it’s difficult for you to unattach yourself from them.

Luna is yours now.

Hobi pivots on his feet and you’re quick to scurry onto yours, following him into his bedroom. As you carry her, you take a moment to look around his living room. The color beige lines every detail of its spaciousness. From the walls, to the pigmentation of the stones that decorate the side, where a huge flatscreen hangs up, to the smooth floors that glow in the light. Beige, whites and grays, with the tiniest hints of browns, greens and yellows. Small plants and bigger palms sit in the corners, by the windows, and they give the room those colors—as well as his collection, which comes as the biggest surprise of all, of his modern art. You can see a rainbow of Bearbricks everywhere you look, especially in the brown kingdom of his bedroom.

Those pretty one-eyed fuckers stare at you there. Along with their KAWS brothers. And they’re colossal.

Hobi’s back faces you as he rummages in his closet. You kiss Luna on her empty head before you set her on the bed, walking over to Hobi amidst the dimmed light. His curtains are pulled in tight and you think about how he must’ve been getting ready for bed when he called you last night, only to sleep in your light-filled bed. You wrap your arms around him, too hasty with your need to give him your affection—you smear your foundation on his blue shirt, staining it further. And you kiss his back, planting a red lipstick mark right in the middle. It’s going in the laundry bin, anyway.

Hobi reaches his hands back, fingers tapping along the open back of your white top, drumming there and you smile, finding it cute.

“You really like those figurines,” you murmur, propping your chin on his spine, drumming your fingers on his abdomen in similar fashion.

He laughs, softly, as if embarrassed, and you dig your claws, faintly, into his skin. No embarrassment for him—you’re not letting that in within him.

“Don’t you fear they watch you while you sleep?”

Now he laughs through his nose, swiveling his head halfway. “They’re my dream catchers.”

You hum, endearingly, in high pitch, liking the sound of that. Wonder if he knows that he’s such a poet. “Everything you say is so poetic.”

He massages your waist, deepening your hum. “Something tells me that’s your doing.” You punctuate the sound with a vulgar word and he squeezes the place he holds. No laughter, only alluring, affectionate seriousness. You sigh, blissfully. “I actually have a book of poetry here.”

Your brows rise. “What?”

Hobi clasps your hand, dragging you to his small library that is organized with his dream catchers. He pulls out a thick book with a white cover and hands it to you.

Birthday letters by Ted Hughes. The husband of Sylvia Plath, the reason behind her suicide. The female poet who loved E. E. Cummings, the female poet, whom you loved, too, in your lonely girlhood. Who always inspired your longing to die as the curse over your life went on.

It’s surreal to be holding a link to her when you’re standing at the end of the chapter of this curse.

You didn’t die.

“I stole it from my school library,” Hobi explains with that lopsided smile of his, so fond, so full of old memories that you’re learning at this moment. Time stands still and you strain your ears, wanting to hear every syllable of it. “Everytime I would go hide there, mess around or just study, I’d always see this book. It would always be right in front of me. I thought, and I still do, that it has some kind of meaning. That it somehow needs to be in my life. So I took it. And it’s been here for more than a decade. I’ve never even read it.”

You pout, touched by the symbolism, by the fact he never opened it. “Never?”

Hobi shakes his head, shortly. “Never.”

You look down at it, caress its cover. “Maybe it’s a dream catcher, too.”

His mouth ends curl. “Open it. Read me something.”

His fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt and you sense the magnetism of the symbolism attached to the book closing over you. You watch the work of his hands as you slip your digit into the middle of the book. Page one hundred and forty two. Portraits, the title of the unknown poem. But you don’t read it until he bares his chest and sits down on the edge of the bed.

You stand between his outstretched legs. He rubs the back of your knees, waiting.

You skim your eyes over the page and break, prematurely.

Licking your lips, you begin.

“What happened to Howard’s portrait of you? / I wanted that painting.”

You lose a breath, your throat constricting, and you gaze down at Hobi to see him lost in a thought that you can’t discern.

Can he perceive the link? Does he realize who Howard is as you bring that poem into reality with your recitation?

You continue, biting your lip, momentarily.

“Spirits helped Howard, ‘Sometimes / When I’m panting, I hear a voice, a / woman’s, / calling Howard, Howard — faint, / far-off, / fading.”

Your phone dings in the front pocket of your ivory mini skirt—Howard has texted you back. The book droops out of your grasp as you fish out the device, your screen enveloping the room in a small twirl of brightness.

Jungkook: my door is always open for you

You pocket it back, the light snuffed out. The book quivers and you steady it with your other hand. “Jungkook texted me back.”

Hobi is deathly still, in an uncanny way. “What did he say?”

You lick your lips, but it’s not enough moisture. “That his door is always open for me.”

He props an elbow on his knee, his teeth nibbling on a fleck of skin upon his thumb. “Keep reading.”

Your breath shakes. You risk the question swathing your heart, needing to know whether you’re on the same page before you can go on. “Can you see the correlation?”

He blinks, rapidly, as if awoken. “To what? You mean to the painting of you that I’m about to break?”

You nod, relieved that he sees it, but the heaviness loiters. Slightly, you fear the next lines. “Jungkook is Howard.”

His eyes stray, his being crestfallen, his mouth biting into his cuticle. He doesn’t say anything and you’re not sure if you should read on, but he taps the back of your knee that he still holds, propelling you to do so.

In fact, he tugs on it, guiding you to sit on his thigh—like you did in your favorite reading armchair when you cleaned his wound. You flutter a kiss on the healing bruise that has the colors of his home and with a wet thumb, Hobi angles the book so he can read along with you, staining the page with his humanity, imprinting his presence, the gravity of the moment into it.

It took a decade for the time to be right. Enough for him to read this.

With you.

You push away the panic regarding him not reacting to your affection, figuring the importance of this moment is held in higher regard. Clearing your throat, you continue.

“He got carried away / When he started feeding his colors / into your image,” you stop, the words affecting your vocal cords with emotions. Hobi is the only one who knows what colors Jungkook used in the painting. How can a random page in a random book describe the flavor of the bane of the curse upon your life? How is it possible? You take a moment to regain your composure, willing smoothness into your voice. Hobi rubs your thigh with his hand, thumb tracing patterns, a help in need. “He glowed / At his crucible, on its tripod. / How many sessions? / Yaddo fall. Woodstoves. Rain, / Rain, rain in the conifers.” The rain that fell upon Hobi when you exited the museum after you talked to Jungkook. The rain that brought you closer to him as he shrouded you and himself in your trenchcoat. The memory is sweet, another help in need.

