#STILL AN ART PERSON IN ALMOST EVERY UNIVERSE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ybklix · 6 months ago

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𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝑫𝒆𝒄𝒐

♱‧₊˚. pairing: dom!hwanghyunjin x sub!femreader 𓈒 ୨९⟡₊⋆∘ synopsis: An eccentric and peculiar artist, whose art is well known for its captivating and erotic method, is fascinated by you, who naively thought you just accepted a small job for him. ೨౿ ⋆ ˚｡ genre — warnings: MDNI, smut, shibari ropeplay, dubcon, bdsm, sex toys, impact play, spanking, edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 9.3k

♬⋆.˚ art deco by lana del rey ♥︎ closer by nine inch nails ♥︎ tear you apart by she wants revange ♥︎ red lights by stray kids

(𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 '𝟮𝟰) ₊˚🕯️♱‧₊˚. 04: artist

wen’s note: bitch christian grey who, also red lights is a rope bunny slut wbk

The distant scent of cigarette smoke hit your face along with the cold night breeze. You shrank into your jacket, feeling your whole body shiver with cold as you waited for the driver you paid for in an app, to wait outside the large chateau property in the middle of nowhere.

It was cold and you felt the anxiety that there was no one left but you.

You heard footsteps behind you and with a shiver you turned, seeing how from the darkness and dim light emerged the bearing of a tall man in a suit.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t recognize him, someone like him would stand out anywhere. Hwang Hyunjin. A handsome adult with long black hair as shiny as night and slitted, villainous eyes in contrast to the rest of his smooth, harmonious face with beautiful bushy eyebrows, a straight nose, and full lips. He was so beautiful and handsome that he also became the model sometimes.

Hyunjin came out for fresh air and he noticed you, he had noticed you from the gallery, the young girl making little notes. Hyunjin had counted the journalists in his exhibition and knew their names and faces but you… he had never seen you, you were too young to work in journalism or as a critic, and yet you still took your notes.

Hyunjin approached you, playfully puffing on his cigarette.

“What did you think of today’s exhibition?”

You looked at him, surprised, you had never been that close to him or talked to him directly but you certainly knew his voice from the one or another interview you saw on the internet. Ah, the great exhibition today by Hwang Hyunjin, you were grateful and amazed that you had gotten a spot to be able to attend. His latest art exhibit, a compilation of sculptures, paintings, and photography inspired by 1920s nightlife, Art Deco, The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald and Zelda, Hemmingway, Lempicka and Picasso, in a place perfectly with an interior design exactly referring to that era. Hyunjin never did small exhibitions or hung around in small galleries, if he exhibited his art he did it big, in the famous Hwang chateau with a very strict list of upper-class guests, it was not only an exhibition, but a fashion show and almost a carpet event as his dress code was strict and even the most important fashion magazines and designers attended.

You were surprised that he suddenly walked up and spoke to you. You had been lucky enough that the university had gotten you a very coveted spot at the event. You had enjoyed his art… you just couldn’t lie about feeling a little uncomfortable seeing it for the first time in person with your own eyes. His classic and characteristic section of somewhat erotic photographs of women being tightly bound. The photos showed naked and semi-naked women with their red, slightly purple limbs, signs of how truly tight the ropes must have been. But Hwang Hyunjin was praised for his play with eroticism and a popular fetish practice.

In fact, there were so many unsolved rumors and mysteries regarding the uproar of those photographs, of which you were very curious about.

You had to be honest, you were in front of the artist himself, which is very busy and coveted in the art world, you didn’t have that opportunity every day; plus it was what you did, you wrote your most honest thoughts.

“I thought it was beautiful, wicked, perverse and devious.”

You added a bit of mischief and sarcasm in your tone, throwing in a few popular adjectives of which they catalogued his art over the years, an amusing reference that Hyunjin understood perfectly and you were relieved that he did, as if you had instantly connected. He laughed playfully, forming a smile that showed his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

“Wicked and devious, who are you, The New Yorker?” he took another puff of his cigarette, “They called me wicked and compared me to a politician, how dare they, fucking bastards. I prefer the version of The New York Times.”

Erotic and provocative. An artist born to succeed. Art whose photography arouses more than one feeling. Once in their lifetimes, unique art that happens once in many years. The one Hwang Hyunjin. Young and ambitious.

You smiled, as he was clearly just playing along and feigning an angry tone.

“By the way, I’m Hwang Hyunjin” he added more softly staring at you, stepping on the butt of his cigarette.

“I know, nice to meet you, Mr. Hwang.”

He raised his dark eyebrows as he licked his lips, waiting for an answer.

“And… you are…”

“Y/n” you replied, repeating it with your last name.

Hyunjin looked you up and down for a few seconds and your compliance vanished from you in seconds, now you were nervous, feeling penetrated by his gaze in that cold, dark night. You couldn’t lie, Hyunjin was fucking hot and handsome, his scent exquisite and his presence out of this world, he was worthy of a work of art on his own.

“Mmm… I see” he met your eyes again, “Did you come as an enjoyer or a critic?”

“A little of both” you said proudly with a smile.

“Mmm, you can never be both” cold weather steam now coming out of his mouth every time he spoke, “You work for some magazine… are you waiting for someone? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face like yours before…”

You almost fell at his feet at his soft rambling tone of voice, you almost believed him and fell for his charms that you were sure was just another one of his moves as an artist. So you just let out a soft chuckle, but his face reflected subtle genuine confusion.

“No… I’m here for college, I also study art, I got on the list… I have a little blog of my exhibition reviews.”

Hyunjin listened to you carefully, “Ah… I had no idea a college girl would come…” he whispered almost to himself, “And a blog? Like… written? People still use that?” he added amused

You smiled, “Well so far it’s going well.”

“I’m glad. You’re going to write about this? What’s it called?”

You knew exactly what to write about, a charming, playful artist with a mysterious haze about him, you were not to be fooled by his charms…. Hwang Hyunjin was still hiding things.

“Sure, it’s called Red Lights.”

“Ah, of course I’ve seen it, you do those reviews?” your eyes reflected mild surprise, “I liked that write-up about Lee Felix’s fashion collection… but I don’t remember seeing you there on your blog.”

You lightly bit your lower lip feeling a little flattered that someone like him would read something like that, maybe it came to him because of the last review you did of his exhibition months ago that you saw online.

You called his art and method erotic, like many other major media, but it wasn’t just because it was nude… it was because there really was something erotic about it. First, the bondage of the woman was shown, and in another photograph the genuine and true face of pleasure itself, a twisted pleasure, a wicked smile, and shiny tears. That left as much to the viewer’s imagination as the popular belief that it was evident that Hyunjin was pleasuring or performing sexual acts on his models. In your writing, you revealed that Hyunjin himself had exposed liking that sort of thing, such as discipline and light physical abuse. You did not call him a sadist as such since it was just a pair of nudes and ropes tightly bound a woman’s body and upper limbs and their faces with tears of joy. You mentioned the mystery that the photograph captured and left a faithful follower of Hyunjin wondering how it was always a different woman. He had no fixed muse, despite also expressing how romantic he was.

You suddenly felt insecure remembering your review of him, you left more questions than answers but you couldn’t help it. No one really knew Hyunjin outside of the public eye. He could be whatever, his attitude now could just be part of his technique, he was a spontaneous artist, many times compared to Helmut Newton, but you weren’t sure about that, Hyunjin’s art was more haunting and in color.

“You haven’t seen me because I never show my face. I only write. But my instagram is there.”

Hyunjin let out a giggle and you blushed instantly, your body heated in embarrassment, why would you say something like that to an artist much older than you that you had a certain social media. A notification on your cell phone interrupted you, the driver texted that he was close to arriving.

Hyunjin thought it was cute that a beauty like you wasn’t a bit snooty and showing your face, making short art information videos, as it was obvious you had little influence, attending fancy events, dressing well, but still kept to the old method of simple writing. Maybe you were the one looking for a real position in one of those magazines. Maybe you were a beautiful girl stuck in the present day with an old soul.

He couldn’t deny that you had absolutely captured his attention. He was smitten. You were young and smart, but care and rough sex could make you dumb, which was what his deepest, most perverse thoughts hid.

“Sure, a face like yours is unique…” you smiled shyly, ”I’d remember and recognize it everywhere.”

The driver was getting closer and closer to his destination. Hyunjin licked his lips softly and a silence formed in the cold night. He questioned… whether to do it… when every girl he chooses, he studies and gets to know her first, but you arrived so spontaneously, dressed in a Maison Margiela by Galliano that gave those touches of a classic 2000’s Dior.

He acted impulsively.

“What are you doing this Monday afternoon?”

Your heart raced. If he said so, you’d cancel anything.

“Nothing in particular, I’m going to college early.”

“Are you interested in modeling for me?”

Monday, but what a strange and rushed day. Hyunjin didn’t even have plans to start his work at once, but he didn’t want to let you go. He wanted you in his art, somehow something about you connected so much with Art Deco.

The car stopped in front of you right with the descriptions that came in the app. Hyunjin didn’t think you would leave so suddenly, he didn’t even contemplate it.

You thought about it… modeling for him… it meant posing nude? And if the rumors were true… you would be subjected to sexual activity. It was the perfect opportunity to see with your own eyes and fully experience the true process and method of Hyunjin’s art.

“Can I ask you something?”

Anything, Hyunjin thought. He nodded, sensing that the situation was being rushed since you had to get into the car.

“Can I write about it?”

“Deal” Hyunjin didn’t even think twice about it, he would see how he would manage, “I’ll send you the details later. See you soon.”

You got into the car and Hyunjin closed the door for you, bowing with a tender smile that you caught a glimpse of from the window. You wondered if he was staying alone in the huge chateau.

You would finally find out what’s really going on behind the camera.

Only Hwang Hyunjin could make your Monday so fucking interesting. You were about to spend the afternoon with him and that made you nervous, despite having received all the information in the e-mail where it was specifically worded by Hyunjin’s staff that it would be a simple portrait modeling.

You were slightly disappointed, not because you expected to be tied up and have sex with the most handsome man your eyes have ever seen, but because you wanted answers to all the questions that caused a buzz in the art community, you thought you would be special and be the first to write details about working for Hwang Hyunjin, because every woman he photographs are young and unknown to the public and not much is known about them, not even Hyunjin shows them in his exhibitions so that the public knows that they are real, that they existed and are not just art captured from him… or maybe they were just that. By working for him you became his property and immortalized as such, maybe the beautiful twisted women were others in their daily life.

Still… you hoped you could ask him a few questions and maybe he might reveal something.

Hyunjin was specific with your makeup, natural, with subtle gold with silver glitter eyeshadow and thin-pencil eyeliner. His team showed you in the email the example and sent you exactly the right eyeshadow, foundation, soft blush in a cool pink shade, and the perfect nude shade of silky lipstick. You complemented the makeup hoping it would be what Hyunjin had wanted. He had also been specific with the clothes, nothing that would make marks on your skin, from tight underwear or clothes.

You arrived at the address Hyunjin gave you. A lonely loft building, owned by Hyunjin, where he had his photography equipment and a small studio. Upon entering it was nothing like you expected, everything was perfectly decorated, you should have seen it coming from him.

He greeted you with a smile and you were surprised how he became more handsome in two days… or you were beginning to see him differently after your little paranoia you kept looking for things about him, you couldn’t deny it, he had a unique beauty and charming personality without even trying, something that captivated you and trapped you.

But it was very well known that Hyunjin was a guy who loved to party despite being reserved, he was the perfect combination of a partying artist, lonely, mysterious, and romantic, all his love life was very well hidden, and nothing was known about him romantically other than his art, lifestyle and the way he expresses himself.

Hyunjin saw you with a sparkle in his eyes, knowing you would document everything later. His plan was to go moderately slow, though he couldn’t wait and was itching to tie up your body until you were bruised. But first, he would charm you, with little details and photo shoot appointments, and before you knew it, he would be offering you something much more interesting. He recognized that the process could take days, weeks…

“Welcome. You look beautiful, my godiva. I’ll show you around.”

“Godiva?”

You followed Hyunjin and he turned with a tender smile continuing his walk. Hyunjin looked so good, wearing all-black attire, a thin turtleneck sweater and pants that matched his manly long legs, with his hair slicked back and ring details on his long fingers and a watch on his wrist.

“It is one of my favorite paintings with a story, a pretty and kind woman whose kindness and heart changed her ambitious husband’s mind and helped the village, in exchange for a shameful sacrifice, you know the story?”

“I know it, yes… why did you call me that?”

“Do you want an explanation for everything, don’t you, sweet girl?” he looked at you amused, “Because you are my kind woman. For today. My muse.”

You felt a good shiver. You were happy but at the same time you thought maybe then it’s something he says to every woman who passes through here or works for him. Just another part of his tricks.

You didn’t understand why you were suddenly making such a big deal out of it, it wasn’t like someone like Hyunjin was magically going to fall in love with you.

Hyunjin showed you around, telling you details and stories while you listened to him carefully… but there were times when you got lost in the movement of his lips, you couldn’t help it, so full, so kissable; he noticed it and an occasional mischievous, shy smile escaped from him, normally he felt like he had the highest ego… but with you, it felt like the innocence of a first date.

“Wouldn’t you be taking notes of everything I would tell you?” he paused in his talk to tell you.

You opened your eyes slightly, you knew exactly what to write. Your evening with a real artist, an attractive and charming one, all your college girl classmates would go crazy. Anyone who saw Hyunjin would have a crush on him.

“Oh, I’ll remember everything, don’t worry Mr. Hwang.”

Hyunjin licked his lips, arousing his senses that you spoke to him formally.

“God, I wish I could give you something better to remember tonight” he whispered, his eyes glued on you then averted, you had heard him. “Call me Hyunjin.”

Next was your photoshoot of which you hadn’t felt nervous about until he was attractively setting up his camera, you hadn’t even prepared yourself… the whole damn time you were thinking about his other kind of pictures, the erotic ones, how he tied with his nimble, long fingers and what was really going on for women to have that fucked expression on their face. You only knew that Hyunjin himself talked about that very thing three years ago, that he traveled to Japan to relax, to find inspiration in the little things, and that suddenly one day he discovered the art of shibari, the Japanese rope play and that he learned it from scratch; months after that trip to Japan the world got the first photographs.

It couldn’t be possible… that it was you who was lusting after Hyunjin, and if that was his plan or how he used to do it, it was working, you didn’t care. His clothes were tight on his manly, slender figure… and his thighs thick, but you couldn’t help but notice the large bulge that formed precisely there, the bulge of his notorious cock, which was right there, impossible to miss and without needing to be hard, you cursed mentally, thinking it must be big.

You started to get hot, sweating slightly from your lower back, the dirty thoughts were happening at an incredible speed in your head.

He approached you, ready for the pictures and noticed the faint red color on your cheeks; he smiled smugly, as he had done nothing but exist and you were already all flushed.

You confessed to him that it was weird being the model because you used to be the artist, but he took it upon himself to help you.

You tried on different outfits that suddenly didn’t feel like you. And after a while, you thought you were done when he suddenly ordered you in a harsher tone of voice:

“Wear this Versace, now. I’ll take pictures of you.”

You were surprised because he had all along been polite and didn’t order as such… but you liked how his voice suddenly got thicker as he ordered you something.

The shoot was officially over, and after that and with timid steps, you were ready to get back into your clothes again, Hyunjin was tidying up his photography equipment a bit when he stopped you.

“Where are you going? Stay dressed like that” he ordered you again and then realized his tone, “You can keep the dress… it’s made to fit you. Okay, any questions now that we’re done?”

Too many, but you had no idea how to phrase them.

“It’s night now, would you like to go out to dinner somewhere taking advantage of that pretty dress you have on, sweetie?”

He was driving you crazy, ordering you around but then talking cute to you while looking this handsome and asking you out. You didn’t turn him down.

On the way to the restaurant in Hyunjin’s car there was a tense atmosphere somehow, but he softened it with small talk, he really liked to talk, he was tender.

You arrived at a fancy place, you weren’t ready for all that but you let yourself go, just walking beside him felt good already.

A delicious dinner, a couple of drinks, and you and Hyunjin were getting to know each other more and more and becoming more comfortable with each other. Even comfortable enough to ask him:

“So… how do you do it?”

“Do what?” he replied with a smile.

You looked at him with your eyes narrowed.

“Your… photographs…”

“Well, with a camera” he joked, “What photographs?” Hyunjin noticed your slight uncertainty to answer in seconds and understood. “Ahh, those photographs. You’re dying to know, aren't you?” he said smugly.

“Of course not…” you jokingly replied.

It was all giggles, until he got serious, took from his glass with champagne and, with the glass near his lips said:

“Do you want to find out for yourself? I bet you want to try.”

A wicked smile formed on Hyunjin’s face each time you got closer to your destination. He had fantasized about it but he didn’t want to seem like a pervert or rush things with you… but you agreed, you did it and now you couldn’t believe it.

You were more and more surprised because it had been 20 minutes since you had left the city and just driving out of town. Twenty more minutes and Hyunjin finally stopped the car in the middle of nowhere, in front of a traditional Korean house.

A part of you trembled that you felt it in the foreground, that it was you who now let out tears of pleasure as you had fantasized as a handsome, older man like Hyunjin. But another part of you hoped it was only information told.

Hyunjin opened the car door for you and you looked at the place… truly a house in the middle of nowhere among the trees. You felt a chill and the cold of the night on your skin, thinking then that’s where it all happens, where other women have been before you.

“This hanok belonged to my grandfather and he passed it down to me. I’ve kept it ever since. I learned a lot from him, I owe my love of the art to him.”

Hyunjin spoke sincerely. You admired the nice garden.

“It’s nice and peaceful.”

You were trembling with nerves.

Finally, you entered the main room. Everything was still so traditional, with wood everywhere, but you noticed the little modern details Hyunjin added. Every one of his places was just like another art exhibition, decorated with paintings.

“I use it to relax, I get distracted here for a really good time and it's ideal for inviting my friends over… and well, this is where I usually practice bondage.”

You nodded, avoiding looking him in the eye. You wanted to leave. Since you knew the place you could leave; you were biting your lip in constant regret that you were actually going to be tied up. But you wanted to leave because you were embarrassed, not because you didn’t want it—the unique sex experience.

“Come here. You wanted to see it for yourself.”

A couple more rooms with sliding doors. You arrived, but Hyunjin paused with his hand on the door.

“So that you know absolutely everything…” he spoke, looking you in the eyes again.

You nodded, you were anxious and slightly excited but you were beginning to accept your fate —which you weren’t complaining much about—. Hyunjin continued:

“Usually this is where I take the pictures, I like to play with the scenery and re-decorate it, that’s why you see different scenery” he pointed in front of a spot in the room with more photography equipment. “Before entering the model is given a consent form that they decide whether to sign or not, it talks about agreeing to pose nude, to have risqué photos taken even on her genitals, and to abide by my orders as well as choosing a safe word in any case she feels uncomfortable or doesn’t have as much tolerance for pain. I like to play with them, dress them, tie them up, and let the art perform itself.”

Your breath shortened. It was so twisted but coming from his lips, voice, and serious tone… why it was so hot and mesmerizing.

It was a small disappointment that before you there were multiple women and you could almost imagine their naive and excited faces before walking through that door. The contract thing? Slick and dirty.

“Can I see it?” you said suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow in confusion looking so attractive, there was something about his bearing that looked commanding all of a sudden, as if his eyes became sharper and his body more desirable. You were impatient, at least you wanted to kiss him, you didn’t understand why so much desperation.

“The contract” you sentenced.

Hyunjin chuckled and walked over to a desk, pulling out two sheets of paper from some folders and handed them to you.

You bit your lip as you held them… thinking that maybe you were getting excited in vain, that after all, he wasn’t inviting you to be one of his models and that he hadn't even given you the contract nor did he look like he intended to give it to you, just because you asked.

The contract was specific and explicit and talked about you agreeing to be Hyunjin’s submissive for as long as he chooses by being inside that property. In the end, it said something that made too much sense, that after the shoot and when all is concluded, the model should only approach and address him professionally and under no circumstances divulge what she experienced and did. The model has the right to attend the event where her photographs will be exhibited and is obliged to use an artistic name or pseudonym. And it ended with an impressive amount of money with which she would be paid.

You sighed softly as you finished reading. It sounded private and serious from what you said:

“I won’t write about this.”

“Wise decision. But because I like you so much I can give you the exclusive and you decide already whether to write or not, sweetheart.”

You didn’t even have time to think when Hyunjin took the papers from your hand and slid the door open, revealing a long rectangular room decorated in classic wood and well-lit, with a sweet and mesmerizing scent, everything was spotless… but in the room, there was evidently sex practice furniture.

“Obviously everything is clean, it’s rigorously cleaned every time the mess is finished, and you’re lucky that the chairs and stuff are new.”

Lucky. You were at a loss for words. It was real. It was what he liked to do. You didn’t judge him, it was so normal, just another way he lived his sex life. But it was unknown to you, at least living it or actually seeing it and the unknown gives you that certain uneasy feeling.

Hyunjin took a step forward staring at you still holding the papers in his hand.

“Do you want to give it a try? Do you want to sign the contract?” he brought his face close to yours with a smug smile. “It can be for artistic purposes, just so you understand the art you’re so curious about” he crooned, playfully.

You shuddered and maintaining eye contact you nodded shyly. You knew exactly what you were agreeing to, there was no need to play dumb, you wanted it, you wanted it ever since you saw him when you entered his loft.

“You can sign later. I’ll get you dressed” Hyunjin spoke, in a more cheerful and excited tone.

He was just as, if not slightly more impatient than you. He hadn’t felt this aroused in a while, most of the time he did get aroused but it was more like pleasure play, he found satisfaction and didn’t get too involved, he was more dominant and knew how to control it… he wasn’t sure if he could pull that off with you just now.

You went back to giving a visual tour of the place as Hyunjin walked to another door that appeared to be a closet. You sighed as soon as you saw that it was a closet, with lingerie, sex toys and his ropes.

Hyunjin approached you, holding a silky white babydoll and thigh high sheer stockings also white. He held your face for the first time, making your heart almost stop as you saw him so close and felt his warm hands and cold rings on your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m going to dress you in white because…. you have that energy in you so pure and wise, you’re as beautiful as a woman waiting dressed in white at the altar, anyone who marries you will be a lucky fucking son of a bitch. So just for tonight be everything to me, my object of pleasure, my lover, my wife.”

Hyunjin caressed your cheek and you felt your knees go weak at hearing him and seeing the gleam in his dark eyes, you didn’t even have that silly thought that he might have told someone else, you didn’t care, at least you were the one hearing it and living it right at this moment, with him.

“Undress, love, now” he ordered you softly, sliding the zipper of your dress and he took two steps back and moved a little away from you.

His piercing gaze watched you standing there and a subtle wicked smile twitched the corners of his lips. You did as he ordered and as soon as your dress fell to the floor the sensitive spot on your pussy throbbed in excitement, there was something in the atmosphere and in the room beyond your arousal and his incredible sexual energy, something about the place made you feel haunted, as if the silence of the night had a supernatural erotic power on you, you were as uneasy as you had ever been.

Hyunjin licked his lips, watching you take off your last little garments, your underwear. You were so wet, that you felt your wetness slide into your folds as you took off your panties. This time, his cock was unbelievably hard at the sight of your naked body. Hyunjin’s world stopped for a second as his cock throbbed in complete pleasure, and he paused to watch you carefully without missing any detail about you, from your shy and slightly nervous expression to the shape of your neck and how it connected to the delicacy of your shoulders and collarbones, showing your chest and breasts… the shape of them, your nipples, your delicate limbs, your abdomen and the sweet juicy skin of your pubis… every detail, down to the moles on your body. He was satisfied.

“You are beautiful,” he told you, moving closer to you.

Up close he became more absorbed and managed to perceive the scent of your perfume, delighting himself in it. He bit his lower lip and couldn’t resist how soft your exposed breasts looked, so he brought both his hands to your tits, making you shudder slightly, massaging them gently, with the babydoll on his broad shoulder. You too bit your lip in pleasure to stop a sigh. You saw his big hands grab your breasts, move them and play with your nipple and in the process you noticed the huge erection in his pants and then you saw his face, thinking he was even bigger with a hard cock, you wanted Hyunjin now, you needed him, you needed to feel him inside you, in your hands, in your mouth… He was so close to you… you could appreciate his so manly features perfectly marked, like his nose and sharp jaw and his lips, you wanted to kiss him and have him take you at once, you felt he could fuck you right there, you were already so ready for his cock to slide into you without even truly touching him.

He repeated your act, he saw your breasts and enjoyed the feel of your tits adjusting to his hands and then he watched your sweet face holding back and he smiled.

“You like that, bunny, huh? Answer everything I tell you.”

“Yes” you sighed.

His giggle again appeared and what started out sweet became more and more intense, squeezing your breasts with intensity and treating them rougher, ending with a rough play towards your nipples that made you sigh.

“Arms up, my baby doll, I’m going to dress you.”

He took his hands off your breasts leaving you with a void as it felt too good, he was stimulating you and turning you on more. Hyunjin put the silky robe on you and took the opportunity to caress and squeeze your ass, taking you to heaven. He got down on his knees and put on your stockings, caressing and squeezing your thighs, until he couldn’t resist, he lifted the robe covering your pussy and his face was in front of your mons pubis, Hyunjin finely ran his fingers on your slick once, and then did it deeply again, earning an unexpected shudder and soft moan from you.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet, baby.”

He smirked and went to the closet again, finally pulling out the ropes. You didn’t move an inch.

Hyunjin began untying and preparing them, standing in front of you at a distance and looking so fucking sexy as his hands and arms wrapped around the rope.

“Do you know why I chose this place? A house in the middle of nowhere?” he commented, a flirtatious tone in his voice preparing the long rope.

He looked at you and you shook your head, he smiled running his tongue along his cavity, satisfying him as you were suddenly at a loss for words as you had gone from being bubbly and chatty with him to showing yourself just the way he liked it: submissive. A submissive with the big eyes of a frightened bunny, of a prey about to be devoured, of a helpless woman about to be fucked hard.

“Because I took so much admiration for this practice in Japan and my first bondage I did when I was young in a traditional Japanese house, the place inspired me too much and I remembered I had this house a bit abandoned… but the best part of it all is that you are free to make all the noise. You can cry all you want, no soul but me is going to hear you scream.”

Your skin stood on end, the last sentence had been dangerous in every way, hot, commanding and when you least knew it, he was already close to you rolling up his sleeves and ready to start the real attraction.

“Turn around and put your arms behind your back.” he ordered, in a rougher way and intimidating you with his gaze.

You obeyed him and stood staring up at the traditional walls of the room and felt the sensation of the soft rope passing through your arms and Hyunjin placing it in front of your body, encircling your breasts and abdomen, and going up your shoulders. You were so excited that if you opened your mouth you feared a moan would come out of it.