“Tribal / conflict / Of crows and their echoes. You deepened. / Molten, luminous, looking at us / From that window of Howard’s vision of you.”

Your scream in the middle of the night after that morning at the museum; the physical violence that followed after. The painting that was created in the same hours.

“Yourself lifted out of yourself / in a flaming of oils, your lips exact.”

The flaming of your reddened bum within Jungkook’s made-up world of the painting; the punishment that you broke out of his clutches and became your own person.

You suddenly understand it, the painting.

You feel sick.

The poem is a maze, but Hobi looks as though he has the sixth sense that enables him to navigate through it. You’re burdened by your emotions, dragging your feet as you follow him, looking at him. He burns his sight into the scattered words, not breathing, not blinking, his thumb stuck in his mouth. He’s connecting the dots, the wheels turning in his brain.

Luna crawls onto the other side of his lap, the third help in need.

You take a deep breath.

“Suddenly — ‘What’s that? Who’s that?’ / out of the gloomy neglected chamber behind you / Somebody had emerged, hunched, gloating at you, / Just behind your shoulder — a cowled / Humanoid of raggy shadows. Who?”

The squeaks of breaks behind you, Jungkook stepping out of his car and joining the demon of shame looming at you, waiting for you to end your phone call with Hobi.

“Howard was surprised. He smiled at it. / “If I see it there, I paint it. I like it / When things like that happen. He just came.’ / Came from where? Mystery smudge extra, / Stalking the glaze wetness / Of your new-fired idol brilliance. / I saw it with horrible premonition. / You were alone there, pregnant, and unprotected.”

You snap the book shut, the lump in your throat so enormous in size that it alone begs you not to read on. Your chin quivers, but no tears come out, mind barren as the words alone, pregnant and unprotected echo within there. On an ungodly, immoral loop.

Hobi takes the book from you and flings it into a corner of his room, hitting a lonesome gray figurine that topples over. Your eyes witness the movement, but you don’t grasp it. Numbness seizes you, the paralyzation of bizarreness that causes bile to push through the lump in your throat.

You gag.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

Hobi is quick on his feet, but you don’t make it. The vomit spills through the cup of your palm over your mouth, staining your white top. Hobi carries you to his toilet, stained just the same. Holds your hair as you retch your guts out—the letters of the poem, the realization of its meaning, the symbolism, the raspberry pastries. Presses his lips against the nape of your neck, holding you together.

Wipes your chin with toilet paper. Puts his plastic cup with cold water to your mouth to wash it clean with.

Rips the three pages of the poem out of the spine of the book in taciturn fury, its ending never to be known.

You watch him do it, with the same speechlessness, and you’re not sorry for the prosaic lawlessness—it strengthens you and it relieves you. Watch the tremor of his hands, after, as he constringes the poisonous papers in his fists. The book abandoned back in the corner with the figurine, vanquished.

He paces the room, fleetingly, stopping in front of you. Gets on both of his knees. Grips your hands, with the crumpled papers. Kisses them. Over and over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers onto them. The noise of the papers is like the shaking of leaves and you want to leave. You want this wretched thing settled. The smell of your puke hits your nostrils and it’s what prevents you from folding into him in the way he did this morning.

“Nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s fate,” you reassure, tearing the papers from his hold and throwing them away from his sight. Yours, too. It’s not his fault that the curse sneaked into something intimate he desired to share with you. But your heart aches that it did it before he knew you all those years ago, planted in its mind false beauty, only to cause ruination. You need it gone. “Help me take this off. Let’s go.”

He sighs and the sadness of the sound deepens your ache, though all you can do is accept it and fight. The will is enough—if the conscious will is there, things will change, things will move forward and all will settle into place.

Tomorrow will look different.

Hobi dressed you in his clothing. A white linen shirt, to match your skirt. One would say it’s oversized, the way the fabric puffs and slides off your shoulder, not an item of masculine affection. You left your bra hanging by its strap on the handle of his closet. Left the buttons undone. Left the bruise between your breasts unconcealed, proudly, for every eye to see. He tied it in the middle, a tiny sliver of your midriff exposing tanned skin, because the hem would only bunch up the waistband of your skirt as it reached way down below. It could’ve been a dress alone, meant for loungewear, but you weren’t going to do much lounging.

Hobi dressed you for war.

He himself matched you. A white polo, beige pants, a vivid green beanie to hide the sweat coating his tousled hair. A king, ready to march.

The king is dead, long live the king.

You know the ending. You trust Hobi, you believe in him. So did Luna when he grabbed his keys, phone and wallet. She meowed so much encouragement that it curled a smile on yours and Hobi’s face. You nuzzled her, considering saying goodbye to her harder than facing Jungkook, the dead king, but her purring made it better. It was a promise that she would be here with another set of fluff balls of encouragement once you come back from the war.

You thought the ride to Jungkook’s apartment would be silent, but no. Hobi put on his The Weeknd playlist, the dark, ambient songs from The Trilogy album saturating the shifting atmosphere. Placed his hand on your thigh while he drove. Things seemed normal as they did before shit hit the fan. Your body submitted to that impression and so you pretended it was so. Relived, quietly, in your mind the way you rubbed your clothed pussy on that very seat, steering him into insanity, which he controlled so well.

A coping mechanism, that lustfulness. As you know it. But oddly, it didn’t turn you on. No, it composed you—tranquilized your emotions, so they wouldn’t be burdensome in the battle.

“What are you thinking about?” Hobi asked, knowing he was five minutes away from Jungkook’s apartment. He didn’t live far away from him.

Bizarreness.

He probably noticed your lack of visible reaction to your favorite singer.

“I’m having flashbacks.”

A beat of pause. “About?”

“About the way I drove you insane when I stuck my hand in my panties.”

He hummed, softly, the noise barely audible. “You got so wet just from me praising you.”

You sighed, delighted. “I did.”

“I’ll never forget the fact that I ate you out first before I kissed you.”

You smiled, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. “It comforts me,” you admitted, baring your private soul. “Sex. Lust. It’s not always dirty to me and it doesn’t always make me horny. It makes me feel safe.”

He thought about your words, thumb searching for yours, waggling. You closed your palm over the back of his hand on the shift stick, hooking your thumb over his.

“How did that painting make you feel?”

You didn’t feel much. Just one singular emotion. “Furious.”

“Why?”

“It makes me angry that he thinks he still has a right to control my life. That he took what I consider to be safe and made it unsafe.”

He ruined the act of spanking for Hobi, which ultimately ruined it for you. It scarred him enough that he wasn’t able to do it to you when you asked him. And for that, you’ll never be able to forgive Jungkook.

Hobi clenched his jaw. “When we get inside, I want you to think twice before you look at that painting. You’ve gone through a lot these past twenty-four hours. Put your well-being first, okay?”

Your veins pump warmth into your heavy heart due to his care and you kiss his knuckles, leaning your cheek into them. “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll break it anyways.”

The deal rings in the hallway as you walk towards his door, Hobi two steps behind you, obfuscating his presence. You rack your knuckles on the wood, your stomach rolling, your blood curdling into bits of frozen cranberries, and your lungs lack air. You don’t know if you can do this, if you can be posturing stoicness when the threat is right in front of you. You wish Luna were here with you, her fluffy wisps a reminder of her encouragement. You can’t even find her on the material of your skirt, for she’s as much clothed in white as you.

The door opens, revealing a distressed, wrinkly Jungkook with the stars in his eyes tear-stained. The lines of his sleep shoot across his bare chest, down to his abdomen that he sucks in at the sight of you. And you don’t hate him for the way his eyes skip to the bruise in the middle of your breasts—because it were your eyes first that skimmed that low on him first.

Shame stops your blood flow, which restores your forgotten memory of how further aroused your body became when you saw his excited manhood in the picture he sent you. It floods back at full speed, in tandem with the bile in your throat.

“I didn’t expect you to come over so soon,” he says, confusion rasping his tone, and his wide eyes narrow once they whisk to a taller head behind you. He doesn’t say anything to acknowledge his presence, despite the fact you expected that much from him. A rude remark, the closing of doors. Anything but him opening the door wider and turning around, wordlessly inviting you in.

And Hobi.

The bile lowers. You exchange a worried look with him, but he runs a hand down the length of your hair upon your back.

Bloodthirst flashes in his eyes.

And you’re no longer sure if his plan is the right one to unravel.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three | READ part four

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blue-jisungs · 2 years ago

Note

hello! can u write an enhypen version for the reaction of when you’re hurt? (i’m sorry if my english is bad it’s not my first language 🫶🫶)

you get hurt ♡

a/n. i’m SO sorry you had to wait so long for this :( hope you like it though!! i hope it’s not repetitive but i’m running out of ideas 😭 also don’t worry, your english is really good ^^

other groups versions —> txt && skz (lmk if i should do this for others as well lol)

warnings. swearing, blood, getting burnt (totally not happened to me like before writing this chap… not that bad tho😀) lmk if i missed anything!!

┆彡 HEESEUNG [ 희승 ]

heeseung was having his midnight gaming session when suddenly he heard a loud ass thud

mans thought it was a thief or something 💀

walks up to the corridor and turns on the light when he sees you in the middle, bleeding knee and teary eyes

you can’t really tell who’s more flabbergasted – him or you

“y/n? what are you–?” he whispers and kneels down, wiping the tears from your face.

“you weren’t in bed so i wanted to look for you… and i tripped over the skateboard” you sniff, closing your eyes. his heart breaks in two and he quickly scoops you in his arms, carrying you to the kitchen in order to look for the bandaids.

“i’m sorry. but please don’t cry, okay? let me patch you up” hee hums and places a quick peck on your temple before cleaning the wound “whose skateboard is that anyways…”

you scoff and it warms his heart, glad to see you’re feeling a bit better.

he changes the bad aid regularly, observing it like a doctor

gave you a lecture as well to turn on the light because he’s not sleeping anyways so you won’t disturb him :)

and also have a more detailed lecture to riki because after a short investigation (“hey hyung have you seen my skateboard–?”) he discovered that it was his

┆彡 JAEYUN [ 재윤 ]

he didn’t mean it

but happens to the best of us….

i mean hey, the fault is on both of you so….

“boo!” you shouted, creeping up from behind. jake let out a yelp, his elbow reflexively swinging back. you let out a groan once it hit your stomach, folding in half.

“oh my god!” jake yelled back, panicked “are you okay?! i’m so sorry, you scared me!”

“it was my fault, i’m sorry” you mumble, blinking the tears away. jaeyun lets out a shaky breath, dragging you to the bed murmuring apologies.

“no, no. lay here, let me help you” he whispers and kissed away your tears before sprinting to snatch your hot water bottle.

puts it on your tummy, pampers it it kisses and massages it :(

it’s such a mess though, you spend almost fifteen minutes apologising to each other 😭

well, lesson learnt: do not scare jake.

asks you like a thousand times if you’re okay, even two days later :”)

┆彡 JONGSEONG [ 종성 ]

you were just enjoying your quiet, peaceful afternoon with jay while cooking dinner

and since you were doing it together, he was stirring something on the pan while you cut some more onion

bad decision.

“do you want me to take over, baby?” jay hummed upon hearing your another sniff. you looked at him, still cutting.

“no, it’s okay– son of a bitch!” you hissed while a sudden pain hit your finger and you looked back down, seeing blood through the tears in your eyes.

jay quickly dropped what he was doing and out your finger under cold water, wiping your tears away.

“aigoo, such a baby” he mumbled, pressing a kiss onto your forehead “does it hurt a lot?”

finds the cutest band aid possible (hello kitty🥹) and it’s safe to say that you’re just sitting on the countertop until he’s done

since it was a deep cut, he changes the band aid regularly and pampers you in kisses

and in the future he’ll always guide your hands while standing behind you when you’re cutting onion

(and you two always end up crying together😭)

┆彡 JUNGWON [ 정원 ]

mornings with 7 boys are chaotic, let be real

and you really needed your morning coffee that day

you were walking over to the table, steaming mug in hand, to sit next to jungwon when sunghoon and riki started running around

before jay could warn them to be careful, riki bumped onto you accidentally. the hot liquid spilled all over your arm, staining the white t-shirt. you felt sharp stinging, tears filling your eyes. jungwon almost flipped the chair over when he stood up rapidly to rush to you.

“oh my god… y/n im so sorry!” riki cried, genuine fear and guilt on his face. you nodded, closing your eyes.