“So… what’s going to be your safe word?” he questioned in a rough, seductive voice and you felt your first squeeze in your arms through the ropes. “Or will you make a bad girl and not need it? That never happens…”

You hadn’t thought about it… was it so painful as to require a word? You thought you were holding on. You will.

“There will be no safe word” you mentioned in a shaky voice.

The next squeeze and the first strong tie in your arms.

“You are a little sick. I adore it. You want to be all spunky girl” he kept on tying, each time squeezing tighter and drawing your arms tighter together, “Let’s see how that works out for you, honey.”

And suddenly, it wasn’t the intensity of the bondage that surprised you, but the way he began to tease you, feeling his warm breath behind you, his heavy breathing, and his erection rubbing against your body.

“Tell me, my dear, have you tried submission and bondage before…?”

“No.”

He tied hard. Squeezing around your breasts, marking them on the babydoll.

“It will be an honor to be the first. But I won’t be gentle, I never am. Do you like rough sex?”

“I-I don’t know.”

You weren’t even beginning to think straight, your pussy was throbbing painfully down there, you were afraid you were going to start dripping from how turned on you were and he was just tying you up and rubbing his erection against you. All you could think about was how good his long fingers must look holding the rope and skillfully tying you up, you wished you had eyes on your back right about now.

“You don’t know?” he tied tight close to your hands, finishing. “You’ve never been fucked hard? Or don’t tell me you’re a virgin?”

You swallowed nervously, gulping saliva that burned in your throat from how enormously aroused you were, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“I’m not…”

“Oh yeah? Who was the lucky guy who entered paradise between your legs for the first time?”

Hyunjin stepped back, appreciating the beauty of the bonds in your arms, leaving you immobilized and staggering. He walked to the front of you with a predatory gaze, admiring his creation now on the front of your body, your breasts well marked on the fabric and your abdomen bound in a figure.

“Remember to answer everything, I thought you would be a good girl.”

You looked into his eyes, your big, merciful eyes, full of pure sexual ecstasy.

“My first boyfriend, when I was 19.”

“How is he now?” Hunjin ran his hands through your hair, pushing it a little away from your face, “Knowing he won something wonderful in life, your purity.”

You felt slightly humiliated, you were facing him, in a slightly curved position because of the tight bonds that bothered your arms, which bothered your circulation a little.

“He’s fine, I think. He studied law.”

“Too bad for him, he lost you, but now you’re mine.”

Hyunjin walked out of the room to return with his camera in hands.

“There go the first pictures, hun..”

Flash behind your back, this time Hyunjin didn’t bother to change the setting of the place, he had never shown the place as such, he always decorated it in a way that suited the concept of his exhibition, but you had been so spontaneous, you weren’t even planned for weeks like all his models, the concept was the simple nature of desire, erotic and experimentation.

Then he took pictures of your body in front.

“Fuck they look so good, so homely and domestic. I love it” he mentioned looking at the pictures.

He put the camera away leaving it on the floor carpet and moved your body from your shoulders forcing you to take a few steps, all the way to the center under a bar with chuncky metal hooks hanging from its ceiling.

“You seemed to get so excited at the idea of being tied up. But let’s steady your position, sweetheart.”

Hyunjin hooked you from the rope that ran behind your shoulders and left you hanging, just touching your toes to the floor. You felt strange and excited, unable to move and hanging there like nothing.

He smiled again, satisfied and wicked and his erection throbbed in pleasure at the sight of your state, helpless and bound.

“You still want to know how I take my pictures” he whispered hotly in your ear.

He gently pulled away until you felt his hair brush against your cheek, being in that position and tied up was making you uncomfortable but there was something so hot about it.

“Yes, Hyunjin.”

At this point you couldn’t say no to him and you weren’t thinking clearly, other than the feeling of your limbs and body tied, dangling and your throbbing cunt.

“I know absolutely everything they say about me, but although it may surprise you I never fuck my models, I don’t even kiss them, but I do like to play with them, with their pleasure and temperament, I enjoy taking them to the extreme and having them explore the very capabilities of their body…”

Hyunjin spoke close to your face, like a villain telling his plan to the poor helpless and immobile victim.

“Oh, honey, but I asked you if you like rough sex because I plan to fuck you” he caressed your cheek with his thumb.

He turned away to go back to his kinky closet.

“Wooden paddle or leather?” he hummed for himself, “What will I beat your cute ass with?”

You began to move your hands in desperation looking for a release. It was starting to bother you but you didn’t want to complain, you wanted to truly feel that rare and erotic experience.

Hyunjin approached you, with a vibrator and his leather spanking paddle.

“You’re a good sweet girl, let me get you ready.”

He ran his hand in your folds and you moaned instantly, shuddering, he played with your clit and he bit his lip, getting lost in the soft, sticky, warm feeling of your pussy lips wrapping his fingers. It was feeling so good, you were so needy. Your nipples hardened and your body sought to move in pleasure.

“Go on, sweetheart, make all the noise you want, don’t be afraid to enjoy absolutely everything.”

You let out a choked moan, you pressed your hands against each other unable to move your limbs, it was feeling like heaven itself to be touched by him as you looked into his eyes, his sultry gaze and wicked smile.

“God, you are so wet, are you liking this, my bunny?”

You nodded, desperate.

“Yes!” you moaned in pleasure and surprise as you spoke just as he thrust two fingers into you.

His fingers were perfect in you, so long reaching a soft spot inside you as he stirred them deep in you, almost as if exploring then slowly penetrating you. Hyunjin felt his erection to the fullest, if it wasn’t for his very good control and management of his body, he would be whimpering with excitement, everything about you made him so fucking horny.

But then he left you an emptiness, as he removed his fingers from you. You opened your mouth, breathing was becoming a difficult task, Hyunjin took advantage of your expression and stuck his fingers that were in your pussy to mouth.

“Taste yourself. I bet you taste so good my little doll” he removed his hand from your mouth to hold the sex toy, “Alright, this goes inside you.”

You whimpered in pleasure moving your legs in desperation as you felt the vibrator slide deep inside you, you watched as Hyunjin pushed it into you settling it into a delicious and strategic spot. You again noticed his huge erection and had a great need to touch it… but you were right in that painful situation with your limbs without proper circulation. He placed the single sofa of the room right in front of you and sat comfortably as if having a girl tied up and hanging was the most normal thing on a Monday night for him. Hyunjin placed his calf on top of his thigh, watching you. He stirred in place as sitting made the fabric of his pants squeeze his erection tighter and he grunted softly.

In his right hand he held the small vibrator control and didn’t hesitate to use it, with a single click and a wicked grin on his part, the toy began to do its thing inside you making you moan breathlessly.

You bit your lip hard and swirled your pelvis in pleasure, cursing softly as your walls vibrated, you felt it tingle in you, your labia majora were already a mess. Hyunjin pressed his lips together, examining how you writhed in pleasure with the limited body parts you could move, your head, your neck and your lower limbs.

“Now… tell me that story you didn’t finish, how your love of art was born.”

“What?” you whimpered.

You didn’t think he was serious, he was overstimulating you.

“Do it. Now. I want to know,” he ordered roughly. “Tell me, now.”

You whimpered feeling every great change of vibration and movement in you. You didn’t think he meant it and could hold a conversation having you as a rag doll dangling in front of him.

“I tol-d you that my fa-father had a replica of a painting… by Norman Rockwell in his room… and…” it was hard to speak, between whines and sighs, combined with the guilty pleasure of the pain of not being able to move. “It was fun to look at it… I liked it.”

“Just that? I want more details. I feel you know everything about me; but what do I know about y/n?”

Hyunjin switched the stimulation mode to simulated thrusting motions. Your poor body writhed and contracted, you felt excitedly trapped with nothing you could do about it. You were agitated, excited, with your slightly watery eyes and your pussy getting wetter and wetter.

“Fuck” you whimpered and he smiled, “The painting was done by a friend of his…”

“What was his name?” Hyunjin loved playing with you, for an incredibly smart woman, the sexual pleasure was making you silly and he was barely into foreplay.

“Jack… Bahng… and my father noticed the admiration I suddenly had for paintings and took me to my first gallery when I was twelve in New York…”

Hyunjin thought the last name sounded familiar, but he played with you, interrupting you and increasing the intensity of the thrusts that tickled your cervix almost bringing you to orgasm. You squeezed your legs together, it was painful and pleasurable, you felt you couldn’t cum because the position was uncomfortable so you were building the intensity of your climax.

“Whose gallery was it?”

“John Currin, November 2015… mmm, fuck, Hyun-”

“Focus, honey, you’re telling me something? John Currin, doesn’t he also do nudes? I think you like a certain kind of art, you little slut.”

“Mmm…” you didn’t even know what you were talking about, you started to stammer breathlessly, “But… they’re exaggerated or funny paintings sometimes. I attended with my father, his friend and his son, his son is also an artist and he taught me how to paint and from there, from there it was…”

“Aw, you’re daddy’s little girl? Who is your daddy’s friend’s son? Was he the one you said between drinks was your first crush?”

So many questions that were suddenly so hard to answer; this time you didn’t, you were about to burst into your first orgasm, you could feel it, you bit your lip and rolled your eyes softly.

“Don’t you dare cum, I haven’t authorized you yet. Hold it” he spoke annoyed, “You have to answer what I ask you, don’t make me beat you and punish you with the fucking wooden paddle.”

“What?” you stammered, desperate, watching his expression, his smooth thick black eyebrows furrowed in anger.

“Who was the guy who taught you to paint?”

Shit. You wanted to cum already, you were at your peak that you accidentally cum whimpering his name, which Hyunjin disliked completely.

“Chris-Christopher Bahng, ahh.”

This time he was genuinely pissed off.

He turned off the vibrator while you thought you fell into a small release but you were still trapped with pain in your body.

Hyunjin walked towards you and grabbed you roughly by the face.

“I ordered you not to cum.”

That wasn’t what he was truly angry about, it was that you whimpered another man’s name while cumming and it was someone he knew well.

“Christopher Bahng?” he claimed to you in annoyance, releasing you from the hooks and holding you up to lay you down moderately roughly on the floor. “Isn’t he a professor at your university?”

You nodded, exhausted. Christopher had been your first innocent love but it was obvious he was someone older and you were a child, after fifteen you never saw him again and came back reconnecting with him as you remember him, looking the same and teaching art. In fact, he was one of the most important reasons why you attended those important art events, he would get you places, but you used to say it was college support, because in part, it was true. He was just so good to you.

“Use your words.”

You had fallen sideways, turning your back to him and you were giving up feeling your arms, you wanted to be untied already.

“Yes, he is, he’s my teacher now.”

“Unbelievable, you go from Rockwell to Nabokov. You like older men, don’t you?” he spat, taking his camera to photograph you from that angle, with your bare ass, your wet thighs, your numb white arms. “That’s why you’re here, seducing me. Do you know how old I am?”

His choice of words, his tone, he was playing with you. Hyunjin photographed you on the floor, one last time before inflicting physical pain, before leaving your ass red-purple and sore. It was so dirty and hot that you thought for a second that they could be interpreted as the pictures of a helpless victim.

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m older than you, I should have known better bringing in someone so young, sleeping with her seniors for fun. And how old is Chris now?”

“I don’t know… 33, 34.”

“And did you enjoy fucking your teacher, you fucking slut?” he whispered, putting his body over yours without crushing you, to then roughly pull the toy out of you causing you to moan, “Did he enjoy being reunited with his little girl?”

You turned your neck to look at Hyunjin, he was getting the wrong idea, he was breathing heavily against your skin.

“It’s not like that, nothing happened.”

“You know how much it infuriates me that you whimpered his name while you were cumming like a fucking whore, writhing for him, huh? You were thinking about him? When you’re supposed to be mine tonight.”

You were about to answer, but Hyunjin turned your body leaving you face down and began to spank your ass violently with his strong, heavy hand, making you scream and whimper.

“I’ll show you that you’re mine, fuck, I don’t just want you to be mine tonight, I want you to be mine forever” he babbled, giving you spank after spank.

Your body contracted at each stroke, your arms sought to move and you moved your legs but Hyujin held them tightly to stop you from resisting. Your cry and his hand hitting your skin were present in the room, you could even feel the firmness of his rings digging into your skin.

“Hy-Hyunjin!” you couldn’t with the pain that was uncontrollably arousing you, you felt sick, your buttocks were burning but your clit was throbbing again.

“You fucking like this, don’t you, little slut? You like being treated like what you are, huh?”

He stopped spanking you to play roughly with your pussy, penetrating your entrance and stroking your labia hard. You whined in pleasure, the pleasure seemed painfully eternal with Hyunjin. And minutes later, you cum on his fingers unable to resist. He couldn’t resist how swollen and juicy your cunt looked either, so in one swift movement, he settled his body to lick and revel in your juices. You were desperate, you wanted to move, you wanted to touch him, you wanted to see his handsome face as he ate your pussy but you were limited from so many things; still Hyunjin continued, running his hot thick tongue in your cunt.

“Mmmm, fuck baby, you’re—so fucking delicious, I can’t” he moaned, sucking on your labia and cumming slowly and painfully in his pants, unable to hold it in any longer.

He continued to make a series of movements in a rhythm that blurred your vision and brought you to orgasm after orgasm. You were exhausted, sore and hoarse. You had been used.

Hyunjin was hard again, ready to do one last thing before he untied you completely. You felt his mouth pull away from you and heard the sound of a belt buckle and zipper being pulled down. You knew it, you were just slightly recovering when you felt his hot wet tip rub against your puffy pussy lips. He settled your body so that you were supported on your knees; he kept teasing you with his hard member in you, which made him moan until he finally pushed his entire length into you.

New tears began to flow from you. Hyunjin was huge. He was tearing you apart, but his warm cock inside you filling absolutely everything made you feel so whole.

He held on to the ropes, as if he was riding, he began to fuck you and ram you hard, bumping skin against skin.

“Hyunji-n, Hyunjin” you whined his name.

The gasps from both of you filled the room; his cock pounded every part of your insides. His movements were fast, beastly and violent but they left you so satisfied that you came twice in the process and he still continued in you until in sensual moans, he finally filled you with his cum.

Hyunjin pulled out of you to appreciate your used entrance and, out of breath, began to quickly untie you. It was unbelievable, you had not used any safety words or begged for him to stop.

He knew he was rough and that had to untie you soon, otherwise, the ropes would leave more serious marks, of which serious marks, only your ass suffered, red and swollen with signs of bruising. And you had resisted every damn spanking of which he lost count and only hit you for his slight sadistic pleasure of feeling your soft skin being abused.

Finally, your arms could breathe, but you felt a tingling in them. You were just adjusting again when Hyunjin turned your body to see your flushed face covered in tears and light sweat on your forehead.

You groaned in pain as your bottom brushed the carpet. Hyunjin unfastened your rope and robe, leaving you naked and wearing only your stockings.

He began gently caressing your breasts and waist.

“A photograph is not enough to capture you, my dear. I need to immortalize you with my oil painting. I need to paint you. I think I’m in love.”

You watched his face, with your breathing and heartbeat agitated and altered and you also noticed his visible cock, veiny, wet, shiny, erect and big.

You blinked, feeling your eyelashes still wet. Wanting to believe he was serious. Wishing it. That he could be in love with you.

He leaned toward you, brushing his nose against yours and for the thousandth time in the night, he broke every one of his rules with a model:

“Kiss me.”

You joined your lips, his kiss soothed every physical ache in you and the sensation was just as you imagined, dreamy, velvet lips deft in their movement.

The kisses escalated to be more and more sizzling, his hands kept massaging your breasts and his lips started to slide down your neck, you were obsessed with Hyunjin’s lips, your weak arms found a way to caress his hair.

He slowly separated from you. Looking at you with his typical mischievous and tenderly wicked smile.

It was a night to remember, a night you body will remember, but you got the feeling that is was just the beginning.

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reignpage · 5 months ago

Text

Vice President!Sukuna

Hanssen: disasters all around

Word count: 5.4k Contents: cursing, violence, alcohol use, general dumbassery at parties, references to sexual assault/harassment, bts of Gojo's '4Justice' party, misuse of ChoCHo

“Why am I here?”

Sukuna inhales deeply, leaning against the dirty brick wall, one foot propped behind him, scuffing his trainers. Between his fingers, he holds a lit cigarette, dangling precariously as he bore a half-smirk, barely there, eyes smouldering when he meets the confused gaze of his cousin.

He scoffs. “Because you owe me a favour.”

The younger man grumbles a complaint but remains squatting on the floor, legs tired from standing for so long. Having been creeping around the side of some frat house for half an hour now, he’s grown restless. Refusing to explain further, Sukuna huffs silently at the pout his accomplice is sporting.

Suddenly, a click jolts the artist awake, eyes darting to the mastermind, who’s tense and jerking his head to signal it’s time to go. Unfolding himself, Choso mimics Sukuna’s position, directly behind a huge hedge, away from street view.

A silhouette steps out from a widening door, yawning loudly as it stretched.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” it yelped, burping loudly before walking away to get into its shitty car.

Sukuna watches the car splutter away, disappearing beyond the curve of the road, and makes his move. He rounds the hedge and climbs up the stairs to feel for the door handle.

Unlocked.

“Dumbass Theta Chis,” he mutters. They never lock their damn doors.

The night is still and both cousins’ shallow but even breaths are the only things that can be heard as they slink inside the house.

Aware that he could have simply paid off one of his family’s goons, Sukuna feels absolutely no regret when, as he switches the light on, he bumps into a vase. It shatters on the ground. Choso winces, feeling bad for said vase, but nonetheless walks in, hiking a duffel bag up; who is he to feel guilty about the destruction of property?

Empty as expected, they eye the place. Sukuna scowls in disgust over the pigsty they’ve walked into; empty beer bottles lay scattered all over the floor, chairs and tables askew, streamers limp over almost every surface, and yeah, in the corner that’s undeniably used condom. The soles of their shoes stick to the floor and neither of them want to make guesses on why that’s so.

Still, they look over at the one unsoiled spot in, likely, the entire house, standing side by side. Sukuna has a smirk, eyes glinting. His cousin on the other hand is wincing again, catching a glimpse of that deranged expression on the ringleader.

How did he let himself get caught up in his theatrics, again?

There, above the grand staircase —not quite as grand Alpha Phi Delta’s, well, most certainly not as grand — hangs an obnoxiously large portrait of the founding fathers of the fraternity.

It’s Theta Chi’s Holy Grail.

But tonight, it’s the cousins’ personal playground.

With a heavy sigh, the sleepy sidekick drops the duffel bag on the floor, the rattling of metal all too familiar to him, and he gets to work. As much as he loves art and creating art, being used by his stupid cousin who sports seniority by less than a year never feels great.

“Don’t rush, Choso,” an excited snarl pierces him, and he dares not look back, already exhausted of his antics, “I want this to be just perfect.”

………………………

At the centre of campus, the night is not so quiet.

Lights are beaming and flashing, blinding the moon itself. There’s a deep thumping rocking the ground and it vibrates through every pole, every cup and every person. The Quad is packed full of people from all years and all practices, with a solid chunk consisting of students from other universities, friends of friends. Anyone who is anyone is here tonight, but who they are doesn’t matter. Everyone moulds into heap of gyrating bodies, swaying and jumping to the beat.

Huge speakers line the perimeter, and drink stations have been practically robbed. Everyone has one thing on their minds tonight and that’s to get totally wasted.

Just a hair’s breadth away from the first blade of glass, there you stand. You’re breathing out, itching at a spot on your wrist subconsciously and it’s turning the skin there red.

Your thoughts are racing. You shouldn’t be here; you’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and it’s against the rules and the police could come and so many things could go wrong.,

But when was the last time you went to a party?

Not a charity event or an end of the academic year staff party, but a real party, drank cheap but strong alcohol, and danced to music with no lyrics.

When was the last you had even danced?

You scratch harder.

Most people are passing by you like you’re invisible, but one or two people would smile or wave, in a rush to get into the throngs of thoughtless pleasure. Maybe this was a bad idea — it’s unlikely you’d even enjoy this. You’ve always been a homebody, after all.

A flash of black catches your eye. A figure blanketed in woven darkness is standing around, clearly anxious about the noise, the mess, the consequences. She picks up a random red cup lying on the floor and throws it into a bin.

Is that the Treasurer?

Just as you’re about to take a step towards the girl, a voice reaches you, somehow clear despite the deafening noise of inscrutable music. You whip around and almost stumble at the sight of a person you’ve been trying not to think about the entire night.

He’s in a plain white shirt, jeans hanging low on his hips, flashing a Calvin Klein band, and hooked over his fingers is his varsity jacket strung over his shoulder. Head cocked to the side as he gives you a once over, whistling at the sight of your bare legs.

You suddenly feel cold in your skirt.

“Hey, prez,” he drawls, “been waiting for me?”

Your eye twitches. Then you turn away, facing the writhing mass of bodies surging with energy, fuelled by mixed concoctions and techno beats. You feel even more afraid.

This is definitely not your crowd.

“How was the press conference and everything else?” You don’t even know what you’re saying, just feeling a need to distract yourself with conversation. It’s easy to talk to Sukuna when you’re not looking at him. It hurts to look at him. Somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a desire to wear that jacket he’s carrying. But you don’t want to ask.

He steps beside you, eyeing the crowd just as you are.

“Nothing special.”

You nod.

Sukuna throws you a side-glance, sensing your nerves, and he thinks it’s hilarious. There’s a chuckle rising from his chest, but he has enough tact to smother it. So, he settles for giving you an elbow nudge, rolling his eyes when you glares at him.

“You gonna stand there all night or you gonna do what you came here for?”

“I’m going home.”

He laughs.

He couldn’t help himself.

The sight of you stomping away is too damn comical to resist the urge to wrap his arm around your waist. Pulling you close, he presses you tight against his chest, and whispers right in your ear, “Don’t leave before I get to see this other side of you, prez.”

You try to wriggle yourself out of it, but he only tightens his hold. Too anxious to fight, shaking like a leaf, you accept it. That’s the reason you feel most satisfied with to justify clutching his forearm, unable to wrap around the thickness of it, and remaining in that position. Sukuna’s so warm, it’s as if winter’s never going to come.

“I’m pretty sure all the alcohol’s gone by now,” you mumble.

There are a few people staring and whispering at the both of you, but he pays no attention to the gossipers. Blinking, you realise you’re swaying. Or rather, he’s swaying you to an imperceptible music, a song only he hears. It’s slow, not at all like the rapid fire of beats that everyone else is feeling running through their bloodstream.

“I’ve got a hidden stash,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry, prez. You’re gonna have fun tonight, one way or another.”

The way he says that sounds like a threat, like he knows something you don’t, and that clears your head. You push off him and snatch his jacket in one go, like it’s yours and he had stolen it from you.

Sukuna doesn’t flinch, simply pockets one hand into his jean pocket, and runs the other through his hair. It looks slightly damp, and you have to gulp to push away the thoughts of him in the shower. His bicep flexes at the movement, shirt rising to reveal a flash of skin, and a trail of hair disappearing into his boxers.

That shouldn’t make your mouth water.

With a slight shake of your head, you adorn the jacket, feeling the material slide against your skin, still warm, absolutely burying you in the fabric. Why is it so big?

“Alright, follow me.”

He’s sauntering off, long legs taking him so far in a blink of an eye. You stumble after him, meandering along the other people jumping and hooting like they have no worries whatsoever.

Sukuna’s taken you to the Life Sciences building, a little further away from the heart of the party, but still feeling the weaker waves with the random people making out against walls, or girls crying into each other’s arm. In a lab room, he opens a locked cabinet with a key hidden under a textbook. Stocked are two bottles of vodka.

You don’t ask why it’s there or how many other stashes he has, though you know you really ought to so you can confiscate them. He places the bottles on the work bench devoid of beakers or test tubes, and without warning, grabs you, the unsuspecting victim, by the waist and lifts you up onto the surface.

Yelping, you smack his shoulder. He ignores that and just lifts himself up to sit beside you. So then, there you sit, legs pressed against each other, sharing a bottle of vodka. The liquid burns your throat, and you hate the smell of nail varnish. It’s like an estranged lover, familiar but it doesn’t know your name. The instant warmth it courses through your body is very much welcomed, however.

Minutes pass in relative silence, you both check your phones here and there and pass the bottle to each other. You try not to think about the fact that you're technically sharing an indirect kiss. That's childish.

“You know,” you begin, “I’m surprised you’re a party person.”

He lifts a brow at that.

It’s quiet here. Sure, you can still hear the distant rumbling of disco and craziness, but where you are, the loudest noise is the dull thrum of the radiators. And your heartbeat, but you hope he can’t hear that. You need him not to hear it.

You continue, “It’s just, I’m pretty sure you don’t like people.”

“Oh, yeah?” He fires back immediately. “You know me so well, prez?”

Shrugging, you take the bottle from him and gulp, “I know you better than you think.”

You’re aware of how vague and ominous that sounds but the alcohol’s making it really easy to not care. If karmic law exists, then you’d be allowed this —these little jabs at his true form whenever you can. You’ve earned it. You know that, so then why does every word leave a bitter taste in your mouth?

Sukuna rubs a hand across his jaw, tasting your words and mulling it over. The lab room is lit up only by one light, just hanging a couple metres away from you. It’s enough to see the flush climbing up your neck.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

You laugh at his petulant tone. It reminds you of the frustration babies face when a square brick doesn’t fit through the triangle hole, try as they may to force it through. Opening your mouth, you’re about to make a retort, but then suddenly, shouting breaks out in the hallway, and you flinch, hand flying to grab his bicep.

Bare skin touching bare skin, it’s a feeling of utter scandal, and like you’ve been burned, you let go just as soon as you grabbed on.

“Relax,” he stares at his phone screen, “just some frat guys fighting.”

Frowning, you ask, “What about?”

The smirk Sukuna has makes your heart clench.

Rolling his piercing between his teeth, he considers his words carefully before deciding on, “Someone’s defaced the portrait in Theta Chi.”

You gasp. “No way. One of the alums on the board went to Theta Chi. They’ll be so upset.” The paperwork will be crazy, is the only thought passing through your mind. There’s a sudden lightness to your head and it pushes a giggle out.

“Weren’t the people who egged my window from Theta Chi?”

Sukuna takes a swig of the vodka, regretting, for a moment, his failure to stash something stronger. Ignoring your question, he jumps down suddenly. You don’t want to wait for him extend a hand out, or worse, grab you anyways. So, you jump as well. With much less grace.

Stumbling, you fall into him, right in his chest, buried between hard muscles. He smells nice. Clean. He really did just take a shower before coming. And once again, you’re picturing him soaked and naked and steaming and —

That’s enough.

You aren’t drunk enough to indulge in thoughts like that.

“Trying to cop a feel, prez?” His voice is gruff despite the amusement lacing his words. “You should know I charge extra for that, although I’m willing to give you a discount.”

Pulling away, you flash him a finger, and he only smirks.

“Seriously, what happened to Theta Chi?” You frowned. “I need to know how pissed the alums will be.”

He glances down at you, a dry expression on his face. “Someone painted some shit about their hazing process. That’s what Gojo’s saying in the group chat, anyways.”

Humming, you wracked your brain for every detail you can recall about the fraternity.

“The previous president mentioned that in passing to me last year, when I was shadowing him. Something about this long tradition of stripping the freshers naked and making them run into the woods? But I thought that was just a rumour.”

The man shrugged, already bored of the conversation.

You glare at him.

“This doesn’t have something to do with our conversation, does it?” It can’t be. “When you said you’d send a message.”

Surely, your vice president would have enough sense to know that a ‘message’ is just a stern talking to, and definitely not whatever the hell is going on. It would be catastrophic if this is linked back to him, and you.

Sukuna’s already walking towards the door, more interested in the commotion than the way your brain is firing at a thousand miles per second, even whilst the vodka begins to fuzz up your clarity.

“Dunno why your first thought is me and not the extremely outspoken vandal we’ve got in our midst, prez.”

That makes sense, and it calms you a little, even if it’ll still be a headache to deal with. But you can’t shake off the feeling that, somehow, he knows more than he’s letting on.

Following Sukuna, you both peek at the hallway where a crowd is forming. There are a bunch of guys wrestling each other onto the ground with uncoordinated swings and kicks. People are egging them on and recording, dodging the violence when it gets too close.

And yeah, you’re so very sure the paperwork’s going to be insane. Especially as two members of the student council will be seen in the background of the dozens of videos being taken. The headache is already developing.

“You fucking dick! Admit you broke in and destroyed our fucking picture!” A guy in a tank top despite the chilly weather yells and you recognise him as a fellow law student. Travis or something. He’s always been nice, quiet, but seeing him now as he trips over his own feet, backwards hat flying off, you realise, maybe he was just too hungover to participate in class.

“I didn’t do shit!”

Another guy throws a punch, missing its target but succeeding in pushing his victim over, but the act also drags him down. Both fall together.

“You’re a fucking liar! You drew over my great-great grandfather’s face with Pac-man!”

Someone from the crowd hollers, “Who the fuck doesn’t love Pac-man?”

“You fucking strip the freshies, you freak, a Pac-man on your ugly grandad is the least you deserve, asshole!” Someone else from the crowd screams.

And they’re collapsing back down, people try to pull them off each other but only end up getting dragged in. It’s one huge uncoordinated Jenga tower crashing down. Sukuna tilts his head, mildly interested. They’re all too drunk to throw a proper swing, one that could do real damage, but if even just one person could slip and crack their head on the floor, that would be enough.

A member of the crowd gets knocked over in the kerfuffle, distracted by something on their phone and skids along the floor with a pig-like squeal. Acting on reflex, you jolt towards the stranger, arms reaching out to pick them back up, but Sukuna grabs the back collar of his varsity jacket, the way one holds a puppy by its scruff.

You’re dragged away, to the other direction, away from the mess of drunkards, too consumed by the alcohol to realise that this is going to hurt in the morning.

“You’re just any other college student,” he scolds once you’re in the clear, “you’re not the president of the student council tonight.”

A pout drags your bottom lip down and you clutch his arm to your chest, it takes Sukuna by surprise, suspicion painted all over his face like you’re strapping a bomb around him.

“But Sukuna,” you peer up at him, “you call me prez.”

He scoffs, a disbelieving amusement wracking his body. You’re trying to kill him. That must be it. There’s no way you’re this much of a lightweight, so much so that you’d quickly abandon your integrity, and go as far as to say his name like ’S’kuna’.

Your eyes have glazed over and there’s an inelegance to your movements, little clumsy jerks and goddamn it if it doesn’t make Sukuna’s chest do that weird thing it always did when he looks at you.

How repulsive.

There’s a part of him that hopes you’ll remember the utterly embarrassing position you’ve placed yourself in, but he also doesn’t want to deal with the avoiding eye-contact and ignoring him thing you do. It’s irritating as hell.

“You’re fucking dangerous when you’re drunk, Jesus,” he snorted.

That makes you giggle. You’ve still got his arm trapped, blanketing it with his own jacket, and it’s warm, warmer than the alcohol your body’s desperately trying to digest, the foreign liquid an enemy.

“Fucking finally!” Someone yells.

It’s Gojo.

He’s marching towards the both of you, hands flailing in anger.

Sukuna rolls his eyes before he pushes you slightly behind him. “What climbed up your ass?”

“Your Treasurer, that’s who!”

And with theatrical movements he reenacts the complaints he’s been hearing, about how she’s preaching safe sex to couples making out in the hallway, shouting at people to pick up their litter, and sending him a finger from down at the Quad to where he stood on a balcony.

The last part seems to upset him more than anything else.

“Why did you bring the freaking fun police?” He directs the question at you. He always assumes you’re the root of all his problems, and well, you won’t deny that. “She’s gonna ruin my rep as the best party-thrower!”

Gojo’s a huge pain in the ass and to see him so frazzled over a different member of the council makes you pleased. You jab a finger at his chest, giggling as you mocked, “Someone needs to arrest you for being so stupid.”

When you hiccup, Gojo looks at you, horrified. His eyes dart comically between you and Sukuna like you’re pranking him, like he’s missing a big joke, instead of making it, for once. Seeing Sukuna only raise a brow in challenge, he groans, rubbing a palm down his face.

“You guys are killing me, I swear!”

And then he stomps away.

You giggle again, his lanky body looks so funny speed walking. You take the bottle from Sukuna and gulp clumsily. Some of the liquid dribbles down your chin, and you don’t care. This is the freest you’ve felt in months, hell, maybe even years. It’s as if chains have been loosened and you can stretch your limbs.

Taking the bottle away from you, he tilts his head back slightly to take a gulp too, except he doesn’t look away whilst he does it. Not a single drop goes to waste, not even as he brushes a thumb over your chin and swipes it over his own lips.

The skin where he touched sizzle.

You clear your throat, “Should we tell her it’s okay?”

Sukuna shakes his head with a devilish smirk and retorts, “You’re not the prez tonight, remember? Let the idiots fix themselves up.”

Slapping his chest and then settling on groping his pec, you slur out, “I’m never not the ‘prez’, idiot.”

“You’re just y/n, tonight,” he insists, encasing your wrist with one large hand, and stilling your movement so you can’t squeeze like a creepy uncle. “Be selfish for once, yeah?”

“Like you?”

Your head is tilted in curiosity, lashes fluttering and he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about. He won’t deny his habit of putting himself first, and he certainly won’t apologise for it, but the way you put the question to him brings a flash to his head.

Strobe lights, warm bodies and lies.

Sukuna reels back like he’s been slapped.

He gets not a single second to process anything before there’s whooping. People grin at you two, punching the air in an expression of solidarity, chanting ‘fuck Mahito!’ at the top of their lungs. It’s fun to see everyone so friendly when most days people stroll by without so much as even a glance your way.

A guy comes up to you both, in a blue sweater and cargo shorts, doing that weird handshake men do with Sukuna and you sort of want to join. He greets you with one of those half-nods and takes a sweep of your body, a grin on his face.

“Want something?” Sukuna pushes out through gritted teeth.

The guy shakes his head as if to clear his mind before he’s smiling like a little boy again. “Just wanted to talk about our next game. Heard the team’s good but I think their defence is a little weak.”

Hearing the basketball talk, you grow disinterested.

Which Sukuna doesn’t sense until it’s too late. Because your question threw him off and he’s slacked. For perhaps the first time in his life.

So, when he glances down beside him and finds you gone, he’s cursing the heavens and leaving his teammate mid-conversation. He searches for you everywhere, trying to find an oversized purple jacket hanging off your frame, even popping into the girls’ bathrooms, ignoring the crying girls there.

“Flighty fucking woman,” he growled.

There’re still too many things he had planned for your one-night truce, too many things he wants to pull out of you whilst you’re honest. And with you, the surprising lightweight that you are, being drunk off your head, alone, the thought of all the ways things could go wrong is making a muscle tick in his jaw.

He sees Choso, leaning against a bike shed, looking up at a mural with a cigarette between two fingers. It’s half washed off; the scaffolding abandoned for the night. Sukuna couldn’t care less for the sentimental mood his cousin’s in.

“Why do you look mad again?”

Sukuna ignores that, “Seen the prez?”

The younger man tastes the word in his mouth. “The prez? The president of the council?”

Okay, apparently all the usefulness he’s capable of has been maxed out this evening. Without a parting word, Sukuna continues his search. He’s practically running. People are trying to catch his attention. Guys who’ve fallen under the delusion that they’re friends for reasons that elude the pink haired man, and girls who mostly likely wanted to put the rumours of his skills in bed to the test.

He ignores all of them, popping his head into every classroom, growing more and more agitated, and he swears, once he finds you, he’ll tie you up and lock you in a closet so you can’t run off, can’t make his heart clench and his palms sweat.

Eventually, he ends up back at the Quad, there’s too many idiots crowded in one place to see, and he’s certainly not going to attempt to sift through them all. He sees Gojo on a balcony, standing beside two figures, sunglasses pushed up over his head, grinning so brightly, even from where Sukuna’s standing, he can see all his teeth. He’s leaning over the railings, eyes fixed on something at the side. Just as Sukuna makes a step towards his direction, deciding that getting a higher vantage point would be the best strategy, a flash of purple catches his attention.

He found you.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already climbed a table, shoes next to some red solo cups, drawing many people’s attention. No one expected to see the president here, and certainly not with a varsity jacket on. Perhaps, people are worried you’re about to lecture them, to warn them about the rules and trespassing and whatever else.

Resting against a pillar, he sighs and rubs his jaw.

Apparently, drunk you loves attention. Well, he shouldn’t be surprised; you’re a great orator and it just comes naturally to you, even if you are a bundle of nerves sometimes. He decides to stay there, watching your passionate speech, arms raised like you feel the zeal course through you. The music has quietened, the, no doubt ridiculously expensive, DJ a certain frat president hired lowering the volume.

Everyone’s watching you, halting their grinding and jumping to hear you out. You introduce yourself -not that you needed one to begin - and talk about the challenging couple months, the way students turned on each other and staff showed their bias. You saw the girls, other victims, forced to cower, forced to feel dirty, and doubt themselves.

But you also witnessed the love, the support, the community. The sisterhood that carried you all to this point where the truth has made itself clear, justice prevailing because they cannot deny the bravery you’ve all showed.

There are a few people wiping tears from their eyes, guys occasionally shouting in agreement. Despite most people coming just for a good time, it seems like there really was a need for catharsis. Recent events haven’t just taken a toll on you and the girls and the lawyers, but also on the other women on campus.

Sukuna rolls his eyes.

Drunk you is the female reincarnate of Mark Antony, go figure.

Half obscured by shadows and half lit by flashing lights, he stands there, eyes never leaving your figure, jolting every time you stumble on the table, but as infuriating as it is, you’re surrounded by a bunch of guys, ready to catch you.

He’s developed a disliking of parties over the years, hating the bumbling ineptitude of drunk people, and all the drama that comes bursting from the seams of repressed idiots. Still, he attends most of them, never taking part in the chaos but often just watching.

Sukuna hates parties but this one isn’t too bad, he decides.

A notification goes off on his phone and he sees his roommate’s message — a video and a text following it.

the girl of your wet dreams is really getting the waterworks going huh?

Once again, Sukuna rolls his eyes, saving the video and ignoring Toji.

God, he hopes when he brings you back to your dorm room that you won’t throw up all over him. He can deal with carrying your dead weight back to the Northside Halls, and the no-doubt moody and grumpy you that’ll show up the next morning, dragged down by a killer hangover, and even the insults you’ll no doubt hurl his way when you accuse him of enabling you for his own entertainment.

But if you throw up on him, he’ll lose his mind.

You reach a dramatic end, thrusting your fist into the air and people follow suit, just as drunk, if not more so, and easily influenced. They clap, roaring and whooping. The music comes back on and the dancing returns, invigorated by the shift in energy.

Clambering down, feeling satisfied, you’re being shaken by the overly supportive drunk friends you’ve made within the span of the five minutes until Sukuna found you. They slap you on the back, congratulating you and saying other things that aren’t really registering in your mind.

Escaping to a quieter part of the Quad, you skip along, to nowhere in particular, and fall face first into a hard wall. It hurts and you clutch your forehead, cheeks puffed out as you furrow your brows.

Glancing up, you’re met with a stormy gaze, it’s smouldering something unyielding and threatening. But, as you squint through the haze of insobriety, you see the gentle tracing of his eyes over your frame, and then as if he saw what he wanted to see, it hardened to something much more akin to a feasting.

You’re drunker than you feel.

“You left,” his tone is calm but there’s an undercurrent of heat there. It’s accusing and scathing, and it teases at your spine.

With a shrug, you reply, “You were boring me.”

You’re a little sweaty, the running away and the standing beneath so many lights had you feeling like you’ve just done a triathlon. And when he swipes a hair off your forehead, you can only splutter in complaint when he smears your own sweat onto your cheek.

“It’s bedtime, prezzy, come on.”

His voice is uncharacteristically soft, a quiet whisper against your head as he clutches you to his chest just as your knees cave in. Your vision is spotty, and your lips are dry.

In a blur, you find yourself in your bed.

When did you get here?

How did you get here?

You’re too tired to tell, eyes drifting close.

Your desk lamp is on, lighting your room enough for you to see the silhouette of a man running his hand along your table, eyeing the piles of papers scattered there. He flips a page over, studying your handwriting and the sticky notes with random faces, some frowning and some with Xs for eyes.

“S’kuna?”

His stare snaps towards yours and it steals your breath away.

“Go back to sleep,” his voice is soft. And even whilst weighed down by the alcohol, you’re aware of how tiny your room is with him in here. It feels wrong to have Sukuna pacing the length, studying the pictures on the wall and the neatly piled laundry waiting to be put away.

You have no idea what he’s thinking, and it scares you. Groggy and still not fully conscious, you croak, “Did you bring me back?”

“No, we teleported,” he fires back, without missing a beat. “Yeah, I brought you back. I didn’t touch you or anything, so just relax.”

“I didn’t think you did,” you admit, the sentence muffled by your comforter.

Sukuna leans against a wall by your door, calculating if everything’s as it should be, and you finally notice he’s just in his white shirt, no jacket in sight.

“Wait,” he cocks his head in question, “it’s cold out. Wear your jacket.”

He laughs, it’s low, just a couple huffs really, but it’s a laugh, nonetheless. It feels like one of those rare victories. “Nah, keep the jacket. You like damn thing more than I do.”

“No. Wear the jacket,” you point to the chair it’s draped over; your arm is heavy and you’re drifting off again.

He narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t see that, breath evening out. “Always so stubborn,” he says this more to himself, walking over to your chair and snatching it with more force than necessary. “I’ll take it, on loan.”

You don’t reply.

But when he stands over you, knuckles brushing a stray hair off your cheek again, you hear him from behind the haze of sleep and exhaustion say, “You always get what you want, don’t you, prez?”

And then he’s leaving, shutting the door much quieter than you ever have. You swear as you take one last inhale, you can still smell his fresh soap and feel the scalding burn of his touch.

Both of you know you’ll barely remember any of this, if anything at all. Despite that, you find yourself hoping that you, at least, remember the feeling of being free and unburdened, even just for one night. You also hope he’ll remember what life could be like if you two got along, so perhaps he’ll ease off a little.

Just as you enter a dream state, you sluggishly respond to something that seems so far away now, the words escaping you like one last exhale before you’re dead to the world.

“I never do.”

#jjk x reader #jjk sukuna ryomen #jjk fluff #jjk crack #jjk angst #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst

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onsomenewsht · 2 months ago

Text

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack. A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head.

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it.

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex.

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit.

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away.

Ricardo means well, you know that.

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle.

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper.

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals.

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating.

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo.

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations.

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type.

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another.

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others.

Maybe you do have a type.

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity.

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far.

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets.

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise.

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan.

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics.

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view.

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things.

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud.

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it.

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club.

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike.

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers.

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth.

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow.

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way.

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying.

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on.

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves.

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them.

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you.

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed.

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces.

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline.

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film.

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason.

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct.

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal.

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo.

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you.

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation.

That's not the point right now.

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries.

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this.

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover.

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen.

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you.

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief.

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling.

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now.

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite.

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands.

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to.

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat.

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you.

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it.

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do.

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed.

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack.

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over.

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means.

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight.

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!”

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face.

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance.

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink.

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears.

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now.

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot.

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses.

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you.

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing.

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous.

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance.

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment.

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together.

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced.

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul.

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of.

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure.

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love.

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again.

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you.

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads.

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries.

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever.

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee.

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it.

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you.

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow.

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear.

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future.

Together.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso community #ap11 #woso world #my wo(rd)so

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luvt0kki · 1 year ago

Text

training wheels | k.h.j

pairing : Professor!Hongjoong x innocent!reader ft!Wooyoung

♡₊˚( wrote this listening to ‘training wheels’ by Melanie Martinez)

summary: Too innocent for your own good, your professor's little hidden crush only grows the more he could spend time with you. You were so pure before his eyes. A sweet young woman who deserves the sweetest kind of love but still had trouble in paradise with her boyfriend…but he’ll be there for you. After all, he only wants what’s best for you and to protect you.

wc: 10.7k

cw: University AU, smut, coquette-ish fem!innocent reader, virgin reader, slightly older Hongjoong, manipulation, obsessive stalker-ish behavior, yandere behavior, corruption kink, cheating , frat boy behavior from Maknae line, oral!male receiving, there'll be more spice in the next part

REMINDER : my works do not represent the irl members in any way, this is purely a work of FICTION.

a/n: hello so it’s been awhile and this has been cooling in my drafts for so long. Special thanks to @songmingisthighs for helping me whenever I’m stuck with writing and for being one of my favourite persons on this app 😭i wanted to write something that isn’t apart of the Sway With Me universe just for a change and a breather ( I hope you guys don’t mind that). I just wanted to write.

- this is will be a two part series!

READ CONTENT WARNING BEFORE READING!

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE, OR OTHERWISE REPURPOSE ANY OF MY WORK HERE. I DO NOT NOR WILL ALLOW IT.

Note: Hongjoong is a couple years older but he’s still young for a professor. Maknae Line is in their last year of Uni and is part of the University’s Varsity baseball team.Y /N is innocent ( smh). Kinda coquettish vibes but yuh, sweet girl.

The rain storming outside made anxiety bubble in your chest as you clutched your laptop bag and books tight. You glanced at your phone, the bright red bar of the little battery icon glaring at you. That just made your situation even worse and it didn’t help that the last message you saw was the reason you were stranded here in the first place.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart. The team meeting is going overtime tonight. Get home safe. Please message me when you’re home.”

You waited for him. You should be angry at him but instead, you were only heartbroken and sad that he didn’t keep his word. You were frustrated that you couldn’t even hate him the slightest bit for forgetting to pick you up and the sudden downpour was just the cherry on top.

“Ms. L/N, is that you?”

That voice. That familiar tone that you heard every Monday and Wednesday from 8 am til 10 am. The voice that made your Art Appreciation lecture so interesting that you’re excited to come early every morning to learn sounded from behind you.

You turned around and quickly bowed your head in his direction out of respect.

“Mr.Kim.”

The young professor frowned at your presence.

“It is you. What are you still doing here?” He asked, extending his arm a bit to glance at his silver watch. “It’s almost 11 pm.”

“I-It started raining…” was all you could say. You couldn’t nor want to admit to your university professor the real reason why you were stranded on campus.

“Indeed…,” he gently grasped your arm and pulled you into the covered shade of the hall. “Do you need a ride home, Ms. L/N? I was just about to leave and go home but I can drop you off at the nearest bus stop or if you’d like, your home.”

His offer made your heart melt. Mr. Kim Hongjoong has always been so kind and sweet to his students. He has always shown such care and patience to their studies and well-being, and as the many girls in your classroom would whisper amongst each other, he was also very handsome. Which was a fact everyone in the whole campus knew.

“I don’t want to be of a hassle to you, Sir. I can wait for the rain to stop.” You tried to kindly turn down his offer, not wanting to bother him but also you felt it was inappropriate for a student to be in any proximity to a professor alone.

“Ms. L/N, it’s late and the rain doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon. I assure you it is not a bother to take you home. I’ll be worried if I just left you here.”

He was right. Both about the rain and the time, and you’re never out this late. Well at least not alone and it made you antsy. Mr. Kim looked at you with so much care in dark brown eyes that it felt impossible to say no to his kind offer.

“O-okay.”

And that’s how you found yourself in the passenger seat of your professor's fancy car.

You looked around subtly observing the luxurious interior of the vehicle. It smelled like new leather and Mr. Kim’s cologne. Your phone buzzed breaking your little observation as Mr. Kim typed in the location of your apartment into his phone GPS.

“Baby? Are you home? Please let me know.” The text message notification shone brightly.

You let out a little sigh.

Hongjoong couldn’t help but notice your rather wilted demeanor. He looked over you in the corner of his eye as he started the car. Little did you know, he was admiring your look today. You didn’t have class with him on Fridays so seeing today was rather…refreshing. Baby pink always looked so pretty on you, he thought to himself. Your blouse almost had a ballet-like aesthetic to it, it wrapped around your torso so elegantly and gently accentuated your curves. It was matched with a very pretty flowy white skirt that wasn’t too short nor too long, and there was a thin pink ribbon in your hair, the finishing touch to your very sweet ensemble. You always dressed so cute.

“Are you okay, Ms. L/N?” He asked his voice so calm and gentle that it calmed your silent frustration.

“Not really…” you muttered your gaze down at the hem of your skirt, your books, and your laptop sleeve on your lap.

The defeated expression you wore made the older man’s heartache for you. He didn’t like to see you like this. You were like a ray of gentle sunshine whenever you entered his classroom, a doe in a beautiful blooming field of flowers that radiated warmth that made anyone and everyone around you comfortable and calm. It was odd to see you like this.

“If you want to talk about it I’m all ears,” he offered with a smile, reaching behind the head of your passenger seat and glancing behind as he reversed up his car from the parking lot.

Your heart raced at the gesture. You didn’t know what about it was making you feel all flustered and small. His kind words and warm tone made it hard to keep your emotions in. Maybe you can just tell him…a little bit.

“I waited for my boyfriend to pick me up…but he didn’t come.” You murmured, heart aching as you said those words.

Hongjoong’s heart dropped, and he raised a brow at what you just said. Your boyfriend didn’t show up?

“I know I shouldn’t be so upset…it’s just he promised. I understand he has obligations to his team…I just feel like he forgot about me.”

Your sweet voice was so small. Hongjoong wanted nothing more than to soothe you and reassure you. Underneath all of that, he was bubbling with irritation. He kept a softened and caring expression on his face as he listened to you, gripping the stirring wheel to hide his annoyance.

“I-I’m sorry to hear that,” he said so sympathetically. “You’re such a sweet girl to be so understanding of your boyfriend. If I remember correctly your boyfriend is…”

“Wooyoung.” You whispered his name, your lips between your teeth as you tried to hold back your disappointed tears and hurt.

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened.

Right.

Jung Wooyoung.

“Ah…yes. The university’s baseball star.” He was also a student in one of his classes. A heartthrob along with his best friend and Baseball Vice Captain, Choi San.

“I’ll feel better when I get home and sleep it off.” You didn’t want to talk about him forgetting to pick you up any longer.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Ms. L/N, how long have you been together?” He asked, hoping his question was not so out of the blue as he continued to drive.

“Almost three months now, Mr. Kim.” You replied, the idea of being with Wooyoung for so long making you a little happy despite tonight’s disappointment.

Lucky bastard. “Oh, that’s very recent.”

“I know…but he’s very sweet to me. He takes care of me and he really makes me happy.” You listed the good things that always made your heart flutter. Your sweet loving boyfriend who had pursued you and never pushed for anything you weren’t ready for. If you were to describe your relationship with Wooyoung, it was like the love you see in the movies.

“That’s good to hear. You’re one of my sweetest students and I’d be worried if you weren’t happy,” Hongjoong smiled, earning the reaction he wanted and expected from someone as innocent as you.

Your pretty eyes widened at his words and you looked even shyer. He wondered if that’s why your boyfriend was attracted to you.

You didn’t know what to say but there was a small smile on your face when he called you one of his sweetest students.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir.

Hongjoong’s night was getting better than he could ever imagine. First, the surprise of seeing you still on campus alone as he left, then you accepting his offer to drive you home, and now, Sir? For a long time, he loved how that name slipped from your pretty glossed lips.

“I’m sure your boyfriend feels really guilty about not having shown up. Sometimes these things happen.” Hongjoong tried to reassure you, not really wanting to defend the University senior you were seeing but he needed to say what you wanted or needed to hear.

You take his words as it is. He was older than you so he knew about these things more than you. He was wiser. He was right, these things do happen. Wooyoung did apologize too. So maybe it’s not as bad as you were making it out to be.

Hongjoong noticed how you sat up a little, no longer sulking so cutely in the passenger seat. He smirked a little to himself, his eyes on the road. Did you trust his words that much? Was that how much power he had over you?

You were too innocent it concerned him.

You were truly a doe in a field of flowers. So pretty and so completely oblivious to the wolves hiding in the tall grass. He was sure your boyfriend was one of them and that he too had a deep dark desire for your innocence.

“Is this your place?” He pulled up outside an apartment complex, people passing by in the street as he looked up at the building observing it.

“Yes, it is!” You chirped, happy that you were able to get home safely and it was all thanks to your kind and sweet professor. “Thank you so much, Mr. Kim. I really appreciate it. I really cannot thank you enough…and talking to you made me feel better. I’m really lucky that you were here tonight.”

Hongjoong smiled, holding back from reaching over to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. He didn’t want to scare you away.

“If you ever find yourself in any kind of trouble, Ms. L/N, you can come to me okay? Here,” he reached into his pocket, getting his card but writing down his personal phone number in the back of it before holding it your way.

Like he expected you didn’t think much of it, what a sweet girl.

“Mr. Kim you’re so kind.” You took the pretty name card with his phone number in the back. “I don’t get into trouble but I appreciate this. Thank you.”

“Let me help you get inside, okay?” He got out of his car with an umbrella, going over to your side to open the passenger seat door and to hold the umbrella over you and him so that he could escort you to your apartment lobby.

You stepped out of the car and blushed when you felt his arm wrap around your shoulders to gently guide you to the sidewalk and your apartment lobby. He made sure you were dry and safe and also took note of how an access card is needed to get in. He was glad you lived somewhere so safe.

You thanked him again, unable to look him in the eyes because the warm smile on his face was making your heart flutter.

“Now I can go home without worrying if you got back safe,” he lightheartedly teased, making you giggle. He was such a kind person. “Take care of yourself, Ms. L/N. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Enjoy your weekend, Sir.” You bowed your head respectfully, appreciating how handsome he was in his coat and suit. It made him look like a character from the dramas you see on television.