“it’s fine” you murmured and in no time jungwon put your arm under the running water, hands wiping away your tears.

jungwon has his leader mode on, everyone is frightened

they took you to the hospital and oh boy was the ride awkward

hell, once you were home it was awkward too

but once you’re alone, he pampers you in kisses :(

looks over your burn, treats it just like the doctor said

there’s a slight scar but jungwon will make you forget about it, again, with kisses

riki apologised like thousands of times and despite the fact that you forgave him right away, jungwon can’t help keeping his guard on each morning

┆彡 NISHIMURA RIKI [ にしむらりき ]

you know, you’re both silly goofy people…

…and because of that most of the things you say are taken as a joke, and vice versa

so when riki received a text “i’m in the hospital #slayed 🥱🥱” he just rolled his eyes and didn’t think much about it

but once he was at the dorm, where you were supposed to hang out… and you weren’t there… thoughts were being thought

“hello?” you asked, chewing something.

“what do you mean “hello?”? where are you?” he asked, clearly confused.

“i’m in the hospital, i literally texted you” you said calmly and riki’s eyes widened, causing his friends to grow interested

“that wasn’t a joke?” riki stuttered.

“no. a car gently bonked me and i broke my arm. i got really good bread though–” you explained.

“so you got hit by a car?” niki blinked slowly and after getting a hum, he hung out. almost tripping over his own legs, he ran out of the dorms.

i mean, congrats, you scared the living shit out of him so that’s new!

once he’s in the hospital, he cups your face and examines it

and when he calmed down a bit, he hugged you carefully but tightly whispering “you scared me so bad”

you feel bad but him doodling on your cast brightened your moods :^)

once you’re out, he acts like you’re the most fragile thing in the world 🥹

please do not prank him like that again

┆彡 SUNGHOON [ 성훈 ]

you were too excited to see gaeul and when you rushed to pet her, you tripped

mf started laughing but hey, you would too

suddenly he realised there’s tears in your eyes as you wince in pain and he PANICS

you snuggle onto gaeul and sunghoon crouches next to you, brows knitted.

“i’m sorry” he murmurs, slender fingers wiping away your tears. his heart clenches at that sight, worried eyes scanning your body “does it hurt bad? where?”

“my lower back” you mumble and gaeul licks your face, causing you to smile a bit.

he insists on giving you a massage and who would you be to turn it down 🙄🙄

puts a pain relieving cream and spoils you in sweets bc he feels bad :(

as soon as you get getter will start laughing at the situation again though 🧍‍♀️

┆彡 SUNOO [ 선우 ]

you were practicing for your slowly upcoming comeback, the choreo just being released

it was really difficult, hence why you asked sunoo to monitor you

even he said it’s a bit too much >:(

“i was laughing at all the “next gen dance choreographies” memes… but it’s not a joke anymore” you laughed and stood up, the exhaustion hitting your body. sunoo smiled softly at your comment “okay, one more time”

you started and when the hardest part came, where you had to lean on your hand (which was a little silly, because that move only made sense when done with another person), you suddenly felt a sharp pain in your wrist and it caused you to lose balance.

sunoo turned off the music and rushed up to you, kneeling down and gently taking your hand and looking at your confused expression.

“i saw that… it must have hurt. i knew it, it’s too tough” he hisses and upon seeing tears filling your eyes, his gaze softens. sunoo sighs and helps you stand up, his hand never leaving your waist.

he’s very calm on the outside but he’s freaking out inside

takes you to the doctor, tells what happened to your mangers and basically turns into your personal nurse

when you get sad that you can’t join your members to practice and all, he cheers you up

becomes your hand for the whole time of your injury lmao 💔

[ masterlist <3 ]

taglist. @geniejunn ,, @luvhyun3 ,, @starlostseungmin ,, @elviransworld ,, @jnks6r ,, @sieunsgf ,, @ethereallino ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @duolingofanaccount ,, @slytherinhobi ,, @jung0ne ,, @ka-ni-ma ,, @iliveforlixie ,, @moonacholy ,, @ameliesaysshoo ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @mark-geolli ,, @l3visbby

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kingofbodyrolls · 12 days ago

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Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | chap 3: alone

Jimin has never known a feeling quite like this—a strange, stirring warmth that blooms in the quiet spaces of his chest. Could this be love? He wonders, hesitant yet hopeful. When his manager pries into his heart, he finds himself wishing for a different life—one untouched by the weight of fame, where he could love freely, without scrutiny. But even in the shadow of his longing, something beautiful is unfolding. Like frost melting beneath the gentle kiss of spring, his guarded heart begins to thaw, and for the first time in years, he feels his emotions bloom with a life of their own.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: strangers to lovers / neighbors to lovers → Genres: slow burn romance / fluff / angst / smut / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 5.5k → Warnings + triggers: mention of grief and sadness, past character death (Jiwoo), just a lot of FEELS, it’s a bit sad, but also very heartwarming. → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: guess who’s back with another chapter? 🙋‍♀️ Yup, it’s time to dive headfirst into Jimin’s world again—because, seriously, how could we not peek into that beautiful, complicated mind of his? Aren’t you curious about what he’s feeling, what’s tugging at his heartstrings, and maybe even what’s making him blush? 🥺💜 I’ll warn you, though—this chapter has a touch of sadness (don’t throw things at me, okay?), but trust me, brighter days are on the horizon! I’m just so soft for this version of Jimin 🥹 So grab your tissues and maybe a warm drink, and let’s get through this together. Happier vibes are coming—I pinky promise! ✨ This whole story is for my dear friend @remmykinsff! I hope you’ll love it 💜

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After sharing his lyrics with you, Jimin feels something shift within him—like a long-buried weight has finally been unearthed, leaving him lighter, freer. The words may not reflect his present, but their roots are deep, tangled in a past he knows all too well. Memories flicker in his mind like an old film reel, and with them comes the ache of loss. He remembers Jiwoo, his best friend, his anchor—and the day she slipped away forever, leaving him adrift with only their six-month-old daughter in his arms. It was a loneliness so raw, so consuming, that it etched itself into his very being. Even now, just brushing against the edges of that memory brings a tightness to his throat, a sheen to his eyes. He sniffles softly, quickly shaking off the tears. He’s already cried enough in front of you today.

It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. If ever there was a time to hold onto light and hope, it’s tonight. The deep dive into his feelings can wait for another day.

With a decisive slap to his thighs, he stands, his gaze falling to you with a mixture of quiet vulnerability and gentle mischief. “Do you want to spend New Year’s with us?” he asks, his voice tinged with something unspoken, something he hopes you’ll understand. He watches the surprise ripple across your face, the way your cheeks flush with a warmth that only adds to the glow of the moment. He can tell you’re flustered, and though he knows he has that effect on people, with you, it feels different—so different it makes his chest ache in a way he can’t explain.

He wonders if you feel it too, this invisible pull between you. He’s a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, but years in the spotlight have taught him to mask his truest feelings when he needs to. Fame demands it—his private life is his sanctuary, a place the world doesn’t get to see.

But you? Oh, you. From the very first moment he saw you, something shifted. He couldn’t quite name it then, but he knew—you were different. Special in a way that felt less like fireworks and more like the quiet glow of a candle, warm and steady, drawing him in. At first, he thought you didn’t know who he was, and when he realized he was right, he couldn’t help but smile. You’d heard his voice on the radio, sure, but you hadn’t connected the dots, hadn’t pieced together the face that stared down from the towering billboards. Somehow, that made you even more extraordinary to him.

And that’s what he likes—no, loves—about you. You don’t see him as “Park Jimin, the famous singer.” You don’t seek him out because he’s rich, or good-looking, or because he has a daughter that could soften any heart. No, with you, it’s different. You’re genuine, grounded, with a kindness that feels rare in a world that’s always spinning too fast. And yes, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed how beautiful you are—he’s not blind, after all.

Still, he’s careful, measured, holding back because he doesn’t want to scare you away. You’re a breath of fresh air in a life that often feels stifling, and he’s willing to take it slow. Talking to you is effortless, letting you into his world—even into Hwa-Young’s life—is effortless. And that’s what surprises him most. Nothing about relationships has ever felt easy for him before.

He’s had girlfriends, sure, but they always stopped at the surface. None of them ever cared to ask about the man behind the music, the meaning behind his lyrics, or the little girl who lights up his world. But you? You’re different. A different kind of good. The kind that feels rare, like something he should hold onto.

And God, he’s drawn to you. The way you walk, the quiet strength in the way you carry yourself—it’s magnetic. But there’s something else, too, something unspoken. He can see it in your eyes, in the way your smile sometimes falters for just a moment. You’ve known pain. He recognizes it because he’s worn it too. It’s like a silent understanding between you—guess it takes one to know one.

But he doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. He has a feeling that, in time, you’ll tell him everything, if—no, when—this fragile thing between you blossoms into something more. Until then, he’s willing to wait, to let the moments unfold like petals, slow and beautiful, one by one.

“I’d love to,” you say with a warm smile, and Hwa-Young squeals, bouncing on her little toes with excitement.

“Yay! Do you want to play with me? Dress up?” she asks, her wide, expectant eyes shimmering like stars. How could anyone ever say no to a gaze so innocent, so full of life?

You nod, your laughter soft and sweet, and as you let her tiny hand tug you toward her room, Jimin finds himself standing there, watching. Just watching. And it’s dangerous, the way his heart twists in his chest. A feeling so sharp and unfamiliar that he almost doesn’t know what to do with it. He knows he’s got it bad—knows it with every beat of his heart.

Letting people in has always been a battle for him, a fortress carefully built over the years. But you? Somehow, you dismantle it brick by brick, without him even noticing. Everything about you feels natural, unforced, like you’ve been meant to walk into his life and fill the quiet spaces he didn’t even know existed.

And then there’s this: you with his daughter. It’s a sight that simultaneously fills him with warmth and something deeper, more profound, a kind of ache that’s both joy and sorrow intertwined. Because you’re the first woman he’s ever brought into Hwa-Young’s life, and it means something. No, it means everything.

It’s a big deal—bigger than he can put into words. Since Jiwoo’s death, it’s always been just the two of them. Him and his little girl, navigating a world that sometimes feels too cruel, too empty. Jiwoo had been his best friend, his confidante, and losing her had ripped a hole in his chest that time could only partially mend. He sighs, the memory of her soft laughter flickering like an old, worn-out photograph in his mind.

There are days he misses her so deeply it feels like a part of him is still tethered to that loss. Days when he wishes she could be here, holding their daughter’s hand, watching her grow into the bright little light she’s becoming. Jiwoo had wanted so desperately to be the mother Hwa-Young deserved, but fate had been merciless, stealing her away too soon.

His hand clenches instinctively at his side, a quiet surge of grief, even as his gaze softens. He watches you disappear into Hwa-Young’s room, your laughter mingling with his daughter’s excited chatter. And in that moment, his heart aches in a way he’s never quite known before. It’s a joy so raw it leaves him breathless.

But he knows—he knows this isn’t about replacing Jiwoo. He isn’t looking for someone to fill that void or to be a mother to his daughter. He doesn’t need to. What they have is enough, more than enough. Yet somehow, your presence feels like the universe extending a quiet, gentle gift. A piece of something they never expected but might just be brave enough to accept.

And as he leans against the doorway, listening to Hwa-Young’s giggles and the melodic cadence of your voice, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s a place in his life for this kind of hope.

But in the quiet hum of his studio, he’s drawn back to the promise he made to Jiwoo—the one etched into his soul like a quiet, unwavering vow. He’d held her trembling hand as she made him swear not to let her illness become a shadow over his life. “Don’t waste your days mourning me,” she had said, her voice so calm it still haunts him. It was inevitable, she’d insisted, the way the seasons change or the tide pulls back from the shore. Jiwoo had always been pragmatic, even in the face of the unthinkable.

And though there had never been romantic feelings between them—just a friendship so pure and profound it could have been mistaken for something else—she had asked him to promise one more thing. To open his heart to love, even when the odds would feel stacked against him as a single father.

He had tried. In the ten long years since she’d gone, he’d truly tried. He swears it. But trying hasn’t made it any easier. He’s a man that everyone wants a piece of—for his fame, his fortune, his face. The lines blur so easily, and sometimes it feels impossible to separate real connection from the shallow glow of curiosity. The years have sharpened his instincts, taught him to read between the smiles and the flattery, but it’s still exhausting.

And yet, here you are, in his life in a way that feels... different. Genuine. He knows it in the way you laugh with his daughter, not a trace of pretension in your voice, in the way your kindness feels effortless and uncalculated.

From his desk, he hears Hwa-Young’s bright giggles float down the hallway like sunlight breaking through clouds. Your voice follows, playful and warm, coaxing laughter from his daughter like a secret melody only you know how to play. He imagines the two of you in a swirl of colorful scarves and oversized hats, lost in some imaginative world he’s not sure he’s ready to intrude on.