Monday rolled around quicker than you thought while Hongjoong found the weekend went by agonizingly slow. As he set up his laptop in the lecture hall as other students filed in, he couldn’t help but anticipate your arrival. He kindly smiled and greeted the students who had the energy to wish him a good morning, he even kept glancing at your seat that was still empty.

Were you not well? Did you catch a cold over the weekend from the rain on Friday night?

“You really didn’t have to walk me, Woo.”

Your gentle soft voice made the professor perk up and his heart race a little. Subtly, he glanced at the door, more students entering but behind them in the hall was you.

“Hey, I still feel guilty about not having picked you up on Friday. I’m gonna make it up to you.” Wooyoung placed his hand on your waist, feeling the soft fabric of your skirt. “You’re too nice if you’re just gonna let me off the hook. I’m gonna be extra attentive, okay baby?”

Hongjoong narrowed his eyes at the young dark-haired boy, his varsity jacket telling everyone that passed who he was and the status he had in the university. He zeroed in on the hand on your waist, Wooyoung’s thumb caressing you gently and his fingers even playing with the cute ribbons on your skirt.

“O-okay,” you blushed, trying to fight back the giddy smile that was forming on your face.

Wooyoung grinned at your response and glanced left and right before pulling you closer til you were pressed against him. Your wide eyes looked up at him in surprise and you got your body tingling when both his hands rested on your waist.

Your fluster only made your handsome boyfriend grin even more with that twinkle in his eyes that always made you feel special.

“You have a nice day, okay?” He whispered and before you could respond, without a care in the world and with no shame if any other student passing would see, he leaned down and kissed your glossed lips.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. This was different from the soft pecks and quick kisses he’d give, these were the kisses you liked from him. The deep ones that made your head feel all hazy. The one that made heat pool in your lower belly.

Wooyoung pulled back and pressed another kiss on your forehead. “I’ll see you for lunch.”

“O-okay.” You murmured, feeling everyone’s curious eyes on both of you and wanting to remain hidden by Wooyoung’s form.

Wooyoung smiled and then licked his lips. “Oh? Strawberry?”

The mention of your flavored lip gloss made you look up at him, a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

“You’re gonna have me craving you all morning, baby.” He dramatically placed a hand over his chest. “How will I ever survive? One more.” He tried to go for another kiss and you squealed as he pulled you back.

“Woo, I have class!”

“But strawberry!” He pouted as he kept you in his embrace, some students rolling their eyes at the two of you and some finding the two of you cute and amusing. Wooyoung’s teammates from down the hall caught wind of the two of you and hooted.

“Sorry to interrupt but I’ll be starting my lecture soon.”

The voice of Mr. Kim made your eyes widen as embarrassment made you want to hide from his gaze.

“Oh, Mr. Kim,” Wooyoung spoke his professor's name with no shame of getting caught being affectionate with his girlfriend. “Morning!”

Hongjoong could only manage a nod to his greeting before turning to you, still in your boyfriend’s hold and unable to look him in the eyes.

“Ms. L/N, class starts in five minutes.” He spoke sternly, his tone making your lips form a small pout.

The way you reacted to him made the older man before you swoon. God, you were too cute.

“Yes, sir.”

There it was again. The way you said ‘sir’ all defeated and cute.

“Sorry, Mr. Kim.” Wooyoung apologized. “My bad.” He removed his varsity jacket and draped it over your shoulders before kissing your cheek. “I’ll see you at lunch, baby.”

Then Wooyoung sauntered away with a swing in his step and his bag over one shoulder, on his way to his respective class.

“Sorry, Mr. Kim.” You murmured, keeping your gaze down and hugging your books to your chest as you went inside the room along with the last few students who arrived.

Hongjoong watched as you made your way to your seat. Your pretty skirt swayed with each step and he wondered if skirts made up most of your wardrobe. It must be such a delight for your boyfriend.

Loosening the grip he had on his pen as he watched the whole interaction between you and Wooyoung, he smiled at his students. What mattered the most to him was you were safe. You were here and you were safe and well. Never mind the fact that you and your boyfriend easily made up from Friday night’s incident.

You were here.

The lecture was an enjoyable one not only for the students but him as well. As he discussed the significance of art during the Roman Empire, his students were all hooked in with his explanations and discussions, and even he got carried away excitedly with every question and topic.

“Mr. Kim is so hot.” A classmate beside you, Jennie, whispered to her friend, the two of them giggling as your professor shared his knowledge with the class.

“And he’s so nice too. You think he’s a virgin?” Minsol whispered back and you felt your heart grow hot listening to them.

You fidgeted in your seat and tried to block them out, focusing on Professor Kim.

“He’s so young to be a professor. Maybe he spent all that time studying to the max, you know! Maybe he is!”

“He’s so cute.” Minsol chuckled. “But then he’s so sexy when he pushes his hair back.”

And almost as if on cue, Mr. Kim ran his fingers through his dark brown locks, pushing them back as he smiled at his students in awe at the discussion.

He was handsome. You admitted that a long time ago. Attractive? Yes. But he was your professor. It was wrong to think of him the way Jennie and Minsol were.

Til now, their voices couldn’t be blocked out completely.

“I’d gladly blow him for a good grade,” Jennie whispered, her eyes looking Hongjoong up and down.

“Jennie!” Minsol playfully smacked her friend, her voice still hushed.

“What? Just think of it. Goody two shoes Mr.Kim so kind and worried that your grades are slipping, and then you tell him you’d do anything to raise your grade.” Jennie described the scenario so vividly. “No one needs to know what goes on behind closed doors.”

Your heart was racing in your chest as you listened to the fantasy. It didn’t help that Mr. Kim was right there before your eyes as Jennie’s voice whispered discreetly to her friend such a scandalous scenario.

“But it won’t stop there.”

That piqued your interest and you felt ashamed to have been so curious.

“He has a nice car too. Imagine fucking in the backseat of that luxury car way past campus hours in secret.”

Your heart thumped strongly at the mention of his car. You had been in his car and the dirty thought of Mr. Kim being all over your body and kissing you in the spacious backseat crossed your mind.

You couldn’t help but rub your thighs together.

Hongjoong’s eyes scanned all his students, happy that they were enjoying the class but paused when he saw you. Your body was swallowed by your boyfriend’s big varsity jacket and you looked flustered, even biting your glossed lips, fidgeting in your seat.

Then he saw the two girls next to you giggling and gossiping. What were they talking about that was making you blush so much? Briefly, your eyes moved from your notebook and locked with his but you immediately looked down when you saw that he had been looking your way.

Hongjoong could only assume they were talking about him. In what way? He wasn’t sure but it was a way that was making you look even shyer and could he dare say, hot and bothered?

Then the bell rang.

“Alright, we’ll continue the discussion on Wednesday and I’ll hand you all your Renaissance art period essays that I already graded then. Have a nice day.” Hongjoong’s elegant and calm voice echoed in the lecture hall, as he made his way behind his desk, sitting out the papers.

A chorus of thanks was sent his way as the students little by little exited the lecture hall. He looked your way, watching as you packed your things and gathered your books.

“Hey, Y/N!” Jennie turned to you. “How are you and your stud of a boyfriend?”

“Oh, m-me and Woo?” Your lashes fluttered so prettily as Hongjoong pretended he couldn’t hear you and the girls.

“Yeah! We saw you two being all cute and kissy out in the hall.” Minsol chuckled as she touched up her makeup with powder.

“We’re great.” You couldn’t stop the happy smile on your face as you thought of your boyfriend.

“He’s your first boyfriend, right? Have you two…you know….”

Your brows furrowed. “Have we what?”

Hongjoong fought his sigh at how oblivious you were.

Minsol’s eyes widened as she snapped her compact closed and leaned over. “You guys haven’t?”

“What are you two talking about?” You tilted your head like a puppy.

The two girls exchanged looks of shock.

“Y/N…” Jennie leaned closer, lowering her voice even further but Hongjoong’s ears were sharp. “Are you a virgin?”

Immediately, your face was burning as you hugged your books to your chest, wanting to cover your face with Wooyoung’s jacket.

“Holy shit!” Minsol exclaimed then realized she had been loud. She looked towards the whiteboard and saw Mr. Kim looking at the three of you questioningly. “Uh…sorry Mr. Kim!”

Hongjoong only smiled and he shook his head, returning to his papers and was glad that he was sitting behind his desk as the idea of you never being touched morphed from shock and into desire. He kind of guessed you were…but dating the star athlete and heartthrob of the campus made him second guess that you were.

“Girl, you need to come with us!” Jennie hooked her arm with yours and Minsol on the other as the two of you made your way out of the lecture hall.

“Bye, Mr. Kim!” They chimed as they dragged you out with them.

“B-bye, sir.” Your little voice reached his ears as the three of you finally left him alone in the empty hall.

Hongjoong hunched over, crossing his arms on his desk as he groaned.

You were driving him insane.

What’s worse was that you didn’t even intend to do so.

He wanted you.

He needed you.

As the afternoon passed, Hongjoong made his way to his office. The hall was empty as students were in their classes or their club activities. It was peaceful til he heard hushed whispers ahead from an empty classroom, the door only slightly ajar.

The professor frowned. Were there students doing another weed deal on campus? Before concluding, through the very small gap of the wooden double doors, he took a peek.

“S-someone could walk in.”

Was that his sweet Y/N’s voice? Hongjoong’s heart began to race.

“Baby, I promise no one is. This room is always vacant at this hour.” Wooyoung reassured you, kissing your neck as his hands roamed your body, specifically caressing your thighs that were parted as he stood between them.

Hongjoong swallowed the lump in his throat.

Perched on the large mahogany desk, was you. Your skirt was hiked up higher as your boyfriend pressed against you, his paws all over your soft body, feeling you through your clothes.

“You look so sexy in my jacket,” Wooyoung whispered in your ear, his hand moving lower til they were under your skirt. “I couldn’t stop thinking of how good you looked during lunch.”

You softly yelped when his fingers pressed against your core through your cotton panties. “W-woo!”

“Awe, baby, are you getting wet? All for me?”

“W-woo,” you whimpered when he traced his fingers along your slit, embarrassed at the dirty talk.

“Fuck, you’re soaking through your panties, baby. Tell me you want me to touch you. Ask me and I’ll make you feel good, baby.”

You wanted him to keep touching you but you felt a little guilty. You had started to feel hot way earlier than your boyfriend knew. Jennie and Minsol’s hushed whispering from class about Mr. Kim…ashamedly had made you ache.

“M-make me feel good, Woo.”

Your boyfriend groaned against your neck, rubbing you through your panties. “My pretty baby. You deserve so much.”

Your back arched when he applied more pressure to your clit.

“I’ll make you feel good, baby. I promise…. but I won’t make your first time here in a classroom.” He kissed your neck messily, licking your skin.

“But Youngie…” you didn’t want him to stop touching you. He has touched you like this many times before when he came over but it never went past that. He didn’t want to force you into something you weren’t ready for but as time passed and the more you fell for him, you’ve been wanting to go all the way with him.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you cum. I’ll be a good boyfriend and let my pretty girlfriend cum.” He kissed your forehead, slipping his hand under your panties to truly feel you. “You’re so wet, baby.” He moaned, collecting your slick and spreading it all over your pussy.

“Youngie,” you whimpered, gripping his shirt as your thighs trembled at the delicious friction.

“I love it when you call me that,” he sighed, repressing the urge that he indeed in fact wanted to ruin his pretty untouched girlfriend. He loved you and he wanted to treat you right as best as he could. You weren’t like the other girls he’s been with. He liked how you looked at him with stars in your eyes.

Your thighs squeezed at his sides unable to close as he continued to play with your pussy, touching you heavily and the way you liked. You couldn’t help but softly moan and pant at the intoxicating pleasure.

Hongjoong was burning with jealousy. A part of him wanted to disrupt the two of you and scold the two of you for misconduct as he had every right as a professor to do so. But…you looked so pretty falling apart for your boyfriend. Brows furrowed as your lips part and sigh, the setting sun hitting your skin in such a way that the lewd imagery before him was like a movie. He could feel his desire straining in his trousers. He wanted to watch.

“Youngie,” you whimpered so prettily.

Hongjoong took note of how your back arched when Wooyoung nibbled and kissed at a spot on your neck. You must be extra sensitive there. He also imagined how soft your breasts would be if he was the one cupping them through your cute blouse.

“You close baby?” Wooyoung rasped against your ear, rubbing your clit faster, making you lean your head forward to rest on his chest.

“Nuh-uh,” Wooyoung clicked his tongue, his right hand leaving your breast to grab you by the chin, making you look at him. “Let me see your pretty face, baby.” He swiped his thumb over your lower lip and bit his lip when you suddenly took his digit into your mouth, softly sucking on it. Where the fuck did you learn to do that? “C’mon, baby. Cum. Cum for me.”

You released his thumb with a soft pop, your lips even glossier from your gloss and saliva. You were panting and moaning so cutely, Wooyoung felt he was going to cum in his pants just at the sight of you getting off his fingers. He massaged your clit faster, watching the way your lids began to droop as you blinked up at him hazily and your lips part in a cute little ‘o’.

“Youngie!” You cried out, back arching and thighs trembling as you reached your high, your pussy dripping more arousal all over your boyfriend’s fingers.

“That’s it, baby. Such a pretty baby.” Wooyoung cooed, enjoying your fucked out expression. It was addicting really. His sweet innocent girlfriend falling apart for him. If you were this fucked out by just fingers, he can’t imagine how fucking delectable you looked when he finally fucked you.

Hongjoong bit his lip as he watched you come down from your high. How your arms wrapped around your boyfriend as he slowed his circles on your clit. He wished he could see how your pussy looked, how wet it was, and how sweet the nectar it produced.

Wooyoung took his hand from your panties and brought his fingers to his lips, your eyes widening. His hand left its grip on your face.

“W-woo!”

That didn’t stop him from letting his tongue dart out to lick his digits. “You taste so sweet, baby. Maybe I’ll come up tonight once I drop you off and really have a good taste of you.”

You blushed at his words and felt heat spark in your lower belly at what he hinted. Did he mean that he was going to kiss and taste you down there? With his tongue? The idea made your cheeks grow hot but that only made your boyfriend grin.

“Oh? You’re not opposed to it?” He teased, enjoying the way you only huffed and pouted your pretty lips. “Here, baby. Taste yourself.”

Hongjoong watched as you wearily, so curiously, poked out your cute tongue to lick your boyfriend’s fingers. How did you taste? Did you like it? You batted your lashes up at your boyfriend who awaited your verdict.

“So? How do you taste?” He took your hand in his other one, just relishing the moment you two had in the orange sunset-lit classroom.

“G-good.”

“Atta, girl.” Wooyoung grinned, taking you into his embrace and kissing you again.

Hongjoong felt his head pound from how hard he was in his pants. He wanted a taste. He needed a taste.

How was he going to get close to you when you and your boyfriend were all fine and dandy again?

“What do you say, baby? Friday night? I’ll come over and we’ll watch a movie. I’ll bring your favorite strawberries coated in chocolate. Then maybe…” he caressed your cheek. “We could go all the way?”

“W-won’t it hurt?”

Wooyoung and Hongjoong’s hearts ached at your sweetness.

“Well, when Friday rolls around, and you’re not up for it. It’s okay. We’ll just have a cozy little date and make out. I’ll wait for you when you’re ready. Okay?”

His gentle voice along with his care for you made your stomach flutter. “O-okay.” You leaned your cheek into his palm. “I love you, Woo.”

“I love you too, baby.”

While you and Wooyoung basked in the moment you two found yourselves in, Hongjoong made a beeline to his office and locked the door. He glanced down and saw the bulge of his cock poking through his tailored trousers. He threw his head back, slamming it against the door as he groaned.

He was going to have to take care of it himself cause it wasn’t going to go away til he did.

He didn’t know when the stalking— okay, in his defense, following and keeping an eye on you, started.

All Hongjoong knew was, he needed to get to know you. He needed to get closer somehow, be a friend. Someone you could turn to and cry to. Plus, you lived alone, away from your parents. You needed someone to protect you.

From all the wolves that surrounded you, including that boyfriend of yours.

As he passed the baseball field from where he parked his car, he couldn’t help but overhear a group of young wolf pups gathered and talking beneath the morning sun. They all wore the same varsity jacket, making Hongjoong’s pack of wolves analogy even truer.

“So? Did you and Y/N go all the way yet?” The Vice Captain of the team asked, the young and handsome Mr. Choi.

The rest of the boys began to nudge and tease their Captain who had been tossing the baseball in his hand nonchalantly.

“Yeah, have you and little Miss all prim and proper done more than just second base?” The tallest of them, Song Mingi, joined in the teasing, the boys all grinning and tossing oo’s and ah’s. “Your girl has a nice ass.”

“Hey,” Wooyoung harshly hissed at his teammate. “Yeah, and that’s my girl you’re talking about.”

“Can’t blame Mingi. You’re with the campus’s dream girl.” Jongho added, running his fingers through his brown hair.

“Dream girl?” Wooyoung’s brows furrowed.

“Yeah! Sure she’s lowkey and literally the nicest person on campus. Hell, she even helped me with calculus. I even thought of asking her out on a date.” San chirped. “But you got to her first. Anyway, that’s beside the point, did you guys finally do it? Friday night?”

Hongjoong remained hidden behind the shadows of the bleachers, needing to know the answer to San’s question.

“We didn’t. She got nervous and you know, I have to be a good boyfriend and wait. I don’t want to pressure her. She’s a nice girl.” Wooyoung finally responded, his answer earning a groan from his friends.

Mingi stared at him for a moment. “You should be a saint. That amount of self-control is crazy.”

“Well, good things come to those who wait, Mingi.” Wooyoung grinned. “I’m a hundred percent sure my girl is worth the wait and more.”

“You’re really down bad for her, huh?” Jongho laughed softly, actually admiring the fact that Wooyoung was becoming a better guy with you.

“Y-yeah…she is. I really love her.”

“I just can’t believe she fell for you. After all the girls you slept with in the past and the parties. She still fell for Jung Wooyoung. Anyways,” Jongho clapped Wooyoung on the back. “I hope you get some soon.”

San wouldn’t relent though.

“Has she at least been…you know….giving? I know you worship the fuck out of her in different ways but has the pretty princess given back?”

Hongjoong should head back to his office before he’s caught but…he needed to know the details.

“San, she doesn’t know how.”

Wooyoung’s response made San groan and Hongjoong fought back his own.

“She’s a fucking angel your girlfriend.” San huffed his crush on you not concerning Wooyoung as he knew San would never cross the line.

“Dude, when you get to teach her, it’s gonna be so fucking hot.” Mingi sighed, thinking of who to contact for his next hookup. He needed to fuck.

Hongjoong couldn’t help but agree. To teach someone as beautiful and pretty as you, how to use your cute mouth and delicate hands…the fantasy of you between his legs while he sits on his office couch…guiding you while you look up at him for him to lead you…the young pups have a point.

“Okay, can you guys chill and not talk about my girlfriend like that?” Wooyoung lightly scolded his friends. “Anyways, you guys better be on your best behavior for tonight’s practice. I'm driving Y/N home for our date and I really don’t want to have to bail again because Coach isn’t happy with our performance.”

“We’ll do our best,” San spoke for them, sending a pointed glare to Mingi and Jongho, they’re bickering always getting their Coach to overtime their practices. “But coach hasn’t been in a good mood as far as I know.”

Wooyoung swore under his breath, worry bubbling in his chest when he imagined your disappointment and the way your eyes become glassy as you fight back tears. He really didn’t want to make you feel like he didn’t care about you again…he knew you understood his obligations to his team. He just hoped he wouldn’t forget to update you this time and keep you waiting for him.

Hongjoong didn’t stay long after that. He went off his merry way back to his office, wondering if tonight would be another chance to have some time with you again. Be your knight in shining armor if your boyfriend doesn’t pick you up again.

All he needed to do was stay in your good graces.

After all, he just wanted to take care of you…

It began with longer conversations after class, asking how you were doing and if you understood the lecture or not. Then when midterms started to round the corner he would casually stay past campus hours just so that he could ‘by chance’ be finishing up late at the same time you were finished up studying in the library.

But this time, when he found you, the sun was beginning to set and you were in one of the library aisles, in the sections students don’t frequent, on the floor hugging your knees to your chest. Your back was against the tall wooden bookshelf and you were by the window, your head below the window pane as you softly sniffled.

Hongjoong felt his stomach twist. What did your boyfriend do?

“Ms. L/N?” As softly as he could, he called out to you and he saw you visibly stiffen.

“M-Mr. Kim?” You kept your head down, too embarrassed to look up at him because he would see the tears and puffiness in your eyes.

“Are you okay, Ms. L/N?” He slowly approached, observing your body language if you would shrink away from him. He kneeled before you. “Did something happen? Why are you crying?”

You bit your lip, fighting back the way it quivered as you wanted to tell him exactly what happened but you were crying over something so silly.

A gentle warm hand softly patted your head, your heart stopping at the touch. Maybe you could tell him everything. Besides…he has been so kind to you and only ever wanted to make sure you were okay. When the two of you spent time together and talked, you would sometimes forget he was your professor and not just a friend.

And yet, your heart couldn’t help but want to be in the palm of his hand, knowing he’d be gentle with it.

When you lifted your head to look at him, the tears in your eyes had Hongjoong almost falling to his knees and wanting to embrace you right then and there. “I’ll take you to my office okay?” He offered, taking out his handkerchief and putting it in your trembling hands.

“O-okay.” You murmured.

With a guiding arm around your shoulders and making sure no wandering eyes would see the two of you, the likelihood being low since it was past class hours, the varsity teams were training and it was a Friday, he led you to his office.

You stood awkwardly in the middle of his office, clutching his handkerchief in your hand, a part of your brain contemplating the idea of being vulnerable in your professor's office. It was highly inappropriate. Should anyone find out—

You were torn from your thoughts when a pair of warm arms wrapped around you so gently. You blinked a couple of times unable to process what was happening and the beating of your heart. Hongjoong cradled the back of your head as he held you close to him, your cheek brushing against his neck.

“It hurts to see you cry.” He whispered, unable to hold himself back from soothing you then he pulled away and led you to the leather couch in his office.

You sat on one end while he was on the other, the gap between you reminding you of the intrusive thought of the distance you and Wooyoung might have soon…

“What’s wrong, darling? You can tell me, you know. I’m always here to lend an ear. Whatever it is I won’t judge you, especially when it hurts you this deeply.”

Hongjoong tried to meet your eyes that were cast down on your fingers on your lap, fiddling with his handkerchief. Was it your boyfriend? He swore if it was Jung Wooyoung he was going to teach that boy a lesson.

Hesitantly, you allowed yourself to speak freely to him.

A moment of weakness?

“I-I overheard Youngie’s friends when I was in the library…they were about to leave for practice and…” you felt that lump in your throat creep up higher, making you want to sob again as you remembered what they said. “They said that they felt b-bad for him.”

Bad for him?

“It’s a bit…tmi…sir. I’m sorry it’s hard to speak about it.” You stared at the edge of your skirt, feeling the shame and embarrassment you had felt earlier crawling on your skin.

“Ah? TMI.” Hongjoong crossed his arms over his chest, trying to play it off as if it’s nothing to make it comfortable for you to tell him. “Well, Ms. L/N, we are two adults, aren’t we not? Plus, it’s after university hours. I’m here for you right now as a friend and I’d like to help soothe your troubles if you would let me.”

It was almost too easy the way you caved into his words. Jung Wooyoung did not deserve a sweet girl like you.

“Youngie’s teammates…said they feel bad for him because I haven’t…” you paused, heat blooming in your tear-stained cheeks. “I haven’t slept with him.” Then you felt that ache in your heart return. “I don’t want to lose him, Mr. Kim. I love him so much. I-I want to be a good girlfriend.”

Hongjoong’s heart broke. His beautiful wilted rose. How dare those dumb boys speak so ill of you?

“You’re a good girlfriend I’m sure, Ms. L/N.” He reassured you with such calmness, his words made you perk up a little. “You didn’t hear these words from Wooyoung himself right?”

You nodded.

“But even though…I still want to make him feel good. He always makes me feel…” you trailed off, realizing that you were talking about the intimate things you and your boyfriend do. “It’s not that I don’t want to be with Wooyoung like that…I just…I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Disappoint him how?”

“Wooyoung has been with girls…with experience. He’s my first boyfriend and he’s the first man to ever touch m-me…kiss me…”

Hongjoong was fighting back the attraction grew the more you spoke about your lack of experience. He couldn’t believe those boys had you questioning your worth all because you were scared to go all the way with your boyfriend.

“I-I even tried watching…videos…on how I can do things for Wooyoung…but I just am too scared to initiate it. What if I do something wrong and it goes horribly?”

“You shouldn’t need to worry about that. I’m sure your…” Hongjoong held himself back from saying what he said with jealousy. “…boyfriend would be more than happy to teach you. Has he offered to?”

You shook your head.

“Ah…I see.” Hongjoong sat back, trying to think of what to say next. “I’m pretty sure what you lack is practice…” he trod carefully, gauging your expression with each word he was choosing. “You’ll never know til you give it a try. With everything in life, you learn as you go.”

He watched as you took each word seriously, a rather sweet pensive look on your face as you nodded at his advice. Hongjoong hoped he didn’t cross the line by saying that and made things awkward between the two of you.

“If I may speak as another human being helping another,” Hongjoong continued, hoping to calm your stormy mind. “I just hope you don’t feel pressured to do anything with your boyfriend or anyone. It’s very sweet of you to want to do something this intimate with someone you desire but I’d rather you won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You fiddled with the hem of your skirt, going over all the caring and sweet affirmations Mr. Kim was giving you. How was it you felt so safe with him? He was too kind to you…yet you enjoyed the company he gave.

When Wooyoung wasn’t able to take you home from extended practices and last minute cancellations and texts, Professor Kim was always there to somehow salvage the day. To stop the breaking of your heart with his warm smile and effort to get to know you and make conversation.

“M-Mr. Kim…”

You finally spoke. Hongjoong smiled warmly at the call of his name. He observed how your cheeks began to flush. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you hesitate to continue. You suck in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to be brave and look him in the eye.

“Could you guide me?”

Nothing but your voice rang in his ears at this moment. Hongjoong was shocked by the question. Was it a question? With the way your eyes were bleary and glossy, how your lips were trembling, and how flustered you appeared. It was a plea.

“Ms.L/N….” He tried to resist as much as he could, knowing that if he were to cross the line, he wouldn’t be able to go back. You were his forbidden desire. If he were to take a bite, he would want nothing more than to consume you.

You knew what you asked was silly and inappropriate, and a part of you regretted asking but if you were to leave this room right now, all you would be able to think about was how Wooyoung’s friends talked about you and wonder how much Wooyoung shared to his friends about yours and his relationship.