A small smile touches his lips as he picks up his pen and returns to the half-written lyrics sprawled across his desk. He presses the nib to paper, his hand moving almost of its own accord as the words pour out, raw and unfiltered:

“The room is full, but I’m still alone.The noise fades, but silence doesn’t comfort me.A touch, a laugh—it feels close, but not enough.When did being seen stop meaning being known?”

He pauses, his chest tightening as the song begins to take shape, and a name for it floats to the surface of his mind. Alone.

Still, his thoughts drift back to you and the way you’ve seamlessly woven yourself into his and Hwa-Young’s life, like a thread of warmth and light in the fabric of their days. He wonders if he should go to you, join in your little game of dress-up, or stay here in his solitude, where it feels safer. Where it feels less terrifying to hope.

With a quiet sigh, he sets the pen down and leans back in his chair, glancing toward the open door. He knows that one day, if this thing—whatever it is—between you ever grows into something more, he’ll tell you about Jiwoo. About the promise. About the years he spent searching for what he thought he’d never find.

But for now, he listens. Listens to the soft rhythm of your laughter mingling with his daughter’s, a sound that, for once, makes him feel anything but alone.

Time slips away unnoticed, like sand through his fingers, as Jimin loses himself in the swirl of ink and emotion, pouring his heart out onto the page. Words come slow but steady, a quiet storm inside him finally breaking through. But then—suddenly, like a burst of sunlight piercing the gray—he hears the sound of laughter, light and carefree, and his heart skips a beat.

He looks up, and there you are, standing in the doorway with Hwa-Young at your side, both of you catching your breath as if you’ve just run through a field of dreams. You’re panting, your face flushed with joy, and the sound of your laughter fills the space, a melody he never knew he needed.

“Daddy, won’t you join us?” Hwa-Young’s giggle rings out, pure and untainted, like a song he didn’t know was missing.

Jimin can’t help but smile—a soft curve of his lips that’s almost foreign to him. His heart, heavy from years of quiet sorrow, lifts a little more. There’s something magical about the way Hwa-Young is dressed, her tiny body a princess in a sparkling tiara, a wand flicking with imagination. And you… you’re wearing one of his oversized shirts, the stripes playful and careless, paired with sweatpants that seem so out of place on you, yet somehow, they fit.

But it’s your smile—so bright, so unrestrained—that tugs at his heart. It’s the kind of smile that feels like a promise, and it fills him with a warmth he’s forgotten how to name. The way you wear the joy of the moment, not just on your face, but in your eyes, makes him stand from his chair without a second thought. He’s suddenly so eager to be a part of it, to feel it too.

Hwa-Young, with her childish enthusiasm, dresses him in one of his finest suits, and he lets her—lets her transform him into whatever she envisions, like he’s part of her dream. Her wand flicks, and with all the gravity of a tiny magician, she declares him a prince, her magic turning the room into a world of make-believe. You, too, are a princess in her eyes, a fantasy come to life.

And just like that, he laughs. Not the careful chuckle of a man worn by the weight of the world, but a real laugh—one that bubbles up from somewhere deeper, freer than he’s felt in years. His laughter is easy, like the spark of something alive inside him, waking up after a long slumber.

And so, Jimin spends his New Year’s Eve not in solitude, but in this sweet chaos of joy and whimsy, wrapped in the warm presence of you and Hwa-Young. Laughter echoes around them, and for the first time in a long time, Jimin feels something other than the sting of loss. He feels, instead, the tenderness of new beginnings—of a life that’s still unfolding, one moment at a time, thanks to you.

“How’s the songwriting coming along?” Seokjin’s voice is warm, his smile soft as they sit together in the quiet corner of a small café. The air smells faintly of ground coffee and fresh pastries, but Jimin is only half-aware of it, his mind tangled in melodies and words. They’re here to discuss business—upcoming concerts, album deadlines—but the conversation always manages to wander.

“Good,” Jimin answers, cradling his cup of tea between his hands, letting the steam rise and settle around him like a small, comforting cloud. His fingers trace the rim absently, his gaze distant.

Seokjin, ever the curious one, leans in a little closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as if the café itself is too public a place for the question he’s about to ask. “I heard something about a girl?”

Jimin’s lips curl into a soft, knowing smile, the kind he only wears when he’s trying to hide something playful, something personal. He hides his smirk behind his cup, the warmth of the tea burning away the thoughts he doesn’t want to share. “You mean Hwa-Young?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes, a low, amused laugh escaping him. “No. Not your daughter,” he teases, leaning in even closer, the words thick with mischief. “But she did mention you’ve been spending time with someone?”

Jimin exhales a quiet sigh, the air heavier than before. This is the part of fame he dreads—how every moment, every detail of his life, becomes fodder for public consumption. Why can’t he just be… himself? Why does everything have to be picked apart, analyzed, turned into an interview?

He shifts in his seat, frustration bubbling at the edges of his composure. “Yeah, so what?” The words slip out sharper than he meant, the bite lingering in the air between them. He regrets the edge, but it’s hard to keep calm when the smallest pieces of his life feel like they’re on display. People don’t even know he has a daughter, for God’s sake.

“Is it serious?” Seokjin asks, his eyes darting around the café as if the question itself might cause a stir. He lowers his voice, wary of eavesdropping ears.

Jimin leans back slightly, his gaze distant, as if searching for something beyond the clink of coffee cups and the soft murmur of conversations. He shrugs, the motion casual but not without weight. “I don’t know.”

The words hang in the air, unspoken feelings swirling around them. He doesn’t want to admit to Seokjin how much you’ve come to mean to him. How time, since that night at New Year’s, has blurred into something both beautiful and terrifying. It’s already the middle of January, and yet it feels as if moments with you slip away like sand through his fingers—so quick, so precious, yet never enough.

He doesn’t want to drag you into his world. Into the spotlight that he’s spent so many years avoiding, carefully building walls around his heart and his life. He loves his fans, truly—more than they could ever know—but some of them can’t understand that he wants the same freedom as everyone else. To live without a camera lens always focused on him, to love without the world watching.

Yes, he’s famous—but does that mean he should be denied the simple, human joys of privacy? Does it mean that the delicate, beautiful moments he shares with you should be swallowed up by interviews, headlines, and fans who don’t know the difference between his public life and his real one?

Seokjin’s voice cuts through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “You didn’t really answer my question, though,” he says, taking a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze sharp, yet filled with a knowing curiosity.