Mr.Kim looked speechless and flustered from what you asked of him. Maybe you shouldn’t have asked.

“Mr.Kim, I-I’m so sorry,” you quickly blurted out, trying to salvage the odd atmosphere. “Please forget everything I said. Thank you so much for comforting me—

"Are you sure you want me to help, Ms. L/N?” Hongjoong stopped your rambling, taking your hand that you hadn’t realized was trembling from nerves but the moment he spoke and he touched you, your body found a sense of calm. “I just don’t want to make you do anything you’ll regret.”

Oh, he wanted to help.

“I-I wouldn’t have asked anyone else but you...I feel safe with you.” You mumbled shyly, staring at his pretty hand holding yours, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your knuckles.

“Your trust in me is something I shall cherish and I wouldn’t dare break it.” He looked you in the eyes as he said that, the warmth and intensity of them made your heart flutter. “I promise I’ll keep it strictly professional and I’ll make sure to put your comfort first.”

Your heart fluttered again. “O-okay.”

“How would you like this to go?”

“I-I’m not sure…Wooyoung usually takes the lead whenever we do anything more than kissing…” you were speaking so softly, it was pulling at Hongjoong’s heartstrings. You were so precious. “I wouldn’t mind you taking the lead…teach me how to make Wooyoung feel good.” You squeezed his hand nervously and he kept his soft smile on his face, hiding his excitement.

You’ll let him take the lead?

“Okay, sweetheart. I promise I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with okay?” He caressed your cheek fondly, forcing himself to not brush your lips with his thumb. “Tell me to stop when it gets too much.”

“Thank you, sir.” You whispered, feeling all tense as he got closer.

Sir? Were you trying to kill him? He scooted closer, your knees touching his own. “Do I have permission to touch you, darling?”

The pet name made you feel just a little bit more hotter. The way he said it, his voice a low purr, made you feel things you thought you’d only feel with Wooyoung.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Experimentally, he slowly glided his hand up the side of your thigh, the sweet gasp falling from your lips making him smirk against your neck. He brushed his lips against your neck, before whispering in your ear. “You’ve watched videos as research, correct?”

You stuttered out your response, feeling your body grow warm with the way his hand smoothed up and down your thigh, never going higher than where your skirt stopped. “I did…” Was it wrong that you wanted his hand to move higher?

Hongjoong held back from kissing your neck, testing the waters of what exactly he could do to you. His hand moved to your waist now, caressing the curve of your side then stopping so that his thumb was just below the underside of your bra covered chest.

“Why don’t you show me what you learned, hm? Then I’ll guide you along the way.” He suggested, his tone going just a little lower than usual.

And that’s how you found yourself on your knees, between your professor's trousered thighs, your eyes looking at him with such uncertainty and the willingness to learn.

“Don’t be shy. I’m sure you won't disappoint,” Hongjoong reassured you, petting your head lovingly while his thoughts were going wild at the mere sight of you all cute and demure between his legs.

“O-okay.”

As you had watched and observed, you placed your hands on his thighs. They trembled a little. What if you messed up here too? You shook the thought away. Professor Kim was going to guide you. You’ll be okay and then you’ll be able to make Wooyoung feel good too.

All of this was for Wooyoung.

You slowly slid your hands up his thighs feeling the smooth fabric of his trousers as you recounted the videos you had seen. You remembered how the woman in the video would trace her fingers over the man’s groin…but was Hongjoong even…turned on?

You remember how stiff Wooyoung would get when you were on his lap as you two made out, his hands running up and down your sides then over the curve of your ass, squeezing it.

Do you need to kiss Mr. Kim too?

Before asking, you experimentally softly placed your palm against his groin, blushing to find that he was hot and rather stiff through his pants. A shaky breath escaped him and you retracted your hand.

“W-was that not okay?”

“It was fine,” he managed a smile for you, getting hard at just how shy and sweet you were. “You’re doing fine.”

“O-okay,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, gliding your palm over his clothed groin before sliding higher, your other hand joining to unbuckle his belt.

Each gentle and inexperienced touch or ghost of your fingers over his crotch was making his cock twitch to life. It was so easy for him to be turned on…well…because it was you. It was endearing how focused yet nervous you were and once you tugged his briefs down low enough for his cock to spring up, your eyes stared at his length.

From his reclined position on the couch, his legs spread to accommodate you, he was able to notice the way your thighs squeezed to tether at the sight of him.

Your face was hot as your eyes took in the sight of his cock. It was way more intimidating to see one in person than on a screen…was it odd for you to think it was rather pretty? The head was a soft pink and it glistened with something that made your tongue somehow itch to want to try and wrap your mouth around him. Would he fit in your mouth? Would he fit in— you stopped yourself from thinking that. You can’t go all the way with Mr. Kim, you were going to do that with Wooyoung.

Feeling his warm gaze on you, you gently wrapped your hand around his length. The feeling of him hot and heavy in your palm, the girth of him, made your core pulse.

Hongjoong bit his lip at the gentle touch, the smoothness of your palm, and the dainty way you held him making him sensitive to whatever you were doing. He knew it wasn’t on purpose that you were prolonging any sort of movement, you weren’t sure what to do next.

“Tell me what you learned,” he managed to speak calmly. “Or what you observed.”

Squeezing your thighs together and inching closer to get into a comfortable position, you thought of what to answer. “In the videos…the girls take their partner in their mouth…and some just move their hand…I'm not sure what to do next, I’m sorry.” You looked away, embarrassed.

This was exactly why you never initiated it with Wooyoung. If you did and you messed up or did not even follow through, he would’ve mentioned it to his friends somehow in their talks.

Hongjoong saw how nervous you were and tried to suppress the desire to command you what to do and how you should do it, he placed his hand over yours that was softly holding his cock. He couldn’t be mean to you…as much as he wanted to completely control you and make you feel pleasure that would have you falling apart for him, he wanted to be gentle with you.

“I’ll guide you, okay?” His other hand petted the top of your head, making the nerves yo I had been feeling dwindle. You nodded.

“You have to spit on it first, sweetheart.”

His words made your eyes widen. The dirty notion was embellished with a sweet term of endearment. Hearing it from him, from the mouth where only kindness, care and knowledge was all you heard come out of it, made you feel warm.

“Spit on it?”

“I know it sounds odd but it’ll help. I’ll guide you on how to use your hand first. Don’t be shy, darling.”

His encouragement only made you want to do as he says. You told yourself it only feels weird because you’ve never done it before and Mr. Kim was kind enough to help you be more confident when the time comes for you to do it with your boyfriend.

Leaning over, you collected your saliva and spat softly. Hongjoong bit back any sound that dared escape him at the moment not ready to break the promise of being professional for your sake but the warmth of your spit and how shyly you did it turned him on even more.

“Now,” he guided your hand. “Spread it around with my precum like this.” He loosely moved your hand, letting your dainty fingers be covered by the mix of your spit and his precum. “It’ll be easier to move your hand this way, it’ll feel good.”

You nodded, feeling the slickness against your palm and how it now easily glided along his length with his hand still over yours.

“You have to hold it just a little tighter.” He closed his hand over yours a little tighter but not too tight but just enough to tell you how much pressure you should be applying.

“L-like this?” You adjusted your grip and slowly while your hand moved in slow up and down motions, he removed his hand and a deep sigh of bliss left him.

“Just like that, sweetheart…just like that.” His voice dipped lower and his head rolled back a little, giving you the perfect view of his sharp jawline and pink lips.

Your eyes kept shifting from his face and to his cock in your hand, entranced somehow by the idea of how he was feeling good by just your hand. Watching a video was completely different from actually doing it. You recalled the way a girl in a video would twist her hand as she glided her hand up and down, and you decided to try the motion.

Hongjoong hissed out a curse at the new movement. “That feels good.” His hips bucked up a little, pushing his cock up in your hand.

Feeling a little braver, you leaned forward to press your lips on the head of his cock, kissing it and feeling heat surge to your core at how warm the tip was against your lips.

Hongjoong lifted his head from its thrown back position to look at you, the sudden sensation of your soft lips on his cock turning him on further.

“You want to try that already?” He asked, his hand gripping the armrest of the couch when your doe eyes looked up at him so innocently, your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and nodded, it was driving him crazy. It was getting harder and harder to retain any sense of composure. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Show me what you learned. You’re already doing so well. You look so cute like this too.”

His words of praise and compliments made both your heart and core throb. It made you try even harder to please him. You wondered if it was okay that you were getting wet. You could feel your slick sticking to the gusset of your panties and against the lips of your pussy.

Hongjoong moaned softly when he felt your hot tongue swirling around his cock head. He twitched within your hand continued their rhythmic twisting and up and down rhythm. He watched as you tasted him. He could see the way your brows furrowed at the taste and when he felt you take more of him in your mouth and suckle at the sensitive tip of his cock, you were making it harder for him to not buck his hips up into your pretty mouth.

“You doing okay?” He asked, gently placing his hand behind the back of your head, caressing you.

You nodded, humming, the vibrations of your sound adding some extra pleasure to the way you were giving him head.

“F-fuck, you’re doing so good, sweetheart. Such a good girl.”

The way he said that made your pussy clench. Why did that have some effect on you? It sounded so hot coming from him and it made you want to please him even more.

Eventually, you took what you could of him in your mouth, fighting back your gag reflex and bobbing your head shallowly along his cock. Your hand continued to jerk what you couldn’t fit of his length in your little mouth. You were aching so bad, you couldn’t help but let your free hand slide between your thighs to find your pussy, surprised at how wet you were. It was easy to spread your arousal all over your cunt and begin massaging your clit the way you liked, settling for the friction of your fingers.

Hongjoong noticed your dainty hand between your legs. The sight of you suckling and bobbing your cute head up and down along his cock, and touching yourself was sending him to the edge. Plus your lips tinted with pink gloss were mixing with your saliva as you continued to suck him off. You were so fucking cute.

“I’m close darling. You’re doing so well. You had nothing to be so nervous about. F-fuck.” He shuddered when he felt the head of his cock hit the back of your throat and you squeaked so adorably, the sound muffled. What a cute little slut you were touching yourself as you stuffed your little mouth with his cock. Though he was saying such sweet praises, deep down he wanted to fuck his cock into your mouth and watch you cry from taking him. He was betting you’d look up at him with wide pleading eyes with tears as you let him use you as his personal cock sleeve.

The mere thought of that sent him over the edge and without warning, he came. A small squeak left you as sudden hot spurts of cum spilled into your mouth. You latched off of him in surprise, your hand still pumping him as he came. His moans and the way his head was thrown back, made you stop touching yourself so you could focus fully on the way he climaxed all over your face.

“Fuck!” He groaned as his hand that was cradling your head gripped your hair and his hips bucked up into your hand, riding out his high. You whimpered as he tugged at your hair, the sensation making your clit throb. Why did that feel good? Why did having his release on your cheeks and in your mouth, turned you on?

“Open up, darling. Let me see.” Hongjoong tugged your hair back almost forcibly, his gaze almost predatory, it scared you a bit. You’ve never seen such a dark, menacing yet charming expression on your sweet and kind professor.

You parted your lips and he smirked.

He wondered if you knew just how cute and ruined your look right now. Pink gloss smeared over your lips and your cheeks flushed and stained with his white sticky cum, and the best of all, his seed was on your tongue.

He wished he could take a picture.

You didn’t realize you were breathing slowly as your heart was racing and he stared down at you with a glint in his eye that you couldn’t quite place.

“You look so pretty like this, darling.” His grip on your hair loosened and his hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb dipping into your mouth as you still obediently kept your lips parted for him. He smeared more of his cum all over your lips and chin, finding the idea of him on your skin so hot…it’s like he marked you. “Such a good girl.” He cooed and you didn’t know why you did what you did but you swallowed his salty release, and his reaction made it all worth it. “What a perfect girl you are.”

His praise only made your heart flutter, his words only feeding that part of you that wanted to please him…to please Wooyoung.

“D-do you think Woo will like it?” You asked, your voice a little hoarse as you sat there on your knees, looking up at him so sweetly.

Hongjoong held back from rolling his eyes at the mention of the boy who didn’t deserve you. He masked his annoyance with a smile. “He’ll like it, darling. You did really well. I mean it.” He took his handkerchief and began to clean you up, gently dabbing your cheek.

Despite the ache between your thighs, you couldn’t stop the way a smile grew on your face at the approval from your most trusted mentor.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Kim—

“Hongjoong.” He cut you off with a gentle smile, looking at you lovingly.

“What?” You stuttered that same feeling you felt earlier, the confusion of the same way he made your heart flutter like Wooyoung does.

“You can call me Hongjoong when it’s just the two of us, darling. I think with how close we’ve gotten…I’d like you to call me by my name. Don’t you think we’re rather close?”

There was something about his eyes that captivated you. It was so magnetic it was hard to not be completely wonderstruck and in control of that powerful gaze.

All you could do was nod.

“That’s a good girl…” he cooed, smiling warmly. “Perhaps, you need more guidance. You want to be a good girlfriend for your Wooyoung right?”

You did, you wanted to be the best girlfriend for him.

“I do…”

“Sometimes what you see online is not entirely reliable. I’m offering you…private lessons…doesn’t that sound good for you?”

You nodded, letting him pull you up on and onto his lap, gasping when your core pressed against his thigh.

“I’ll teach you all there is to know. I want what's best for you and for you to know exactly what you’re getting into.” He ran his hand up and down your thigh, slowly. “You don’t want to disappoint Wooyoung, right?”

“I don’t Sir…” you said so quickly.

So innocent. So naive. So dumb. So perfect for him to ruin.

He never thought he’d get to this point.

All this time, he has only ever admired you and desired you from afar. He kept his reputation as a well-loved and kind professor so that no one and you, especially you, would ever question his motives.

“Now, I think we should try this again. You did really well but I can teach you a little extra something that will make your boyfriend so, so, so happy.”

feel free to scream in my askbox about the fic I will gladly fangirl with you and I love feedback. It keeps me writing.

special tags : @khjcs @skteezcursed @caityelise99

#hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #ateez au #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez smut

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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

Note

Hi! If it’s not too much, could you do spider-man villains responding to an underling hitting reader like you did for the bat-villains? (Idk if you do the spider-man villains or just marvel villains in general so feel free to do that if you’d prefer) You’re really good at getting into characters’ heads it’s really fun to read!

MARVEL COMICS VILLAINS X FEM!READER

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Dr. Doom, Bullseye, Taskmaster, Loki, Crossbones, Zemo, Muse, Hela, Green Goblin, Eddie/Venom, Doctor Octopus, Kraven, The Lizard, Carnage, Electro, Kingpin, Scorpion, Hobgoblin, Mysterio, Sandman, Shocker, Chameleon, Mister Negative & Boomerang

Reply to anon: FINALLY some love for Spider-Man villains. The Spider-Man and Batman villain gallery are my favorites. I've done (almost) all of Spider-Boy's most popular villains, I really hope I did the ones you wanted.

Victor von Doom | Doctor Doom

- Doom is not a man prone to outbursts. He does not rage blindly, does not allow emotions to dictate his actions. No, his fury is measured, calculated—and when he sees the mark left on your perfect skin, he does not waste words. He simply turns, his cloak billowing as he leaves. You know better than to stop him. Whatever is about to happen is inevitable. Doom does not tolerate offenses. And this—this was the gravest of all.

- The punishment is not merely death. Death is merciful, death is quick. Doom does not grant mercy to those who defile what is his. The offender is stripped of their name, their purpose, their very existence. Doom ensures they are erased, their presence scoured from the annals of time, their life reduced to a whisper of agony. He does not need to sully his own hands—no, the world itself bends to his will, and his will is retribution.

- When he returns to you, his mask betrays nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that lingers. He reaches for you—not to inspect the wound, not to seek forgiveness, but to claim you once more, to remind you that you belong to him, and he to you. "None shall harm you and live," he states, as if it is a fundamental truth of the universe. And perhaps, under his rule, it is.

- His gauntleted fingers ghost over your skin, a contradiction of metal and reverence, of cold steel and burning devotion. "You are under my protection," he murmurs, "and my protection is absolute.” His lips brush against your temple, the touch fleeting, possessive. "They will remember what happens to those who forget."

Lester | Bullseye

- He doesn't get angry. Not at first. He just stares at you, head tilting slightly, the way a predator assesses a kill. And then—he laughs. Not the usual, cocky, self-satisfied kind. No, this one is sharper, colder, something that sends a chill down your spine. "They really put their hands on you?" he asks, his voice edged with something deadly, something thrilled. Because now? Now he gets to play.

- He finds them fast. He doesn’t rush—no, he takes his time. He enjoys watching the moment of realization dawn, the way fear blooms when they understand exactly who they’ve pissed off. And when he strikes, it isn’t just a kill. It’s an art form. He breaks bones with pinpoint accuracy, flays skin with nothing but the flick of a blade. Every hit is personal, every wound a lesson. By the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but ruin.

- When he comes back, he’s still grinning, like he’s high off the violence. He leans in close, voice dripping with amusement. "Y’know, I was gonna kill ‘em quick, but then I thought—nah, let’s make it memorable." His fingers trace the bruise on your skin, eyes dark with something almost hungry. "Bet they won’t be hittin’ anyone ever again. Hell, they won’t even be breathing."

- Then, just as suddenly, the danger flickers, shifts into something else. His hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, his lips brushing against yours, slow and deliberate. "Next time, babe? Just say the word. I'll tear the whole damn world apart for you."

Tony Masters | Taskmaster

- Tony doesn't ask what happened—he sees it. The way you shift your weight, the slight tension in your jaw, the way your hand lingers over the injury just a second too long. He catches every detail, every weakness, because that’s what he does. And right now? Right now, someone’s weakness is about to become their death sentence.

- He doesn't just kill the bastard. No, that would be easy. He studies them first. Watches their movements, their stance, every tell in their body. And then? Then he dismantles them. Uses their own techniques against them, mirrors their every move just to show them how outmatched they are. By the time he’s done, they don’t just lose. They know they never stood a chance.

- When he returns, there’s no grand declaration, no need for theatrics. He just sits beside you, arms crossed, gaze sharp and assessing. "You alright?" he asks, and it’s almost casual—almost. But there’s a weight to it, an unspoken promise beneath the words. You nod, and he exhales, rolling his shoulders. "Good." A beat. Then, "Don’t let it happen again."

- But later, when the lights are low and his guard is down, his hand drifts to your hip, his thumb brushing slow, idle circles against your skin. "Ain't nobody touches you but me," he mutters, voice rough, possessive. "And I don't do soft." His lips ghost over yours, teasing, taunting. "But for you? Maybe I’ll make an exception."

Loki Laufeyson

- He does not react at first. He simply observes. Fingers steepled, expression unreadable, eyes too calm. And that? That is far more terrifying than rage. Because Loki is not a creature of impulse. He is a creature of calculated destruction. And this? This offense against you? It will be answered with something far worse than death.

- The punishment is poetic. He does not simply kill the offender—he undoes them. Twists their mind until they are unmade, until they do not know their own name, their own face. They become a whisper, a tragedy, a thing lost to the very fabric of reality itself. And Loki? Loki watches, amused, as they break. "Oh, dear," he muses. "It seems you have forgotten yourself. Allow me to help." And with a flick of his fingers, they are gone.

- When he returns to you, there is a smirk curling at his lips, something self-satisfied in his gaze. "It is done," he says simply, as if he has merely handled a small inconvenience. And perhaps, to him, that’s all it was. But then, his expression shifts—just slightly. His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight, careful, as if you are something fragile, something to be preserved. "They will not bother you again," he murmurs, "nor will anyone else."

- His arms encircle you, drawing you against him, and for a moment, there is no trickery, no illusion—just him, real and solid. His lips graze your ear, a whisper of silk and steel. "You are mine," he breathes, and there is something almost reverent in the way he says it. "And I do not share."

Brock Rumlow | Crossbones

- The moment he sees the bruise on your skin, something inside him snaps. There’s no slow burn, no measured response—just instant, blistering rage. Brock doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. He doesn’t ask why. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that someone was stupid enough to lay a hand on you, and now? Now they have to pay.

- He doesn’t just kill them—he annihilates them. There’s no finesse, no mercy, just raw, unfiltered violence. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh giving way—he takes his time, makes it hurt. He wants them to understand what they’ve done. Wants them to feel every ounce of pain they dared to bring upon you. By the time he’s done, they’re nothing more than a broken, unrecognizable mess on the floor.

- When he comes back to you, his knuckles are split, his breathing heavy, his hands still trembling with the aftershock of violence. But when his eyes meet yours, the fury melts into something else. Something dark, something possessive. He reaches for you, fingers rough as they trace over your injury, his touch lingering, slow. "Ain't nobody touches what’s mine," he mutters, voice like gravel, low and sharp with promise. "Nobody."

- And then his grip tightens, just enough to remind you, just enough to claim. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Next time?" His voice drops to a whisper, deadly and sweet. "I won’t just kill ‘em. I’ll make sure they beg for it first."

Helmut Zemo

- Zemo is silent when he sees the mark on you. Too silent. The kind of quiet that is far more dangerous than any outburst, far more lethal than raised voices or shattered glass. His fingers ghost over the injury with a gentleness that feels almost deceptive, his expression unreadable, his mind already working, already planning.

- His revenge is not messy. It is not violent. It is precise. He does not grant them the dignity of an immediate death—no, he dismantles them. Strips them of their status, their power, their very identity. He orchestrates their downfall with the patience of a man who thrives on the long game, ensuring they lose everything before he grants them the release of death. By the time he is finished, they are nothing more than a ghost.

- When he returns to you, his movements are slow, deliberate. He cups your face, tilting it up so you can see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes. "It is done," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek with something almost reverent. "They will never so much as whisper your name again."

- Then, his lips graze your temple, lingering there, soft but unshakable. "No one lays a hand on you and lives," he breathes against your skin. "Not while I still draw breath."

Muse

- He doesn’t react at first. No flicker of emotion, no shift in expression—just a slow, almost languid turn of his head as he processes the fact that someone dared to harm you. And then, after a moment of silence, he smiles. It’s not warm, not reassuring—it’s something else. Something wrong. Something that should send chills down your spine.

- The underling doesn’t just die. No, Muse creates with them. He turns them into something grotesque, something artful. He strips them of their humanity in the most literal sense, carving into their flesh with the same care a sculptor takes to marble. When he’s finished, they are unrecognizable, their body a message, a masterpiece. Something for the world to witness.

- When he returns, his hands are still wet with blood, his smile still stretching a little too wide. He steps closer, tilting his head as he looks at you, as if seeing you for the first time. "You make me feel things I do not understand," he murmurs, his voice lilting, almost dreamlike. "And yet, I do not mind."

- His fingers trail over your bruised skin, slow, thoughtful. "You are mine," he hums, as if tasting the words. "And I do not take kindly to those who ruin my muse."

Hela

- Her rage is not loud. It does not explode. It devours. A slow, insidious thing that coils around her like smoke, seething just beneath the surface. She does not speak when she sees the mark on your skin. She does not need to. The air itself seems to grow heavy, the very shadows bending toward her as if they fear what is to come.

- She does not simply kill the one responsible—she eradicates them. Their soul is hers now, ripped from their body, condemned to an eternity of suffering in her grasp. She ensures their torment is endless, their agony woven into the very fabric of Hel itself. They will know true despair. They will beg for release, and she will deny them.

- When she returns to you, she does not ask if you are alright. She knows you are. You are strong. But still, her touch is almost gentle as she brushes a gloved hand over your bruised skin, as if assessing the damage, as if reminding herself that you are here. "They are nothing now," she murmurs, voice like velvet over steel. "They will never touch you again."

- Then, she cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. Her lips curve into a smirk, dark, knowing. "You are mine," she breathes, her voice a silken promise. "And what is mine is untouchable."

Norman Osborn | The Green Goblin

- He is not a man known for softness. The world has felt the wrath of his intellect, his madness, his power—but never his kindness. Yet, in his own way, you are an exception. An obsession that burrowed into his mind and refused to leave. You were his, a claim as absolute as the empire he built with blood and fire. And when one of his men struck you, something terrible and ruinous cracked open within him. Norman does not react with immediate fury. No, his rage is patient, a slow-moving thing with sharpened teeth, and it festers in silence as he watches you, as his gloved hand ghosts over the mark left behind. His voice is eerily calm. "Who?" is all he asks, and though you know what will come, you do not stop him.

- He does not waste time. The moment the name is given, the air shifts, heavy with the weight of his impending vengeance. He could kill the man outright—could rip him apart with his hands and laugh as he did it—but Norman is nothing if not poetic. There is no need for theatrics, no need for a Goblin’s grin. He strips away his mask and handles the matter as Osborn, the man, the king, the ruthless god in a businessman’s skin. His underlings learn a lesson that night: a punishment that stretches long, a display of control so profound that even those loyal to him shudder at the sight. Norman does not simply kill; he dismantles.

- He returns to you in the aftermath, his fingers still stained with evidence of his wrath. There is no apology, no soft words meant to soothe. He does not think you need them. He takes your face in his hands, holds you as if committing the shape of you to memory, and leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You are not to be touched," he murmurs, his voice laced with something dark, something final. "Not by them. Not by anyone. Only me." His mouth finds yours, claiming and bruising, a reminder of who you belong to, of who would set the world ablaze before letting another lay a hand on you.

- In the days that follow, his men become more careful, their eyes lowering whenever you pass. He revels in it, in their fear, in the knowledge that you are untouchable. But more than that, Norman basks in the way you still stand at his side, still allow his hands on your skin, still whisper his name in the quiet of night. He does not say it aloud, but he knows it in the marrow of his bones: he would burn everything for you.

Eddie Brock | Venom

- The moment Venom senses it, the moment the bruising scent of pain clings to you, Eddie is already moving. His body tenses like a predator scenting blood, fists curling, jaw tightening, and before you can say anything, a voice darker than night slithers out, a guttural growl vibrating in his chest. "Who hurt you?" The question is not for you to answer. Venom already knows.

- There is no reasoning with Eddie when his rage is ignited, no space for rational thought. He is a man of fury, of primal justice, and there is no justice more absolute than the one he will deliver. Venom is delighted, saliva dripping from his fanged mouth as he urges Eddie forward. "We eat them." But Eddie is not in the mood for quick endings. No, this calls for something more intimate. He corners the man, fists colliding with flesh, with bone, and with each hit, his breath comes harsher, his mind consumed by the vision of you hurt, of someone daring to lay a hand on what is his.

- When he returns to you, his knuckles are bloody, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes are the most dangerous part of him. "It won’t happen again," he says, and Venom’s voice purrs in agreement, curling around the words like a promise. You reach for him, fingers tracing over the remnants of his anger, and for a moment, his fury falters. His grip tightens around you, desperate, possessive, as if anchoring himself in your warmth. "I don’t share," he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin, the rough scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine. "I don’t forgive, either."