Jimin feels the heat of a blush creep up his neck. He can’t help it—Seokjin’s right, and it’s embarrassing to realize that he’s been avoiding the question.

“I’ve written a few new songs. They’ll be ready for the concert in May as a surprise for the fans,” he says softly, a gentle smile playing on his lips, his voice almost like a whisper, as if savoring the moment of creation.

“Great, that’s what I love to hear!” Seokjin beams, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased. Then, his eyes narrow slightly, a hint of something shrewd in his gaze. “If things are getting serious between you and this girl… maybe you should get her to sign an NDA?” he suggests, a brow arched in mild curiosity.

The words hit Jimin like a punch to the gut. An NDA? The thought churns his insides, his chest tightening as if the air has been sucked from the room. He can’t breathe for a moment, the very idea feels wrong. He would never make you sign something like that. It doesn’t fit with what he feels for you, for the way you’ve come into his life so naturally. It’s not about trust—it’s about respect, about wanting you to be free, not bound by some legal contract. He feels a surge of protectiveness, a silent promise he’s made to himself that no one will take this from him.

He shakes his head slowly, the words leaving his lips with quiet finality, “No.”

Seokjin presses, undeterred, his voice a little more insistent, “Think about it.”

Jimin’s mind races, the idea unsettling, twisting like a knot in his stomach. He leans forward, his voice low but firm, as if to make it clear that this isn’t something he’s willing to entertain. You mean too much to him for anything to taint the purity of what you share.

Even amidst the whirlwind of your own commitments, you always carve out the time to watch him rehearse. And in your quiet presence, there’s a warmth he’s come to rely on, a constant he cherishes more than he can say. He sees you, even on the days when exhaustion weighs on you like a heavy cloak, when your eyelids flutter shut and you drift into peaceful slumber on his studio sofa. Your gentle breaths, in sync with the rhythm of his music, wrap around him like a soft, comforting blanket—a quiet testament to how deeply you’ve woven yourself into the fabric of his life.

You’ve done more for him these past months than you could ever know. You’ve been his anchor, his light when everything seemed heavy, and he is more grateful than words could ever capture. Lately, his mind has been racing with thoughts of how he can repay you, how to show you just how much you mean to him without pushing you away. The idea of scaring you off, of overwhelming you with the weight of his heart, haunts him.

He knows his emotions, raw and untamed, are like a tidal wave sometimes. He’s a writer, after all. Feelings are his livelihood, his currency. But with you by his side, watching you stand by him and Hwa-Young, it stirs something deeper within him—a desire to be better, to be more, to share parts of himself that he’s never let anyone see before. He wants to open up more, include you in ways he hasn’t dared with anyone else, not since Jiwoo.

He has stopped playing, the strings of his guitar silent in the air as his gaze lingers on you. The sight of you, so serene, so free in your slumber, tugs at his heart. Your chest rises and falls in a rhythm as gentle as his own. You look so beautiful in your vulnerability, so tender in your quiet repose. You are everything he never knew he needed, and more than he ever imagined he could find.

He sets the guitar aside, the quiet echo of its final note hanging in the air like a fading memory. The studio, once filled with music, now holds only the soft rustling of your breath as you sleep. Gently, he steps away, his heart full of warmth as he moves to the kitchen. A meal is something simple, but it feels like a small offering of care. It’s what you all need after a day filled with so much—comfort, warmth, and the peace of shared moments.

When dinner is ready, the soft simmering of the stove replaced by the inviting scent of home-cooked food, he calls Hwa-Young to the table. But before she can join them, he slips back to check on you. You’re still there, curled up in the same spot, lost in the world of dreams, soft murmurs escaping your lips as if you’re still tangled in the rhythm of sleep.

He approaches you quietly, a gentle hand brushing against your shoulder as he nudges you awake.

You stir, your movements slow and unhurried, as if unwilling to leave the comfort of your slumber. A yawn stretches your body, and your eyes flutter open to meet his gaze—drowsy, but warm, and full of that quiet wonder he’s come to adore. “What time is it?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep.

Jimin chuckles softly, a sound that feels like a quiet caress. “It’s dinnertime,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. “You fell asleep.”

A blush spreads across your cheeks, warm and sweet as you blink up at him in surprise. “You made dinner?” Your voice is soft, like the surprise is a secret between you and him.

He smiles, a slow, easy curve of his lips, and nods. There’s a softness in his gaze that melts a little bit of the distance between you. Reaching down, he takes your hand, your fingers warm and familiar. With a gentle pull, he helps you up, your body falling naturally into his embrace. You’re close, and in that moment, the world feels just a little bit smaller, a little bit warmer. The blush on your face only makes him smile wider, the flutter of his heart quickening in his chest. “Yes,” he murmurs, “I did. Now come eat,” he says with a smile that’s pure and inviting, pulling you gently along toward the dining room.

There, you sit together, the sounds of soft laughter and small talk filling the air as you share the quiet intimacy of a meal. The rhythm of your conversations, the way your voices blend together, is a harmony more perfect than any song. And in this simple moment, Jimin realizes that this—this right here, this quiet peace—is everything he never knew he needed.

Jimin is wandering through the aisles of the grocery store, his thoughts preoccupied with mental notes about what to cook tonight, when a familiar figure catches his eye. Jiwoo’s mother. The sight of her stops him in his tracks, like a memory brought to life. Her smile greets him before her words do—wide, warm, and full of that unchanging comfort that feels like coming home. She’s always been that to him: a second home, a quiet refuge. After all, Jiwoo and Jimin had been inseparable since childhood, and her house was like an extension of his own—where laughter and care lived in every corner.

“Hi, Jimin,” she says, her voice as soft as the years they shared, pulling him into a hug that feels like being wrapped in a blanket of love. She smells like jasmine, just as she always has, and for a moment, he feels like that young boy again, sitting in her kitchen eating snacks after school.

“How are you and Hwa-Young doing?” she asks, her eyes shimmering with affection, the kind that doesn’t need words to convey its depth.

Jimin can’t help but smile, his chest swelling with warmth at her concern. “We’re doing good,” he says, his voice tender, carrying the truth of his gratitude. “You should come by sometime. We miss you.”

Her face lights up at his words, her hands squeezing his arms gently. “Oh, I will. I miss my granddaughter too. And you.” She hugs him again, and he lets out a soft laugh, feeling her genuine affection wash over him.

But when she pulls back, there’s something new in her gaze—a knowing softness, almost maternal, as if she can see the parts of him he keeps hidden. “How are you really doing, my son?” she asks, her tone dipping into a tenderness that strikes a chord deep within him.

For a moment, Jimin falters, caught off guard by her question. The simplicity of it carries weight, peeling back the polished surface he usually presents. He looks at her, his brow furrowing slightly, wondering how she always seems to know when there’s more to his story.

He stays silent for a beat too long, his thoughts swirling, until she tilts her head and clarifies, her tone gentle but knowing.

“Don’t think I can’t tell when something’s weighing on you. A mother knows.” Her smile is soft, warm, and it reaches into a part of him he thought was better hidden. His heart clenches under its glow, the way it always does when she looks at him like that—with the quiet understanding only she and his mother seems to have.

For a moment, Jimin hesitates, debating whether he should say anything at all. But Jiwoo’s mother has always been more than just a mother figure; she’s a safe haven, a lighthouse in his stormiest seas. Her caring has always been constant, and her wisdom? Unshakable. He sighs, feeling the weight of her gaze unraveling him, and he knows he won’t leave this conversation unscathed. So he exhales, surrendering, and lets the truth spill from his chest.

“I met someone,” he begins, the words heavy and light all at once, as if saying them aloud gives them a shape he’s not sure he’s ready to carry. His chest tightens as months of suppressed emotions rise to the surface, like waves crashing onto an unsuspecting shore.

Her expression brightens immediately, her lips curving into a knowing smile as she leans against her cart. “You did? Tell me about her,” she encourages, her voice tinged with curiosity and delight.

Jimin can’t help but smile, the mere thought of you pulling at the corners of his mouth, softening his entire face. He looks down for a moment, almost shy, before speaking again. “She’s… kind. Generous. Loving. She’s wonderful with Hwa-Young, and she makes me feel…” His words trail off, caught in the tide of emotions he’s still learning how to name. It’s all there, clear as day in his heart, but saying it aloud feels like baring himself entirely.

Jiwoo’s mother chuckles softly, her voice gentle and teasing. “Are you in love?” she asks, the question slipping from her lips with such tenderness that it catches him off guard.

Jimin feels the heat rush to his face, a blush creeping up his neck as he nods, shy and unsure, like a boy confessing his first crush. But as quickly as the joy fills him, guilt rises just as fast. He feels a pang of unease, like he’s betraying Jiwoo by pouring out his heart to her mother about someone else.

His gaze flickers downward, his voice quieter now. “I just… I don’t know if it’s right. Talking about her… to you, of all people.”

But Jiwoo’s mother reaches out, her hand brushing his arm lightly, anchoring him. Her smile is gentle but unwavering. “Jimin, love doesn’t take anything away from the past. It adds to it. Jiwoo wouldn’t want you to feel like this—she’d want you to be happy.”

Her words settle over him like a soothing balm, easing the tightness in his chest as he lifts his gaze to meet hers. For the first time in a long time, he feels lighter, as though the burden of his emotions isn’t something he has to carry alone.

Without skipping a beat, she senses the weight in his words, the hesitation behind his smile. Her voice is soft, but steady, like the whisper of wind through familiar trees. “Why do you feel guilty, Jimin?”

He stammers, his heart racing as though it’s trying to outrun the truth. “I don’t want you to think… that I’m replacing Jiwoo,” he says, the words trembling on his tongue, heavy with the unspoken ache in his chest.

She smiles—gentle, knowing, as though she’s been waiting for this moment to ease his burden. Her laugh is tender, almost like a coo you’d give to soothe a child, and she reaches forward, pulling him into the warmth of her embrace. “Oh, Jimin. You could never replace her, and I know you never would,” she whispers, her words wrapping around him like the arms he’s missed in his darkest hours. She steps back, her hands lingering on his shoulders, her gaze soft yet gleaming with a mother’s fondness. “I’m just happy—so happy—that you’ve finally found someone. You deserve that, you know.”

Her smile deepens as she adds, with a teasing lilt, “You know, I always wanted you and Jiwoo to get married. That was my dream for the two of you.”

Jimin’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head gently. “I never had romantic feelings for Jiwoo,” he says, his voice steady but kind. “It wouldn’t have worked. We were… different.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “Oh, I know,” she says with a wistful sigh. “Your love for her was always different. But a mother can dream, can’t she? You were good for her, Jimin. You made her laugh, made her days brighter. I still remember watching the two of you play in the yard, running and hiding, always up to something. The way you’d joke around like nothing in the world could touch you.” Her voice trails off, and for a moment, she’s somewhere else, lost in a memory that warms her even as it stings. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she murmurs, “I really miss her.”

The words tug at Jimin’s heart, unraveling the thread he’s worked so hard to keep tied. His throat tightens, his vision blurs, and when he speaks, his voice cracks under the weight of his grief. “I miss her too,” he whispers, the words slipping free like petals carried on the breeze.

For a moment, silence settles between them, heavy but comforting, like an old quilt draped over shared pain. Then, she reaches out, her fingers lightly brushing his hand in a gesture so gentle it feels like forgiveness. Her smile returns, warm and encouraging, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “So… this girl,” she begins, her tone playful yet earnest, “Can I meet her soon?”

Jimin feels a blush creep up his neck, but he can’t help the smile that blooms across his face, unguarded and true. “Maybe,” he says softly, the single word brimming with possibility.

In her presence, he feels something shift—an unspoken blessing, an unshackling of the guilt he’s carried for so long. The weight lifts, and in its place, something new takes root. He feels it growing inside him, tender and unstoppable, like the first green buds breaking through winter’s frost. Just as the air begins to warm and the trees stretch toward spring, his heart is unfurling, blossoming with feelings for you that he can no longer contain.

And for the first time in years, he feels the hope of a new season.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv @mikrokookiex @rapmonjoon94

→ Series taglist: @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @hnnnjm @flaneuseonthestreets @miniesjams32 @graydolan12

→ Author’s endnote: Waaaaaah— 🤧😭 Are you crying? Because SAME. My heart is officially in shambles, and I need emotional support ASAP. So, tell me—what did you think of this whole chapter from Jimin’s POV? Isn’t he just so much in the best (and most heartbreaking) way? 🥺💜 Also… let’s talk about Jiwoo 👀 We know she passed away, but the real questions are: how and why? What’s your theory? Spill the tea—I’m dying to know your thoughts!🕵️‍♀️✨

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