- The city speaks in whispers after that. The man who struck you is nowhere to be found, his existence erased with the efficiency of something monstrous. Eddie doesn’t care. Venom doesn’t care. They are satisfied only in the way you still let them near, in the way your fingers tangle in Eddie’s hair as he presses against you, breathing in your scent like a man who has only ever known hunger.

Otto Octavius | Doctor Octopus

- He is a man of brilliance, of intellect, of control. But all of it fractures when he sees the mark on your skin. His metal limbs twitch, their claws clicking in restless anticipation, and his grip on his own restraint becomes tenuous. He prides himself on logic, on the ability to calculate his moves, but rage has always been an old friend, and tonight, it whispers to him with venomous sweetness. He cups your chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle despite the storm brewing in his gaze. "Tell me," he says, his voice like silk stretched over steel.

- When you do, he does not explode. Otto Octavius is not a man of reckless outbursts—he is a man of consequences. The one who hurt you does not suffer immediately. No, Otto drags it out, makes it a lesson, makes it art. His tentacles wrap around the man like a vice, lifting him effortlessly, squeezing just enough to let terror sink in. "Do you know what you’ve done?" he muses, tilting his head in that calculating way of his. "Do you understand the depths of your mistake?" There is no mercy in his eyes, only the cold brilliance of a scientist dissecting his latest subject.

- When he returns, his hands are clean, his composure intact. But there is something different in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. "No one will touch you again," he says, a quiet promise that rings louder than any scream. His arms coil around you, steel and flesh alike, pressing you into him as if ensuring your safety through sheer proximity. He is not an affectionate man, not in the traditional sense, but this—this is devotion in its truest form.

- The world shifts after that. His subordinates tread carefully, their fear evident, their respect unwavering. Otto does not care for their opinions, only for the knowledge that you are untouchable, that the universe itself would have to shatter before he allowed harm to reach you again. And when he holds you at night, when he feels the warmth of your body against his own, he knows with absolute certainty—he would burn every last one of them for you.

Sergei Kravinoff | Kraven the Hunter

- The air is thick with tension when he finds out. There is no great display of fury, no immediate act of violence—but the shift in him is undeniable. His gaze darkens, his jaw sets, and his muscles coil like a beast moments before the kill. He does not ask you to name the culprit. He does not need to. The hunt is already beginning in his mind, the scent of blood calling to him. "They have wronged you," he murmurs, his accent curling around the words like a snare. "That is all I need to know."

- He does not go after them as a man. He goes as a predator. There is no chance for escape, no hope for mercy. The one who hurt you does not simply die; they are hunted, chased, reduced to nothing more than prey beneath the weight of Sergei’s wrath. And when he returns, there is blood beneath his nails, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and something primal burning in his eyes as they settle on you.

- He takes your face in his hands, his fingers rough yet reverent. "You are mine," he tells you, his voice low, possessive, unshaken. "And no man touches what is mine." There is no hesitation when he kisses you, no gentleness—only the raw, unfiltered hunger of a man who has conquered and claimed.

- After that, there is silence. No one dares cross you, no one even dares look too long. And Sergei—Sergei watches you like the wild thing he is, his need for you carved into his very soul.

Dr. Curt Connors | The Lizard

- There are two versions of the man you love, and both are dangerous in their own ways. Dr. Connors—the brilliant, fractured scientist—sees you as something fragile, something to be protected. The Lizard—the monstrous, primal force—sees you as his, an undeniable part of his territory, a possession no one else is permitted to touch. When he smells the injury, when his reptilian senses detect the slightest irregularity in your scent, his pupils slit into thin lines, and his talons twitch. He does not ask what happened. He does not need to. You can see the change in him, the slow, deliberate way his muscles coil, the predator awakening beneath the man.

- Curt tries to hold back at first, tries to reason with himself, to suppress the darker part of him that howls for blood. But then he sees the mark—small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but a wound on you—and all his restraint shatters. His skin ripples, the transformation taking hold, scales pushing through flesh, bones shifting as something cold-blooded and relentless takes over. The man who hurt you does not get the mercy of a warning. He does not get the chance to run. The Lizard hunts him down with terrifying precision, dragging him into the depths of the sewers, where screams do not reach the surface world.

- He does not return to you as Curt, not yet. The Lizard comes first, his body tense with the aftermath of his fury, his eyes glowing in the dim light. He circles you like an animal, sniffing the air, ensuring no scent of your attacker lingers. When his clawed hands cup your face, they are gentle despite their lethal potential, his rough thumb tracing over the bruise with something close to reverence. "Mine," he hisses, low and guttural, his tail twitching behind him. "No one hurts what belongs to me." His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air around you, confirming you are safe. Only then does he allow himself to shift back, bones snapping, scales melting away, until it is Curt again—shaken, horrified by his own lack of control, but unrepentant.

- After that night, no one in his employ ever touches you again. They don’t even stand too close. The fear lingers, thick and suffocating, but you do not fear him. Not truly. Not when he presses his forehead against yours in the quiet of your shared sanctuary, his breath still uneven from the monster within him. "I won’t let it happen again," he murmurs, half a promise, half a warning to the world. And you believe him.

Cletus Kasady | Carnage

- Violence has always been Cletus’s language, and love—if he can even call what he feels for you that—is simply an extension of it. His affection is red, dripping, chaotic, something sharp-edged and all-consuming. So when he finds out someone has dared to touch you, to lay their filthy hands on what he claimed, he does not fly into a rage. No, no, no. Rage is too simple. Rage is what lesser men feel. What he feels is a different kind of thrill—something euphoric, something electric. The knowledge that he now has an excuse to indulge himself, to play.

- He finds the man easily. Carnage is not subtle, never has been, and there is no need for stealth when the hunt is half the fun. He takes his time with it, drags it out, makes sure the bastard understands the mistake he made. There are screams, of course. Begging. Pleading. But Cletus only laughs, red tendrils writhing around him like something alive, his grin wide and wicked. He does not just kill. He desecrates. When it is over, he leaves what remains in a place everyone will see, a message written in blood and viscera: SHE’S MINE.

- When he returns to you, he is still drenched in his work, red creeping up his neck like war paint. His fingers are slick when they cup your chin, tilting your head so he can drink in the sight of you, the only thing in this world he won’t destroy. "Ain’t nobody stupid enough to touch you now, doll," he purrs, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp. "But if they do… well, you know me. I love an excuse to get messy." His lips crash against yours, feverish, unhinged, tasting of copper and chaos, as if marking you from the inside out.

- The city whispers after that. Everyone knows. Everyone fears. No one dares even breathe in your direction without permission. And Cletus—Cletus is delighted. He keeps you close, always touching, always claiming, because you are the only thing in this world worth keeping, worth loving in his own sick, twisted way.

Max Dillon | Electro

- The moment Max finds out, the air around him changes. The temperature rises, the hum of electricity vibrating beneath his skin, flickering in his veins. He does not speak at first. He just stands there, his entire body coiled with tension, eyes burning with a glow that promises something catastrophic. His hands twitch, sparks crackling between his fingers, and when he finally breathes, it comes out ragged, barely contained. "Who?" The question is not a request. It is a demand, static lacing his voice like a storm on the verge of breaking.

- He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He already knows. The circuits in the building whisper their secrets to him, security cameras playing back every movement, every offense. And once he sees it—once he witnesses the insult—there is no saving the man responsible. Max does not go after him in silence. He wants people to see. He wants them to understand. When he finds his target, he doesn’t touch him at first—just lets the lights flicker, lets the air taste of ozone and danger. The fear in the man’s eyes is intoxicating. And then—then—he strikes.

- He does not just kill. He erupts. A violent surge of electricity courses through his victim’s body, lighting up the night in a gruesome spectacle. It is over in seconds, but the aftermath lingers—charred flesh, the stench of burnt skin, a warning that echoes in the city’s power lines. No one touches what belongs to Max Dillon. No one.

- When he returns, his pulse is still thrumming with energy, his hands still tingling with remnants of power. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t need to. He simply cups your face, his touch still buzzing, his breath warm against your lips. "Nobody hurts you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, letting the electricity between you crackle softly. "Not while I’m around."

Wilson Fisk | The Kingpin

- There is no explosion of rage when Wilson finds out. No immediate outburst, no reckless display of violence. Instead, there is silence. A heavy, suffocating quiet that settles over the room as he absorbs the information, as he lets the weight of it sink into his bones. He does not ask questions. He does not need to. His mind has already moved past the why and straight into the how.

- The man who struck you is dead before the sun rises. Wilson does not delegate this task. He handles it himself, in the cold, calculated way that only he can. The punishment is not just a beating. It is an education. He ensures that every broken bone, every gasping breath, is a lesson. That by the time it is over, the man understands—truly understands—who you belong to.

- When he returns to you, his suit is pristine, his composure unshaken, but there is something in his eyes—something dark, something possessive. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. "You are mine," he states, as if it is law, as if it is the only truth that matters. "And I will never allow harm to come to what is mine."

- The city learns quickly. No one touches you. No one dares. Because to harm you is to invoke the wrath of a king, and there is no place in this world where his reach does not extend.

Mac Gargan | The Scorpion

- Mac has always been a creature of violence. It sits in his bones, coils in his muscles, waiting for an excuse to strike. But this—this—is different. This is not a bar fight, not some petty vendetta. This is you. His girl. His one good thing in a world that never gave him anything but rage. And someone thought they could lay a hand on you? His fingers curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack, his breath coming out in short, harsh bursts. The suit hums around him, reacting to his anger, tail twitching like a serpent poised to strike.

- He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He hunts. The city is a labyrinth of shadows, but Mac is a predator who knows every back alley, every bolt hole. And when he finds the bastard, there’s no warning. No time for apologies, for begging, for mercy that never existed in the first place. He slams the man against a wall hard enough to rattle bones, his tail curling around his throat, lifting him off the ground with slow, deliberate cruelty. "You think you're tough?" His voice is low, venomous, dripping with the promise of pain. "Think you can put your hands on her and walk away?"

- The fight is short, brutal. Mac doesn’t just beat him—he breaks him. Leaves him gasping in the filth of the streets, bruised, bloodied, and barely breathing. He could end it. Should end it. But no, he wants this bastard to live. Wants him to wake up every day knowing he made the worst mistake of his life. That if he so much as breathes in your direction again, Mac will be the last thing he ever sees.

- When he returns to you, his hands are still shaking, but his grip is gentle when he cups your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His expression is dark, possessive, fierce. "Ain’t nobody touching you again," he mutters, his thumb tracing over your skin, as if reassuring himself that you’re real, that you’re his. "Ever."

Roderick Kingsley | The Hobgoblin

- The first time he sees the mark on your skin, something inside him snaps. Roderick has always been meticulous, always prided himself on being in control, but this—this—is unacceptable. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for violence, but his face remains eerily composed, the kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Who?" he asks, voice soft, deadly. It’s not a question. It’s a promise.

- Roderick does not make a spectacle of his revenge. He is not like the others—messy, impulsive, obvious. No, he is calculated. He plays the long game, luring the fool into a false sense of security. Then, when the time is right, he strikes. The underling who dared touch you disappears, and for days, no one hears from him. Then, suddenly, his body turns up—dismembered, displayed with sickening artistry, a message written in his own blood. A warning.

- When he returns to you, there is not a single speck of blood on him. He is as immaculate as always, his movements smooth and practiced as he approaches you. His gloved fingers brush over your shoulder, over the place where the injury once was, his touch lingering. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again," he murmurs, voice silken but laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Not unless they have a death wish."

- He tilts your chin up with two fingers, studying you with that sharp, analytical gaze, and then he smiles—slow, lazy, possessive. "You belong to me, darling," he whispers against your lips, a ghost of a threat, a vow wrapped in silk. "And I always take care of what’s mine."

Quentin Beck | Mysterio

- Quentin is a master of illusions, a man who bends reality to his will. But this—this is no illusion. The sight of your injury is real. And that, more than anything, enrages him. He stands utterly still, his fingers twitching at his sides, his mind already spinning through a thousand different ways to fix this. "Someone put their hands on you?" His voice is eerily calm, too calm, like the surface of still water before something drags you under.

- He doesn’t just want revenge—he wants a show. Wants to make an example of the fool who thought they could harm his masterpiece. The man who hurt you wakes up in a nightmare. Shadows twist unnaturally around him, voices whisper from the darkness, and the air itself becomes suffocating. He cannot see. He cannot escape. Quentin lets him feel true fear, lets his mind break apart at the seams. And when he finally steps into the illusion, bathed in eerie green light, his voice is cold, theatrical. "You touched something that belongs to me. Now, let’s see how you like being toyed with."

- By the time the illusion fades, the man is reduced to a shaking, incoherent wreck, his mind so shattered that he will never be the same. Quentin does not need to dirty his hands with blood. He has already won. Fear is the best weapon, after all. And now? Now, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you again.

- When he returns, his touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he cups your face, tracing the curve of your jaw. "I’ve taken care of it," he murmurs, his voice carrying that ever-present theatrical flair, as if this was simply another act in a grand performance. "No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m around." And when he presses his lips to yours, it is possessive, a silent claim. You are mine. And I will burn the world before I let it take you from me.

Flint Marko | The Sandman

- Flint has never claimed to be a good man, but there are rules. Lines that even criminals don’t cross. And someone crossing you? That is unforgivable. When he sees the mark on you, the wound left by some lowlife under his command, something dark passes over his expression. His jaw tightens, his fists clench, and for a long moment, he just stares. Then, in a voice too quiet, too steady, he asks, "Who did it?"

- He doesn’t wait for the answer. He already knows. He finds him. And when he does, he doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t make threats. He just acts. His body twists and warps, arms elongating, fists turning into massive clubs of hardened sand. The first hit is brutal, sending the man crashing through a wall. The second is worse. By the time he’s done, the bastard is barely breathing, half-buried in the debris, coughing up blood and dust. Flint leans down, voice low, gravelly, dangerous. "You ever even look at her again, I’ll make sure there ain’t enough of you left to bury."

- When he returns to you, his hands are still rough, still calloused, but they are infinitely careful when they touch you. His fingers ghost over the mark, his brows furrowed in something like guilt, like regret that he wasn’t there when it happened. "I shoulda stopped it before it happened," he mutters, frustration lacing his tone. "Ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on you again. I promise you that."

- He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin, his presence solid, steady, safe. And when he speaks again, his voice is softer, rough with something that sounds almost like devotion. "You’re the only thing in this world I ain’t gonna lose." And somehow, you know he means it.

Herman Schultz | The Shocker

- Violence has always been a means to an end for Herman, never something he enjoyed. He’s not one of those lunatics who relish brutality—he’s just a man trying to make a living. But when he sees the bruise marring your skin, the way you flinch ever so slightly when you move, something inside him curdles. His stomach twists, his fingers flex, and there’s a slow, creeping heat behind his eyes. Somebody hurt you. And that? That’s something he can’t let slide.

- He doesn’t go in guns blazing. He’s smarter than that. He finds out who did it first, who was stupid enough to lay hands on his girl. And when he does? He makes sure the message is clear. The vibrations from his gauntlets don’t just break bones—they shatter them. There’s no warning, no grand speech, just a quick, brutal demonstration of what happens when you cross him. The air trembles with every hit, and by the time he’s finished, there’s nothing left but wreckage and regret.

- When he comes back to you, he’s quieter than usual. There’s no bravado, no cocky grin—just a lingering tension in his shoulders, a ghost of something dark in his eyes. He hesitates before reaching for you, before brushing his knuckles ever so gently over the bruise. "Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this," he mutters, voice low, rough with something close to guilt. "But I swear—it ain’t happenin’ again."

- And then, finally, his hands settle on your waist, pulling you against him, grounding himself in you. He presses his forehead to yours, exhales slow, deliberate. "You’re my girl," he murmurs, his voice softer now, steadier. "And I protect what’s mine."

Dmitri Smerdyakov | The Chameleon

- Dmitri is a man of masks, of deception, of control. And yet, when he sees the mark on your skin, all of that precision shatters. His breath slows, his body stills, and for the first time in a long time, something genuine flickers behind his ever-changing eyes. Fury. Not the theatrical kind, not the controlled, manufactured type—this is something raw, something visceral. Someone thought they could touch you and get away with it.

- He does not act in haste. No, he is patient, methodical. He waits. He studies his prey, slipping into their world, wearing faces they trust, whispering secrets that lead them straight to their downfall. By the time they realize what’s happening, it’s far, far too late. One night, they close their eyes—and when they wake, they are not where they were before. A cold, dimly lit room. A voice, smooth as silk, drips from the darkness. "Did you think I would not find you?"

- By the time he returns to you, there is not a single trace of blood on him. No evidence, no mess—only the ghost of a smirk, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He steps close, fingers trailing over your wrist, up your arm, as if ensuring you are whole, untouched. "No one will ever hurt you again," he whispers, and it is not just a promise. It is fact.

- His lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a soft murmur, intimate, possessive. "You are mine, моя любовь. And I do not share what is mine."

Martin Li | Mister Negative

- There are two sides to Martin—light and shadow, kindness and wrath. But when he sees the evidence of someone else's violence on you, there is no kindness left. His breath catches, his fingers tighten into fists, and something in his expression shifts—something dangerous. He touches the injury gently, as if the very act of acknowledging it might taint you further. And then, quietly, almost too softly, he asks, "Who did this to you?"

- When he finds them, there is no shouting, no theatrics—only inevitability. The underling barely has time to register their mistake before Martin unleashes the darkness within. The corruption devours them, twisting their very essence, making them feel every ounce of pain they have inflicted—tenfold. They scream, but there is no one to save them. And Martin watches, calm, composed, as their own sins consume them from the inside out.

- When he returns to you, his hands are cool when they cup your face, his expression eerily serene. There is no need to speak of what he has done—you already know. Instead, his thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch reverent, careful. "I will not allow harm to come to you again," he says simply, as if it is law, as if the very world itself bends to his decree.

- And then, softly, with all the tenderness in the world, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, his breath warm against your skin. "You are precious to me," he whispers, and beneath the gentleness, there is an edge of something darker, something absolute. "And I do not lose what is mine."

Fred Myers | Boomerang

- Fred has never been the serious type. Always laughing, always running his mouth, always playing things off like nothing really matters. But when he sees what happened to you? When he sees the proof that someone put their hands on you? The easygoing grin vanishes. His whole body goes still. And then, with a quiet, almost chilling sort of calm, he says, "Tell me who did it."

- He tracks the bastard down himself, no hired muscle, no goons—just him. And when he finds them, all the jokes, all the charm, all the bullshit he usually hides behind is gone. He’s fast, brutal, efficient—sharp knuckles, steel-toed boots, the snap of a ribcage giving way under pressure. He doesn’t need his boomerangs for this. No, this? This is personal.

- When he comes back, there’s blood on his hands—his own, maybe, but mostly theirs. And for the first time in a long time, he actually looks serious. No jokes, no smug quips—just that sharp, assessing gaze as he steps closer, fingers brushing over your wrist. "They won’t bother you again," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, lower. "Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around."

- And then, as if realizing how intense he sounds, he exhales, shakes his head, lets that familiar smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "Damn," he murmurs, tilting your chin up, eyes dark with something dangerous. "Didn’t know I had it in me to get all protective." His grin widens, teasing, but his grip on you is firm, steady. "Guess you bring out the worst in me, sweetheart. Or maybe the best.”

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coffee-and-geto · 2 months ago

Text

CAN YOU HEAR HER NAME? — part two.

“You know we shouldn’t have met, right?” “I’ve never had any luck, troublemaker. No matter who I meet, I destroy everything I touch.”

❦ pairing: professor!toji x f!reader

❦ summary: you are a student of criminal studies at a prestigious university with one goal in mind: get your father out of prison one day. but how will you react when your new professor in the subject, as attractive as he is odious, comes to replace your old teacher who has deserted the post? especially when that new teacher is keeping a secret that will jeopardize your plans. one thing’s for sure, your life will never be the same again...

❦ warnings: +18 only, dead dove: do not eat!!, smut, nsfw, violence with graphic description, vulgar language, mention of bullying/suicide/weapons/drugs/gambling, mature and dark content, toxic parental relationships, murders, yakuzas, panic attacks, heavy angst, fluff, manipulation, childhood trauma, death, grief, betrayal, hurt with/without comfort, student/teacher relationship (fictional, not real!!), depiction of the life of a hitman/appearance of yakuzas, enemies to lovers, but not a real slow burn, dark academia vibe, art by @/521jie.

❦ wc: 10,000

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

series masterlist | ao3

“Unfortunately for you, a sinner cannot afford to protect the wings of an angel. He might dirty them. Or worse, burn them in trying to help.”

His words blur within the drowning sea of memories that twist through your mind.

“Tell me something… You really like to put yourself in danger wherever you go, don’t you, troublemaker?”

His rough fingers tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, his emerald irises lingering on your figure a little too long in the lecture hall before he looks away, his arms wrapping around your waist to protect you from the vase, his lips crashing against yours just before devouring them…

All these memories swirl like a maelstrom in which you are submerged, your arms desperately trying to escape in order to flee the forbidden moments you shared. But every time you turn your head, one face keeps coming back to you.

“Can you hear me?”

From jet-black hair with strands as sharp as stalactites, almond eyes that find your gaze before piercing through to your soul and—

“Hello, Moon, this is Earth?”

Your head jerks up. “Huh?”

Shoko raises an eyebrow mischievously. “Were you listening to me?”

You blink, still a little shaken from your friend’s grounding. It feels like you’ve been pulled out of a drowning situation you thought you wouldn’t escape. The light from the library almost blinds you, and for a second, an unpleasant buzzing persists in your ear, making you grimace slightly.

“Yes, yes… You were talking about…” Your eyes fall on her medical textbook on the table, and you glance back up at her. “Your… presentation on anatomy?” you attempt with little conviction, still frowning.

Seeing your sorry face, Shoko shakes her head as you mutter a soft ’sorry’. “What were you thinking about?” And in your silence, she adds, “Or rather, who were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you mumble to avoid the conversation drifting into too dangerous waters.

It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten that you’re in the university library. Small groups of students linger in the aisles, quietly gossiping about the latest news, others immersed in their work, or those simply here to enjoy the calm of the massive room to sleep for an hour or two.

As for you and Shoko, you’ve settled into your favorite corner at the back of the library, where a four-person table is monopolized by the two of you, and a stained-glass window provides the perfect angle on the courtyard.

“I was talking about the upcoming sales. But from the looks of it, it seems like you don’t care about that either.”

You run a hand over your face to refresh your distracted mind. It’s not the first time lately that you’ve been called out for your absent-mindedness. But it’s not like you can do anything about it.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit tired lately,” you reply with a small, weak smile. “And the sales? Would you like to go together?”

“Yep,” she confirms, chewing on the blue cap of her pen before glancing at her laptop screen. “It’ll be a while for both of us, but it’d be even better if we bought a new dress or two, right? You know, for the parties.”

The idea pops into your mind, and just the thought of a relaxing trip to the mall with your friend tempts you. It’s almost as if you want to forget about the sales and swipe your credit card through every clothing store as if changing your wardrobe would erase your memory.

“Why not,” you reply, a warm bubble swelling in your chest. “It’s been a while since we did a shopping spree.”

“Perfect then.” She closes her textbook, closing yours at the same time. “Tell me,” she leans toward you so only you can hear her, but you already see her mischievous smile pulling at the corner of her pink lips, “Was it your professor again, hmm? Are you becoming like all those other girls?”

In immediate reaction, your heart skips a beat, and despite your traitorous flushed cheeks, your thick civil code acts as a weapon as you hit her arm. “Shoko!” you protest, stung.

She pulls back slightly, stifling her laughter with a hand over her mouth as the old, unpleasant librarian walks past your tables with a glare as sharp as her long nails.

Once she’s passed, Shoko leans toward you again to add, still teasing, “Come on, admit it, you’re finally drooling over him because of his irresistible charm.” She emphasizes the last word by looking up at the sky like a fangirl.

You gasp. “Absolutely not, and keep this up, and I swear I’ll make you eat my civil code,” you threaten, despite the constant warmth in your face.

“Your tomato face speaks for you anyway.”

“No, but Shoko!” you protest again.

“Shhhhhh!!” The librarian hisses sharply in your direction, her angry expression ending the conversation.

~~~~

“As for the rest of the year, your Master’s programs will need to be accompanied by alternating internships,” Professor Higuruma announces from his desk at the bottom of the lecture hall stage.

His eyelids, heavy with an evident lack of sleep, make him look on the verge of dozing off, yet all attention is on him. From his black suit to his perfectly ironed white shirt, and his sharp aquiline nose, Professor Higuruma never fails to draw eyes to himself, no matter what he says. Especially with his reputation as an outstanding lawyer at a prestigious firm.

“And so, my colleagues and I are offering to take part in this process to make things easier for some of you.”

You sit up slightly in your chair, ears more attuned than ever, making sure you don’t miss a single word.

He continues, “This means that spots with us will be limited and will only be reserved for those who prove themselves worthy of working alongside us. The rest will have to manage on their own to find internships.” He waves his hand dismissively as if brushing away the thought before lowering his gaze back to his files.

Working with Higuruma?

That’s practically a dream come true at this point.

As the bell signals the end of class, you hurriedly pack up your things, eager to join your friends in the cafeteria. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, too distracted to notice as you accidentally bump into someone while queuing up.

A broad back, wide shoulders, and an athletic yet lean build.

The person turns around, revealing a head of near-white hair and a pair of cerulean eyes, half-hidden behind round sunglasses.

“Ah, we were looking for you,” Satoru announces, stepping beside you with his tray.

“Where are they?” you can’t help but ask as you start filling your own tray with food.

Satoru grins. “Already eating. Probably talking about what we’re gonna do with Suguru,” he chuckles. And when you give him a skeptical look, he shakes his head, prolonging the suspense.

After both finish picking out your food, your friend walks alongside you toward a four-seater table already occupied by your brunette friend and Suguru, who has tied his hair into a half-bun, leaving the rest of his long, raven-black strands draping over his shoulders.

Upon reaching them, Shoko only lifts her eyes from her phone to acknowledge your arrival before immediately lowering her gaze back to her Instagram feed. “What’s new?” she asks the group without much interest, making Satoru roll his eyes.

“Kids and their phones…” he mutters as he sits down.

Suguru and you exchange an amused glance as Shoko slowly raises her head from her screen before practically shoving her phone in Satoru’s face. “Says the one who posts sixteen stories in one night?”

Just as he’s about to defend himself, Suguru steps on his foot to shut him up. “Anyway.”

“What’s got you two so excited?” you ask, taking a bite of your fish.

“Well, well, well,” the albino hums as he digs into his salad appetizer. “Suguru and I have decided to rejoin the university rugby team this year,” he announces, flashing his signature mischievous grin, mouth still full.

“To get crushed by Kyoto again?” you snicker. "Yeah, and I’m switching to medicine with Shoko."

Shoko and Suguru join in on your laughter while Satoru glares at you, holding an open yogurt cup threateningly, ready to fling it at your face.

Once the laughter finally dies down, he reaches into his bag, pulling out a brand-new rugby ball. Holding it up like a trophy, he twirls it between his long, agile fingers before tossing it to Suguru, who catches it effortlessly mid-air.

“We’re gonna beat Kyoto this year, and I even bought my own lucky ball,” Satoru insists.

“More like a cursed ball,” you mutter to Shoko, chortling a bit. Then, you turn to look at Satoru and Suguru again. “And what about that brute from last year? Aoi, wasn’t it? How do you plan to beat someone who practically smashed your faces in?”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

The two boys exchange a knowing look before directing their gazes a few tables away. You turn around, confused.

Satoru adds, “Zenin is signing up too.”

Your eyes land on Maki Zenin, a student with dark green hair tied in a high ponytail, sitting with her friends Yuta, Panda, and Toge several tables away, entirely unaware of your group’s attention.

Turning back to the boys, you frown. “Her? She’s strong?”

“Strong?” Suguru scoffs as if your question is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Wait till you see her at practice, and then we’ll see if you can find a better word.” He pauses when he notices your confusion.

How does he even know her when she wasn’t on the team last year?

“She goes to the gym, does wrestling, and Taekwondo,” he clarifies.

You let out an impressed whistle.

Shoko raises her eyebrows, equally surprised. “Have they announced the training sessions yet?”

“Coming soon, yeah.”

Satoru pauses. A smirk starts tugging at the corner of his lips as he raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me our lovely ladies will come to watch us train? Aww, I’m flattered.”

You exchange a glance with Shoko again. “More like filming you picking your nose during practice, but yeah, why not,” you reply with a mischievous half-smile, but Satoru doesn’t lose his.

Instead, he snatches the rugby ball from Suguru’s lap and starts playing with it — balancing it on his head with impressive control, rolling it across his shoulders and arms — prompting yet another whistle from you, though this time, there’s a hint of teasing in your tone.

“If you’re trying to get people’s attention, congratulations, you got it. Now stop,” Shoko grumbles, returning to her phone, annoyed by the number of eyes now on your table because of him.

It’s true; a good number of students are now staring.

Satoru is a popular quantum physics student who thrives on attention, loves showing off his strength, and — well, he’s Satoru Gojo, you know.

A tall, striking albino charismatic enough to convince the entire university to throw a party? That’s him. Flirting with literally anyone — women, men, and even objects (yeah, you heard me)? He’s practically a professional at it. Though you’ve never failed to notice the shift in his gaze whenever he looks at his own best friend.

Suguru, on the other hand, is humble but equally as cunning as Satoru. He can attract attention too, but he remains far more composed. They seem like complete opposites, yet their bond is brotherly, inseparable. And when you catch, out of the corner of your eye, the way Suguru is glaring at a group of giggling girls ogling Satoru from afar, a thought crosses your mind — an idea of—

“It’d be a shame if the whole school found out you barely drink alcohol just ’cause you can’t handle it, hmm?” Suguru mutters out of the corner of his mouth, stabbing a piece of carrot with his fork as if skewering it. His tone is dry, irritated. “Or maybe that you currently have a hemorrhoid in your right ass cheek that’s keeping you from hitting the gym?”

Immediately, Satoru’s rugby ball loses its balance on his head and falls straight onto his plate — landing right in his mashed potatoes with a sickening splat.

~~~~

From your seat in the middle of the lecture hall, the relentless rain from earlier that afternoon continues to batter against the enormous windows, giving a vague idea of how late it’s already getting for a typical student day. The deepening blue of the sky soon blends into the darkness of the swaying tree branches, shaken by the wind, which seems just as unwilling to leave.

The cold weather is reflected just as much inside the room, dragging down the general morale of the students — and, unfortunately, that of the one person everyone, without exception, wished it wouldn’t affect.

The dreaded Professor Fushiguro.

His tall, imposing frame moves sharply and swiftly between the rows, handing back graded dissertations, their pages streaked with red ink as if it had bled all over them.

It’s no surprise that yours — despite the B- circled on the first page — is riddled with red scribbles, as sharp and cutting as the personality of your criminology professor.

Determined to improve, you have always made it a habit to seek out your professors to better understand your mistakes and avoid repeating them.

A habit that has become particularly delicate since the last time you saw Professor Fushiguro under… circumstances better left buried in the grave, wouldn’t you say?

The hostile gaze he casts over every student is reason enough to abandon the idea of approaching him here and instead wait to speak with him in his office. Like before. Before he—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Even through the heavy oak door separating you from the professor’s office, you hear the irritated sigh before a nearly growled “Come in” reaches your ears.

You push open the door with a certain apprehension, your muscles tense.

The office hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here.

Bookshelves line the walls, filling nearly every available space, though you highly doubt Professor Fushiguro is an avid reader. The walls are painted in muted autumnal tones, the same Persian rug covers the floor, and the same dark hues dominate every piece of furniture — from the massive mahogany desk where he sits, to the polished hardwood floor, the black window frames, and the brown leather chair.

As you carefully close the door behind you, the fear that he might kick you out immediately grips you. The air is so thick with tension that neither of you dares to speak — just two figures frozen in place, eyes slightly widened by the sheer weight of the moment.

Fear.

Which kind?

That’s the real question.

Act normal, just like always, you keep repeating the thought in your head, teeth clenched as you finally settle into the chair across from your professor.

Today, he wears the same kind of outfit as usual, but you notice, with some curiosity, that there’s always a slight variation. Sometimes his tie is a shade darker, or the color carries a cooler undertone.

Shoving those irrelevant observations aside, you clear your throat, your throat drier than ever.

“I’d like to go over the points I might have missed in my paper that led to a—“

“A B-, yes,” he murmurs, one elbow resting on the desk, his eyes never leaving his laptop screen. His fingers absentmindedly toy with his lower lip — a nervous habit? Or stress?

Encouraged by his response, you pull out the pages of your dissertation and slide them toward him.

“Exactly. I read through your comments—“

“And is that never enough for you?” He rolls his eyes, and that single second of dismissal is enough to cool your resolve. He types a few more words on his keyboard before adding:

“Do you really think I don’t put enough effort into marking your work? Do you really need to come all the way here just to clarify what’s already perfectly clear and—“

“It’s too concise,” you cut him off, pushing your paper closer to him, hoping he’ll finally detach himself from that damn laptop and pay real attention to you. Even though, deep down, you already understand why he’s acting this way.

Your heartbeat quickens slightly as you lean in just a fraction more toward the desk, toward him, and insist, “Professor.”

The second your whisper falls between you, Professor Fushiguro nearly snaps his neck turning to look at you.

His emerald eyes are unreadable, yet filled with a chaotic mixture of emotions. His irritated expression softens, as do his furrowed brows — mirroring yours.

For a split second, his gaze flickers downward — to your slightly parted lips, waiting for his response — before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

He thinks you didn’t notice.

Hands trembling ever so slightly, you pull them back from the edge of the desk, resting them on your lap over your black stockings. You inch back just a little, re-establishing a safer distance.

Fushiguro follows suit, adjusting himself in his chair before finally picking up your paper, skimming through the pages, eyes flickering over his own barely legible notes scrawled in sharp red ink.

During those seemingly endless seconds, you find yourself watching him more closely. His dark, smooth hair — slightly unkempt, yet effortlessly striking. The shadow of his jawline, even more prominent from your angle. The muscle in his jaw that keeps flexing and relaxing as his eyes dart between the lines.

When he finally looks up, he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“Can you even read?” he deadpans.

“I just need you to explain my mistakes as you correct them. If you need to go over the lesson again, I’m willing to stay as long as—“

“You’re not supposed to stay in my office for who knows how long just to go over mistakes that are already clearly explained in my feedback," he shoots back, narrowing his eyes. “You do realize people have eyes, don’t you? There are tutoring centers with students who’d be more than happy to—“

“I don’t need that,” you interrupt, snatching your paper from his rough, calloused hands—hands big enough to entirely cover yours, making it disappear beneath his palm. "What kind of professor are you?" you mutter under your breath, irritation creeping into your tone. "If this is about last time—"

“Leave.”

The single word freezes you in place.

You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What happened last time isn’t—“

The professor abruptly rises to his feet, and the sheer weight of his presence instantly silences you.

“I said get out.” The words escape his lips faster, louder, and harsher than he probably intended.

Eyes wide, you don’t even dare to exhale, the stray lock of hair in front of your face remaining undisturbed by your breath.

Then, finally, you give up — even if this moment didn’t last as long as you had planned.

“You’re just a coward,” you spit before standing up just as abruptly as his voice had risen, grabbing your things and turning your back on him to storm out of the room.

As the door slams shut with a dull thud, Toji slowly sinks back into his chair, his body feeling heavier than it has in days. A sigh escapes his lips as he leans back against the seat, pressing his cold hands over his burning face.

~~~~

“…and this one…” You hand him your certified copies, each marked with a bold A+ or sometimes an A-, encircled neatly. Your small, hopeful smile is stiff with tension. “This was recent. I spent hours at the library studying.”

Your palm, clammy with a feverish warmth, brushes against the glass surface of the table — so cold it feels almost glacial. Your fingers, trembling in micro-shakes, nudge the papers forward just a little more, silently urging your father to take them.

His bloodshot eyes drop onto the copies, but he doesn’t bother reading the carefully written remarks from your professors. He doesn’t even pick up the sheets to grant them a semblance of interest.

“Not bad,” he finally says, one hand gripping his unshaven chin, scratching at the irritated skin as if lost in thought. “See what happens when you actually try?” he adds after an exhale that sounds almost relieved. The tension in his shoulders loosens slightly.

Your own muscles relax instantly in your chair. You retrieve your papers, though the persistent sting in your chest lingers — after all the effort you put in, the fleeting relief of not being in conflict with him lasts barely a second.

It’s a shame, really, to give your all only to receive the bare minimum in return.

“Sorry I couldn’t do better before,” you murmur, lowering your gaze to the table. Your father lets out a dry chuckle — not mocking, but lighter than it could have been.

“It’s good that you recognize your faults and are trying to make up for them by improving,” he says, arms crossing over his chest, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

As you pack up your things, a thought suddenly resurfaces, prompting you to lift your head. “My criminal justice professor is offering an internship for the top students,” you tell him with a slight smile. “I’m thinking of applying and working a little harder to be among the first selected. Mr. Higuruma is the best, you know.”

Then, in a last attempt to make a better impression, your eyes gleaming with hope, you add, “He’s one of the best lawyers in Japan.”

The words seem to strike a chord.

In a sharp, almost instinctive movement, your father jerks his head up, suddenly giving you the full attention he’s never granted before.

“Good.” He clears his throat, his voice slightly rough. “Excellent, even. Make connections.”

You nod, swinging your bag over your shoulder before leaving the visiting room of the penitentiary center.

By the time you get home, the once-dimming sky has given way to a nighttime landscape, where only the distant hooting of owls replaces the birdsong from earlier. A handful of stars glimmer in the deep blue sky — a beautiful sight, one you hadn’t taken the time to notice in a while.

In the shower, the droplets crash heavily against your skin. The water is hot, yet somehow, it feels as if it’s carrying the weight of your exhausted body.

Once in your pajamas, you feel no urge to stay up longer than necessary to study. With your hair still damp, you curl up in bed, strands sprawled over the pillow. As you close your eyes, you secretly hope that sleep will offer more comfort than certain people ever could.

People who have failed you. Irrevocably.

~~~~

In the small classroom where students start to pour in as the bell rings, Toji grabs a piece of white chalk and writes the lesson’s objective on the board:

“Acquire specific knowledge about certain criminal behaviors.”

The murmurs gradually fade, stifled by the sharp snap of the door closing as Toji shuts it behind the last student to enter. Silence settles in immediately — tense, expectant.

Toji has always had a way of commanding respect. His deep, powerful voice carries the same weight as his silence. He never has to demand authority — it imposes itself.

With a slow, sweeping glance, he scans the room, instinctively taking in every face… until his eyes land on an empty seat.

Yours.

A slight furrow creases his brow. It’s not like you to be late. A quiet inhale, a blink to push aside the unnecessary thought. It’s not his problem. It never has been.

Straightening up, he wastes no time switching on the projector and getting straight to the point.

“Today, we’ll be studying the behavior of past criminals to deepen your understanding of criminal psychology. This course is essential for those pursuing careers in law, law enforcement, profiling, or any profession related to behavioral analysis.”

A pause. Then, in a steadier, more deliberate tone, he continues:

“I’ve chosen our subject of study: Jeffrey Dahmer.”

A faint shiver seems to ripple through the room. Some students straighten up; others exchange intrigued glances. A flicker of amusement brushes against Toji. He gets why some teachers enjoy their job — when students are this captivated, everything becomes more interesting.

He crosses his arms, his expression unreadable, though a faint gleam of interest sparks in his eyes.

“Crime isn’t just blood and headlines. It’s a method. A pattern. An instinct.”

A faint creak draws his attention to the door, which hesitantly cracks open. A familiar strand of hair peeks through the gap.

For a moment, Toji refuses to believe it. But his instincts never fail him.

You.

Your figure follows, more hesitant than usual, moving through the small room under a few curious glances. As you pass him, you mumble a vague, barely audible, “Sorry,” eyes avoiding him.

Toji watches you in silence, his expression impassive. He should call you out for being late. But he doesn’t have the energy — not when he sees your unsteady steps and the unnatural pallor on your face.

Instead, he simply looks away and resumes in a neutral tone:

“As I was saying…”

Feigning indifference, he fixes his gaze somewhere in the room, avoiding yours. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

Nothing happened between you.

That’s what he’s been telling himself since last time. What he has to keep telling himself.

Yet, as he continues his lecture, he can’t help but notice — from the corner of his eye — your trembling hand gripping your pen, your shoulders slightly tense as you take notes with forced concentration, as if trying to ignore your own discomfort. Or at least, that’s what he assumes. Your dark circles look deeper.

His eyes linger a fraction of a second too long. A student catches his gaze and quickly buries themselves in their notes, uneasy. Toji’s jaw tightens imperceptibly before he leans down to display the next slide.

An image appears on the screen: Jeffrey Dahmer’s impassive face during one of his many trials in the ‘90s.

“Jeffrey Dahmer.”

His voice resonates—low, steady.

“Serial killer, necrophile, cannibal. A man who could’ve gone unnoticed but ended up exposing himself.”

A tense silence fills the air. Some students swallow discreetly.

“His method?” Toji lets the pause hang. “Targeting vulnerable victims. Isolated prey. Gaining their trust… before trapping them.”

And this time, he feels your gaze — uneasy, restless, yet futile.

A strange flush rises to your cheeks, but given your almost swaying stance and the way your eyes flicker unstably toward him, an unsettling premonition prickles at the back of his mind.

But with a slight tilt of his head, he dismisses the distracting thought — once again.

Thirty minutes pass. Toji carries on with his lesson uninterrupted. He concludes Dahmer’s biography, letting a heavy silence settle, each student absorbing his words, their attention suspended on the chilling details he unveils. Some avert their eyes, lost in thought, while others remain fixated on the screen.

He continues, diving into the psychology behind criminal behavior, ignoring both the students’ discomfort and their unwavering focus.

A brief nod. Then, his voice takes on a peculiar coldness.

“All of this falls under criminal psychology. The behaviors, the actions… the warning signs.”

He pauses, sweeping his gaze across the room — until, for a split second, he catches what he thinks is your blurred, lost expression, almost pleading for his attention.

Against his better judgment, Toji stares a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

It only takes him turning his back — to you and the entire class — for the sharp scrape of a chair to jolt his ears, making him freeze.

Footsteps. Unsteady, faltering, uneven — light yet heavy and clumsy at the same time.

Or at least, that’s what he thinks he’s hearing.

He turns back to confirm his suspicion — and is met with the dreadful sight of you, staggering, gripping tables for support as if the ground itself is tilting beneath your feet.

Chapped lips part slightly in his direction, your face deathly pale with a sickly green tinge. Your eyes are beyond pleading — vacant, unfocused.

Toji stands momentarily frozen, just as the entire class holds its breath when you murmur, barely holding onto the wall:

“Need to… infirmary…”

Your brows furrow as if battling through pain. And judging by your shaky stance, it’s as if the floor is slipping away beneath you.

Regaining composure in an instant, Toji takes a slow, hesitant step forward — then rushes to catch you just as your legs give out entirely.

In a firm, controlled grip, a distant part of his mind registers that every student is watching. Watching him. Watching the person he’s supposed to hate the most.

His strong arms brace your back, holding you upright as professionally as possible. But the moment your unfocused eyes flutter toward him, he crosses the line he’s been so desperate to maintain.

His voice drops to a whisper, low enough for only you to hear:

“Don’t do this to me…”

The near-inaudible strain in his own voice catches him off guard. But in your now unconscious state, you don’t hear it.

And Toji doubts it even matters anymore.

Exhaling at last — almost in exasperation — he slides an arm beneath your knees and hoists you up effortlessly. He barely tilts his head toward the class, masking any trace of emotion beneath a composed facade.

“A student has passed out. I’m taking her to the infirmary. Class is dismissed.”

~~~~

Your body refuses to respond. Everything seems to come from a distant place — sounds, muffled, swallowed by what feels like the depths of the ocean. Only your hearing seems to resurface, because even as you try to move your limbs slightly, none of them obey. Every part of you is numb.

“...Fuck... couldn’t wait... end... faint...?”

Your eyes flutter open gradually, your blurred vision adjusting slightly but not quite enough. A gentle, rhythmic sway of your hair tells you that you’re on a swing. Or a hammock?

A dark, familiar shirt, infused with a perfume of Yves Saint Laurent — Myself, the one you smell every time he’s around — fills your senses. Massive arms — maybe twice the size of yours — enclose you, holding you relentlessly against a warm chest.

The swaying is pleasant, like a lull. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this light.

A sinister creak nearly makes you wince. A door.

“...student... fainted...” The sound reaches you a little more clearly this time. Deep, low, and composed. A man’s voice.

Another, sharper, feminine, hurried. “...other students... no time... sugar... water... the cabinet...”

Bit by bit, the words exchanged become more than just vague sounds. You begin to process them — and that’s what matters. Especially when you realize you’re in the arms of the last person you’d ever want to be.

You’re carefully laid down onto a mattress, a bed, or maybe a thin foam pad. Just enough to keep it from being too uncomfortable.

Shadows hover over you, growing sharper. One broader, the other slimmer. A woman.

Her cold hand brushes your cheek, then your forehead, before she directs a question at the bulkier figure.

“Did she eat anything?”

Before he can answer — because he doesn’t have an answer — you force your stiff neck to shake your head, though the movement is weak. Still, she seems to understand. She shrugs on some kind of jacket, one you can’t quite make out — not because your vision is still unfocused, but because of the dim, almost eerie lighting in the room.

One of them opens a window, letting in just enough fresh air to brush against your exposed skin, reviving you slightly. The slimmer shadow — the nurse, now that you’re beginning to regain awareness — steps away, leaving you alone with a professor who looks just as lost as you feel.

A soft click of the door. And then, silence.

Pins and needles tingle at the tips of your fingers and toes — a sign that your sense of touch is returning. You swallow. Your head still aches, a throbbing pain pressing at your temples, as if your blood is rushing too fast in one place.

Your lashes flutter as the world around you sharpens, your surroundings becoming clearer. You’re definitely in the infirmary. Pushing yourself up slightly on your arms, you take in the dingy little room, right as the grumbling of a certain professor fills the space.

“Is she fucking serious? What the hell am I supposed to do…?”

Toji’s broad frame rummages through the cabinets above a tiny, chipped sink, the paint peeling in layers that must be over thirty years old. The space is cramped — just a small stainless-steel basin and a counter, half-buried under a mess of paperwork. Coffee and tea mugs, used and abandoned, are stacked haphazardly around the sink, untouched for what looks like days.

“I’m fine…” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. He doesn’t acknowledge it.

It’s already a miracle when Professor Fushiguro finally pulls a glass from one of the cabinets, along with a small box of sugar packets. He gives the glass a quick glance — just enough to make sure nothing is crawling in it — before filling it with tap water.

You focus on the sound of the running water, grounding yourself so you don’t collapse again when you attempt to sit up properly. The effort is pointless when Toji rips open a sugar packet and lets it dissolve into the glass, stirring lazily through the liquid with a spoon he probably found just clean enough.

He holds out the glass to you, his movements measured, keeping a deliberate distance — though that’s nearly impossible in such a cramped, cluttered space.

But you don’t react. Your eyes stay locked on the swirling sugar in the water, watching the undissolved granules dance in a slow, hypnotic spiral.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He grabs your hand, ignoring the way your eyes scream at him — intrusionintrusionintrusionintrusion — letting his jet-black hair fall carelessly over his face as he forces you to take the glass.

Your fingers barely manage to wrap around it. The glass trembles under your weak grip, your strength failing before you can even lift it.

Toji notices the moment the water spills over the rim, dripping onto your shoes, your feet dangling over the side of the infirmary bed.

“Fuck’s sake...” he mutters under his breath, jaw tightening as he snatches the glass back.

This time, he brings it to your lips himself, and though your body tenses at the gesture, you part your lips reluctantly, allowing the cool water to soothe your parched throat.

Your eyes remain fixed on the wall behind him, choosing to glare at the cracks in the peeling paint rather than acknowledge the smug, knowing smirk that threatens to curl at the edges of his lips.

Your silence, your refusal to react, contrasts with the flicker of amusement in Toji’s sharp green eyes. Different from the last time he’d been this close to you.

As soon as the glass is empty, you exhale, clearing your throat, your voice oddly hoarse.

“You should’ve just let me come here on my own.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, the sound surprisingly soft to your ears. Maybe one of the rare times you’ve heard him do anything other than grumble.

Straightening up, he carelessly places the glass in the sink.

“You might’ve forgotten that you passed out in my arms in front of the whole class, huh? Or am I wrong?”

You furrow your brows. “I just felt a little dizzy.”

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms while scrutinizing your face more attentively, his usual dark aura intensified by the lack of light in the room. Another cold draft runs down your spine, making the thin line of sweat trickling along it feel even more chilling.

“And a heatstroke,” you add in a muttered grumble, groggy and displeased, casting an evasive glance toward the empty cabinet in the corner of the infirmary.

“I can leave, by the way. I feel better.”

You push against your hands to stand up, only to almost collapse again as a sudden wave of vertigo assaults your skull.

“You’re staying here.”

Having a different plan from yours, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and forces you back down onto the infirmary cot.

With a sigh that implies you are nothing but a nuisance, Fushiguro ignores your incessant murmuring, opens the cabinets again, and seems to find what he was looking for as his brows relax, accompanied by a quiet “Ah.”

You roll your eyes as he approaches once more, this time with a cloth he has just dampened, bringing it toward your face to press against your undoubtedly flushed skin.

Lifting a weak hand, you push his hand.

“I can do it myself, it’s fine…”

“Do you ever shut up?” he retorts in an exasperated whisper.

So exasperated, in fact, that you don’t even answer back. He pushes your hand down onto your lap and leans in slightly, pressing the cool cloth against your forehead, your cheeks, your chin — where the fabric lingers a second too long.

Destabilized, you hold your breath. Your eyes meet the moment he flickers up from your lips to lock onto yours.

“You’re really funny,” he comments in a low voice, a hint of mocking amusement laced in his tone.

“Do I look funny?” you snap back in contrast, sharp, cutting, despite the pleasant sensation of the cold cloth against your fevered skin.

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to get mad again if I say yes?”

A sigh escapes your chapped lips, which you refrain from wetting, fearing he might misinterpret the gesture as something misplaced and inappropriate, even though that is far from your intention.

Every single one of his movements has a way of irritating you.

“The nurse said you probably had a hypoglycemic episode. Didn’t eat this morning?” he asks with indifference, folding the cloth in half to press a colder side against your skin.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you murmur, barely audible.

He hums, his gaze as neutral as if you had just told him it was raining outside.

“Cover up and eat like the perfect girl you want people to think you are, then.” He steps away to rinse the cloth and wring it out again. On his way back, he drags the nurse’s stool closer, sits down, and resumes his task.

For a fleeting moment, you consider closing your eyes, but fearing he might make a remark, you resist the heaviness of your eyelids, longing for sleep that you stubbornly deny them.

Instead, you fix your gaze on him, scrutinizing him as if it were the first time — not the countless times too many.

There’s a faint, graying scar at the corner of his lips. Left side. The question of how he got it suddenly burns at the tip of your tongue.

“Where’s that from?” And when he furrows his brows, you make a chin wave. He instantly understands what you are referring to.

“Mind your own business.”

“You are daring.”

“As much as you, troublemaker,” he murmurs in a low, gravelly voice, his wrist momentarily freezing as the cloth lingers against your jawline.

The nickname rings out like an old cassette tape someone is trying to rewind.

A past memory someone tried to distort, to bury, to erase forever.

But no matter how deep it’s pushed away, it always resurfaces.

And you two—

You haunt each other.

Never allowing the other to forget a single look, a single touch, a single moment.

Every night, your last thoughts slip into sleep, only for sleep to act not as a relief, but as a mediator. Not to resolve your conflicts, but to bring you back together. To let your souls collide again, even when your bodies refuse to.

Forgetting is impossible.

Even if you force it.

Even if you walk away.

Even if you break, even if you hate, even if you love.

So why not give in?

Lean in. Let your breaths mix, coaxing each other closer like an unspoken spell, a pull, an inevitability — until your fates are sealed by the few inches still left between you.

Eyes locked, unable to meet in any way other than the one dictated by a kiss. A mere press, fleeting in weight, dissolving into the heat of the moment. Never truly feeling the agony of not merging, of always being stuck orbiting each other—

The torture of blinking, because closing your eyes feels like falling into darkness.

Because the second you open them, they might be gone.

Because the moment before might have been nothing more than a dream.

A distant memory, only replayed in the most desperate moments, when you feel at your lowest.

One blink, and the moment will vanish.

One blink, and—

One blink—

One—

With all the effort it would take to lift an anchor barehanded from a ship lost at sea, Toji slowly draws back.

For a brief moment, his eyelids had threatened to close.

But he won’t make that mistake again.

You were never supposed to meet. Let alone end up like this.

So he chooses to close his eyes only when, in the quietest rustle of fabric, you slip out of the infirmary — leaving behind a stolen breath, without ever having touched him.

~~~~

The next few days passed as slowly as they did quickly. A good week in bed, a treatment with medication and a good night’s sleep, always accompanied by a complete diet, your doctor had said with an insistent look at the three words.

The days are as frequently rainy as usual. The nights are just as cold. The landscape is greener, though, you mentally note, temple pressed to your bedroom window.

An exhausted sigh escapes you.

The last events at the university were, unfortunately, those spent in the infirmary with Professor Fushiguro. The torrid radiation of his body next to yours, his gaze plunged into yours, as if lost in the whirlwind of shared memories with vestiges that will never fade.

Every look, every moment gets worse and worse. Crosses the barriers of the forbidden. A ban that turns into irresistible audacity. Impossible to fight.

It’s bad. It’s wrong. And you know it.

That’s why you’ve decided to forget what happened — or at least try to — and take the day off from going back to university on Friday while you’re still on your feet. The weekend has begun, so you might as well catch up on what you’ve been missing.

It’s a better thing to do than let yourself be tormented by persistent thoughts — far too persistent to simply ignore - of your criminological theory professor.

So it’s sitting at your desk, nose plunged in front of your laptop, that your phone rings, vibrating in the corner of the cold wooden surface alongside manuals and printed documents.

First of all, it’s a masked number calling you. And you take the initiative not to answer. No. That’s not advisable, so you ignore the call until it ends.

Returning your attention, still slightly disturbed by this unexpected call, the lessons come back to you. They’re certain, safe. Rational.

Half an hour later, this time it’s a complete number that appears on your phone screen — a number for a real person like you. Just like anyone else. So you decide to take the trouble to answer it, your hand tightening slightly around your screen as you press the button to accept the call.

“Hello?” you say.

There is no answer.

A deathly silence completely paralyzes you as you try as best you can to open your now dry mouth a second time.

“Hello?” you repeat.

But only the chilling silence of the line persisted.

Then, without warning, the call was hung up.

With your heart pumping too fast and too hard in your ribcage, you put your phone back down with not your hand trembling, and your whole body shivering and your muscles frail.

It’s not your habit to panic over a call that could just have been a mistake or a scam — you never know.

But since you started school, nothing has been the same.

You’ve reached a point where every strange or abnormal moment in your life alerts you to a life-threatening danger. Adrenalin pumping more often than it should, or attention sharper than a student cheating on an exam. Every rustle, every sound, every breath is perceived by you.

And it doesn’t matter if people call you paranoid.

Your curtains are drawn. Your front door is double-locked. It’s dead silent in your apartment, and the sun has already set.

Yet the pressure has never been so intense.

Catching the breath you’ve been unconsciously holding, you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs.

Fuck.

And to break down the growing pressure on you, your phone has to vibrate on your table.

A new message.

As you lean your face close to the notification that appears, your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.

XXX-XXX-XXX : Open the door

So someone is there, behind your door, just waiting for you to open it and slit your throat or worse.

Your mouth dehydrated, your swallowing not going and your dead heart losing your brain as you try to figure out what to do.

Call the police?

What if they hear you?

What if he breaks in?

Fuck!

Your legs drag you into the kitchen, every limb shaking in ways you can’t control.

Not now, though.

Your fingers wrap around the thickest, largest knife you have and you pull it out of its compartment. No choice.

Breathlessly, with your back pressed against the flat of the door and your face half-turned towards the peephole, your right eye focuses on the tall, lanky, fully hooded figure — making recognition impossible.

Your sweaty hands grip the handle of your makeshift knife tighter, fearing it will slip from your fingers. Your pupils dilate, your lips part, then...

The shadow lowers its hood and a pair of emerald eyes stare at your door, looking nonchalant and annoyed at the same time.

You unlock the door immediately, and as the door opens on Professor Fushiguro, you threaten to drop the knife at your feet (a very bad idea).

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He ignores your flabbergasted expression to walk past you, while you stand at the foot of the door, still in shock. Meanwhile, Fushiguro unashamedly allows himself to slump heavily on the sofa like an unemployed dad, then lets out a sigh.

“Don’t you have something to drink?” he asks, wringing his neck to eye you up sarcastically. “I mean, it’s not polite to ignore your guests.”

And you want to stab him in the heart with his words. How dare he?

“I’ve got nothing. And what the hell are you doing here already?” you retort tartly, slamming the door to your apartment in the process.

“Checking if you weren’t dead. I was worried about you.” An odious smirk tugs the corner of his lips and he rests his arm on the armrest of the sofa, watching your murderous scowl. “What? Aren’t you happy?”

“It’s you who needs to fuck off, actually. You have nothing to do in my house and you don’t have to send me such dubious messages as to open yourself up with a gun,” you retort, still in the same tone, swinging your knife at the nearest surface — a small piece of furniture supporting a lamp. You rest a hand on your hip, eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you didn’t want anything more to do with me?”

He rises with the utmost laziness and rolls his eyes. “You have a way of drawing people into your troubles, haven’t you noticed?” he replies as he opens your fridge in search of a drink. When he finds his fill, his face lights up slightly with a satisfied expression. “Not bad.”

He picks up a can of beer, which he always opens with slow, nonchalant movements, ogling you with that snide scowl that makes you want to smash his head against your fridge.

It could be a good idea.

A pause sets in, uncomfortable and stifling. Of course you want to get your teacher out of your house — what if someone has seen him?

You need to break this silence as thick as molasses, so you look up at him, noting the significant distance between the two of you before saying:

“Explain yourself,” you both say at the same time.

You frown and, incredulous, you follow up still at the same time as him without being able to control it, “No, you.”

Then you lean against the nearest wall, an annoyed pout on your lips. “You’re the one with something to tell me.”

The remark pricks Fushiguro’s spine and he purses his lips. He seems caught in an inner dilemma before sighing and leaning against the wall opposite yours — the distance between you still as significant as ever. One of his arms is raised to support his freshly stolen beer can.

“Listen,” he begins in a low voice, ”what you saw at the bar you can forget. Neither you nor I were supposed to meet there, were we?” He sustains the heavy eye contact until you give in and nod. “Good.” He takes another sip. “I was on a mission, you were on yours despite my warnings.”

“Because I don’t have to listen to you.”

“And you don’t have to put yourself in danger,” he retorts in a tone that couldn’t be more serious, his eyes on you. “This witness business with the police must stay between us. Or do you want to die? Are you that suicidal?”

“Who told you I was in danger and would die? I may have looked suspicious, but that wouldn’t justify anything—”

“You were in danger several times during that evening,” Fushiguro cuts you off curtly, brushing aside your sentence with a wave of his hand. “My target was armed, another had a knife. Don’t you realize what could have happened to you?”

“No,” you simply reply with a crumpled, shameless expression — pure defiance, out of pride at not having to admit that he’s right and has shown more maturity and humanity than you.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he growls, rolling his eyes.

“We could very well be talking about you,” you retort in the same tone, folding your arms across your chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Since when did you stop being a block of ice?” you murmur. “Now you care about me?”

“Since you started messing up everywhere you go. A real bag of jinxes.”

You gasp at his words. “I could say the same for you who stick to me like a faithful dog!”

“You gave me a theatrical performance in the middle of class,” he retorts, outraged.

And seeing him so revolted makes the shadow of an amused smile pass over your lips. For the first time. But this is no time for laughter.

Despite your cat-and-dog retorts.

“Because I got sick! And what’s more, you refused to help me with my lessons.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need it, goddamnit. You’re one of the best in your class, and you still don’t know it? Or do you want to hide your snoopy nose behind a mask of hypocritical humility?”

His words hang in the air between you two. Your dumbfounded expression almost makes him chuckle.

Almost.

He finally snorts helplessly and rests his gaze on your kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in the room without trying to fill it.

Then you decide to do it.

“So can we pretend it never happened?” you mutter with less sourness.

You see his Adam’s apple twitch as he swallows. “Yeah,” he retorts before craning his neck toward you. “I have no intention of apologizing, troublemaker. But I would like to say in my defense that I was only protecting us. That must remain clear. It didn’t mean anything.”

And the way she avoids saying the word “kiss” makes your breathing slightly heavier around you.

You nod without breaking the silence in your turn. Night has fallen from your window and a bluish aspect of this early evening hour comforts you a little.

You’re not alone right now. And even though he’s the person you despise most in the world, this simple moment, this decision to come to you even to knock on your hinges, makes your heart weak.

Because even if that kiss didn’t mean anything, it marked a change between the two of you. In your relationship — conflicted, at best, but forever intertwined nonetheless. Even if that kiss will never mean anything to her, it will to you.

“How did you get sick?” Fushiguro asks in a low voice — conducive to an unsought but natural intimacy — as he takes yet another sip of his beer.

“Slept with my hair still wet,” you respond as you avert your gaze on the kitchen’s counter too. “And I haven’t eaten very well for a while.” You blow out a small exhalation. “It must have built up.” After a moment’s pause, you add, “But I’m better now,” as if answering an unspoken question.

The soft, intimate atmosphere warms a cold block somewhere-you don’t know where, or even him, on the spot. Opening up seems more likely now, despite the fact that there’s still this unknown that links you with Professor Fushiguro.

Him in his zip-up sweatshirt and an old pair of jogging pants straight from the thrift shop or the back of the wardrobe. And that’s when you notice how tall he is. Much taller than most teachers or students.

But it’s not just this factor that plays into it, or even his muscles drawn like those of a Greek statue.

No, it’s more an aura, an energy he exudes.

Perhaps it’s due to the environment he frequents, but you won’t know the answer to that today.

Finishing his can of beer in one gulp, Toji walks over to the nearest basket and drops the empty metal with a rustling sound. Your eyes devour him with every move he makes; the way he passes a slow glance over the details of your home, like a stray cat looking for something.

His expression is more peaceful, you notice, a little pensive pout on his lips and his eyebrows slightly furrowed in your torpor. He seems so harmless at this moment. His features are calm, open — a stark contrast to anything you’ve experienced recently.

It’s like a small step in the shadows, slowly but surely leading you towards the light.

Your eyes then follow his every step, leaving the open kitchen and passing between the living room sofa and the few small furniture holding lamps and other personal objects to which he pays little attention. Just one of his glances, however, manages to catch your attention.

Having approached the area of the wall you’re leaning against, Professor Fushiguro catches his gaze on the picture frames hanging on the wall. He halts his steps and stops at one photo in particular — one that makes your heart beat much faster than the reason for this proximity between the two of them.

The photo is one of many, you would have explained, but that would have been a lie.

In the shot, you appear in the middle, much younger than you are today. Two adults wrap their arms around your shoulders, staring straight ahead at Fushiguro and yourself, grinning from ear to ear — especially yours.

A woman stands to your right. The same smile to match, and the same expression and warmth that form your features.

The man on your right has the same smile, albeit with a different feel. He looks as much like you as he is different. His irises emanate a determination, a will of his own that can be recognized in your gaze.

The three figures are bundled up in winter coats with garish red scarves. The moment frozen. Impossible to erase.

“Is this your family?” Toji articulates in a low voice. He gives you a quick glance before returning his attention to the shot, eyebrows arched a hair’s breadth in concentration.

You nod, without adding to what you might have done to find out exactly where they are. You don’t feel like talking anymore. You might as well talk about every possible subject, but not this one.

So you turn your head away and whisper instead, praying that he’ll take his eyes off the pictures, “Professor...”

He turns to you, the distance between you two now reduced to a meter or so.

“Now... do you think we can really make peace?” you whisper so low that he has to read your lips to reply with the same even timbre.

“I... suppose so, yes.” He shoves his hands into his jogging suit pockets, meeting your gaze with a gleam that throws you off balance for a second.

Could this be vulnerability?

You shake the idea from your head and close your eyes for a moment. It couldn’t be. Not from the coldest person you’ve met in weeks.

So you simply nod, savoring this exchange of simple, sweet words spoken with all the simplicity in the world.

“How did you get my phone number, anyway?” you ask as he moves ahead of you towards the door.

He stops, his hand around the handle, but doesn’t turn it immediately.

He half turns his head to face you. “Higuruma has passed on to me some of the candidates’ files for the work-study offer so that I can make recommendations on the best files and those to avoid.” He pauses briefly. “I took the opportunity to get your number, as you’ve been pretending to be dead and I was afraid someone would come after me,” he adds with a tiny, sarcastic smile.

You feel the red creep up your cheeks before mumbling a soft ‘okay’.

You walk him out of your apartment and stop at the door. Your eyes remain fixed on his back as he walks down the hall towards the elevator.

A twinge tingles in the stupid organ that serves as your heart.

“Professor?”

He stops without turning around.

You hesitate for a second before blurting out, “You know we shouldn’t have met, right?”

He deliberately turns around, his emerald irises plunging into yours as if into the deepest abyss as his words — though spoken in a low voice — echo as loudly and far down the corridor as they do in your mind.

They mark something inside you that he’s letting you glimpse.

A crack in your teacher, so impervious to communication or anything to do with you.

He purses his lips, slightly hesitant, before declaring gruffly:

“I’ve never had any luck, troublemaker. No matter who I meet, I destroy everything I touch.”

~~~~

In the night, owls hoot in turn. The deep blue sky inks the sky, the wind’s breath caresses the branches and leaves of the trees as if to lull them to sleep. A few timid stars sparkle in the sky.

Tonight, you’re wrapped up in your warm blankets, looking for sleep that has deserted you for long hours. It's impossible to sleep in such brooding silence.

Your phone, resting on your bedside table, turns on and displays a new message notification after vibrating one time.

The heart swelled with a bubble of hope, you immediately grab your phone to read the contents and the recipient. Despite the apparent disappointment on your face, a smile blooms on your lips in the darkness of the room. It’s not the one you were hoping to read, but that doesn't make the message any less valuable.

Satoru: awake?

You: what’s up?

One minute later, he replies:

Satoru: ready to watch us play? (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

You chuckle softly, an even bigger smile stretching your cheeks without you having any control over it. Then you answer:

You: more than ready

❦ a/n: lmaooooo 😂😭 okay okay, i’m very sorry guys for this. it’ll be soon almost a year since i haven’t updated this series but hey, we’re here now, aren’t we? 🥹 ahem, anyway funfact: i wanted to give to toji a perfume signature, so i went to sephora today and asked a salewoman (she was so sweet <3) to help me and here came my choice of Myself by YSL. the scent is extra toji, i swear! i couldn’t choose anything so if you’re curious, check at their stores! :)

i hope you guys enjoyed this part 2 and i’ll try my best to write the part 3 asap (i even started it)! (i tagged some ppl who commented on the last part and where enjoying it so i won’t feel too bad but i won’t do it for the following parts haha.)

if you want to be added in the tag list, just tell me on the series masterlist and i’ll tag you for sure!! (PUT YOUR AGE IN BIO) thank you all for reading this story <3 it means really the world to me :)

likes and reblogs are very appreciated!

❦ tags: @sutaagaaru @skunabby @mionedray @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @anathemaspeaks @hawt-dilf-sycker11 @lymsfm

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe

@bearwithmoo @mutsu422

@sanemistar @monokaix

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 7 months ago

Note

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! 🥳🎈🎂🎁

“What if I kissed you right now? Would you stop me?" with Kid (fem!reader, NSFW) pretty please? <3

Hello, anon! Thank you for the birthday wishes (it feels weird still thanking birthday wishes when it's been more than a month!). Thank you so much for your request, it turned out to be one of my favourites! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writting it!

Art: Here; Artist: @wesaier (pleeeease follow, such amazing art!)

Reverence 🔞

Word Count: 6302

Tags: Fem!Reader; Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Kid has both arms; Posessive!Kid; Soft!Kid; Reverent!Kid; Fluff and Romance; Love Confessions; Body Worship; Just Worship in general; NSFW; MDNI; Fingering; Vaginal Penetration; Oops, no protection (wrap it up, peeps);

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You and Kid are neighbours and very good friends. You flirt a lot, all in good fun, obviously, and he makes fun of every single one of your loser dates. When the last date goes south and you call Kid for help, will your relationship blosom into something else?

|Masterlist|

The clock’s nearly at the hour, but you're almost ready anyway, just some finishing touches on your hair and makeup, and you'll be done. “I look hot.” You say as a pep talk to your reflection and do a little twirl. Hot dress, nice makeup, perfect hair, you're ready for a nice date in town.

And you're more than ready for it to end up with a nice, hot lay. Third-date rule be damned to hell. You've been in the longest dry spell since forever, and your toys aren't quite cutting it at the moment, but the dating scene isn't really offering the best choice of male specimens around. Maybe this time you'll get lucky.

Just as the clock turns to the hour, the doorbell rings. You give yourself one last nod before heading out of the bathroom and opening the door with a bright smile. One that immediately falls at the sight that greets you.

“Kid?”

“Well, well, well. Look at ye, all dolled up for a night in town? Another one of yer charity cases ye insist on callin’ dates?”

A twitch of a smile tugs at the corner of your lips, but you don't fully smile, instead you cock your head to the side and place a hand on your hip. “Hey, at least I get out of the house, you big hermit.”

You’ve known Kid for almost a year, since you moved into the building. He looks menacing and gruff with all his ear piercings, huge size, and spiky red hair, but you suspect he's a big softie on the inside. You and he flirt and banter like there's no tomorrow and, admittedly, he's been the star of a few of your fantasies, but neither of you has decided to take things further. Perhaps because living in the same building has every chance of making it awkward if things go wrong. Still, you're good friends.

He owns a mechanic’s garage and has saved your ass more times than you can count. Be it because of car troubles, leaking faucets, or visiting snakes - yes, that’s happened. He’s always there for you, and he’s the first person you go to when you’re in trouble. You have thought of him with more fondness than you would for a normal friend, but just like you two never pushed the limits of your friendship for sex, you wouldn’t even consider bending them for romantic involvement.

“What are ye yappin’ about? I just got in! Been working till now.”

He moves past you and makes himself comfortable on your couch, manspreading while you search around for the perfect pair of heels to complement your dress.

“All work and no play, Kid? No wonder you're no fun. Hey, do these work?” You strut around in the highest pair of heels you own, ones that make your legs go on for days. Kid's eyes follow you around as he focuses on your shoes, then his eyes follow your legs, bum - you give him a few poses so he can judge - chest, and finally settles on your face. His eyes seem darker, and there's no hint of his usual smirk on his lips.

Clearing his throat, he averts his gaze with just the barest flush on his cheeks. “They work alright. Maybe too good.” He mutters. “Who’s the asshole?” Kid checks his watch and grins. “He's already ten minutes late, are you sure he's worth it? Don't even put up the effort.”

“Maybe he got lost?” You try, with a heavy sigh. It’s a setup date. A work friend's cousin or something like that. He's hot, and today that's all that really matters.

“Aye, aye. Ye do know how to pick’em. Ye always choose the random losers to go out on dates.” He lets out a loud, barking laugh. “I told ye before, I’ll say it again: ye don’t need to leave the building if ye want company. I’m right here, lass.”

His cocky smirk is endearing, and that familiar warmth that comes from his flirting and all the attention he spares you always manages to make you smile like a silly little girl, but just before you manage to answer him, the doorbell rings again

“Oh, it's him. Kid, get out.” Kid sighs and gets up, standing behind you with an intimidating stance as you open the door. “Hi! I was afraid you weren't going to show up.” You try to lighten the mood with a small giggle, and Kid mutters something behind you. Your date smiles widely, barely notices Kid, and openly stares at you, taking you in head to toe.

“Well, the photo my cousin showed does not do you justice. Had I known, I would've come faster.” Oh, God. Is he really going to be just another asshole? You can already feel it.

Kid growls behind you and steps out of your apartment, making sure your date acknowledges his presence now, but you continue speaking, trying to defuse the situation. “This is my friend, Kid. He was just leaving.” You emphasise the last words and raise your brows at Kid, who merely grunts. “Shall we go?”

“Oi, lass, better take a coat, no?” Kid’s scowl deepens as he gives you another once-over, clearly catching all the ogling your date is giving you.

“Don't worry, friend, I'll make sure she stays warm.”

And before Kid says - or does - anything to your date before it even has the chance to start, you push him down the hallway so he can go to his house. “Bye, Kid. Don't wait up.”

-*-

The date sucks. Your date is obnoxious, self-centred, arrogant, and a downright prick. By dessert, you're dying to go home. His conversations are dull, and he barely lets you speak, instead filling every opportunity with something remarkable about himself.

Plus, he makes you split the bill.

When you make it outside the restaurant, he sets his hand on your lower back, and you warm a bit, thinking he's about to pull you close and trade places with you, obeying the sidewalk rule like a gentleman. Instead, the prick gropes your ass.

“Can you just take me home?” You grunt, clearly over this date, so he leads you to his car.

-*-

Kid keeps tossing and turning in his bed. He needs to sleep. He has to get up early in the morning. But you're still not home. He doesn't mean to pry, but he always hears the soft clicks of your heels in the hallway and the setting of your lock in place when you enter your home. Only when he hears those sounds can he rest at ease. If not, he keeps wondering if you're alright, if you're hurt, if your prick of a date tried something, or worse… if you actually liked him and he's going to have to get used to seeing you with some other man who’s not him.

A heavy sigh parts his lips, and he's wondering if he'll be able to get up in the morning if he indulges in a few glasses of scotch. He's considering taking his chances when his phone rings. It's you. Kid’s heart skips a beat, his head immediately considering all the possible wrong things that may have happened as he presses the green button to take your call.

“Lass?”

“Kid, thank God you're awake. My date's car broke down. Can you come and… fix it?”

What the fuck?

“No! It's almost midnight, I'm not going there to fix his car so ye two can get laid. Grab a cab!”

He's actually pissed you called just for that. Like he gives two shits about helping the asshole get laid. With you!

“Kid… please, can you come?” Except there's something else in your voice, a vulnerability he's never heard before, almost as if you're scared of something, on edge.

Has the bastard done something to you?

“Send me yer location. Now.” He gets dressed in the blink of an eye, packing his pocket knife before leaving the house.

-*-

You're so cold. No, that's putting it lightly, it literally feels like you're stranded in the North Pole. You should've just brought a jacket like Kid said. But then again, how could you have guessed you'd be standing in the gusting wind with nothing but your skimpy dress on? You were supposed to be inside a restaurant, then the car, and then, if everything went well, your house and your bed.

But now, your date is inside the car with a bloody - probably broken - nose, cursing you, and you're outside with your pepper spray ready in hand in case the asshole tries anything else.

After what feels like forever, you hear the loud rumbling of Kid's motorcycle and let out the biggest sigh of relief ever. Seconds later the headlights of his Harley Davidson shine on the curb and he stops the bike in front of you. As soon as he steps out and removes his helmet, his usual scowl turns into a full frown, teeth baring as he glances from you, to your hand, and to your prick of a date. Without a word, he removes his leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, helping you pass your arms through the sleeves. While he's zipping it up, he growls. “What the fuck happened?”

Still shivering, you sigh into the warmth of the jacket, inhaling Kid's familiar scent: metal, gasoline, and something musky that feels like home. Then you shrug and pout. “He got handsy. I don't like liberties, so I punched him.”

You can see Kid fighting off an amused smirk. “Ye broke his nose?”

“Just a little.” You whine.

Kid looks at you, chin up and a full smirk on his lips now. Then he pats your head. “That's my girl.”

Just on cue, the asshole opens up his car door, and Kid grins at the sight. The prick’s eyes are already darkening with bruises, his nose looks crooked, and there are blood splatters all over him.

“You the mechanic? Figured.” He scoffs. “Fix my car, then! I want to get out of here and away from that crazy bitch.”

You flinch and shake your head. That was a wrong move. If he thinks you're crazy, he's about to get a dose of Eustass Kid he won't forget.

“Kid, there’s no need to hurt him anymore. I don’t want him to call the cops.”

Kid chuckles low, reaches into his pocket, and takes out his trusted pocket knife, twirling it in his hand like a toy. “Listen here, buddy.” Kid pins the man to his car with a mere look. The poor bloke nearly trips over his feet just to gain some distance. “When ye get home tonight, yer going to say a little prayer to whatever angel’s watchin’ over you, because if the lady - not a crazy bitch, ye asshole - didn't tell me not to hurt ye, ye’d leave here with a lot more than just a broken nose.” Kid laughs some more as he pulls back. “But I'll fix yer car, I'll fix it up real good.”

Popping the hood open, Kid starts cutting wires with his knife. You don't know shit about mechanics, but you’re pretty sure that cutting those wires isn’t going to make the car start.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing? You're not fixing it!”

“No?” Kid closes the hood, drags the pocket knife along the side of the car, and slashes two tires. “Oops. Maybe I'm just not a very good mechanic.” Kid rounds the car and slashes the other two tires, stopping in front of the prick again. “But I'm not that bad. I'm goin’ to give ya two options, ye arse. One, ye stay in yer car ‘till mornin’ and try to get a tow to collect this piece of junk. Two, ye start walkin’ and pray you reach town by mornin’.”

“What?” The man asks, eyes wide and scared.

“Oh, the important part. I'll be callin’ every shop around so they can refuse ye service, but they only open in the mornin’. So if ye want yer car fixed, better start walkin’ and pray ye reach a shop before I call ‘em.”

“But, but… we're in the middle of nowhere! It'll take all night to get to town!” He whines, a trickle of blood still dripping from his crooked nose. “And I'm hurt!”

Kid leans in, his scowling face almost on top of the asshole, and you revel at the way he cowers in fear. “Should've thought of that before ye groped a feel, aye, bastard?” Then Kid pulls his fist back, and the man screams, but Kid just laughs at his cowardice, turns his back to him, and pockets his knife. “I'd start walkin’ if I were ye.”

You smirk as you hear the car lock and watch your failed date’s retreating form.

“Thanks, Kid.” Your words are a mere mumble. You don't really want to admit that you should've just stayed home, like Kid told you to. But he merely grunts as he walks to his bike, plucking his helmet from the handlebars and placing it over your head with a soft pat.

“Aye, lass.” His thick fingers reach beneath the helmet, grazing your skin as he fastens the strap tightly to fit your smaller head. The fierceness of his bronze gaze as he stares through the open visor makes you shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. With another grunt and a muffled curse, he hooks two fingers under the helmet and pulls you close, making you stumble and face him with wide-open eyes. “No more asshole dates. Got it?” His gaze burns into yours, and you nod just before he slams your visor down and lets go of the helmet. “Let's get out of here.”

As soon as he turns on the bike, revving the engine, you feel hot tears stream down your cheeks. You were acting tough and badass, but things could've gone terribly wrong tonight. You could've frozen instead of punching him; he could've manhandled you and forced you into whatever he wanted; instead of a bruised up ego, you could've ended up much worse. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, you can’t seem to keep the tears away.

No one will see you cry anyway.

So you wrap your arms tight around Kid, your knees pressing into his sides as you fix your feet on the pegs. You're safe now. Kid has always brought you a sense of safety, even though you never really needed it before. That's why you called him tonight, not because he's a mechanic, but because you needed him. Not even to take care of the guy - you certainly did that - but just knowing he would come if you asked… that's everything.

The ride is long until you get home, so you can cry it all out now. He won't notice.

Except he does notice, because his big hand wraps around your knee, squeezing tightly and caressing it after. The soft gesture only makes you sob harder, so you hold him even tighter.

You notice his heavy scowl when he tilts his head back. “Ye alright there, lass?” You try to speak, but if you open your mouth, you know that you'll only sob, so you just squeeze him tighter. Kid grunts and, after a moment, he slows down the bike and turns onto a smaller road, driving you to a secluded clearing surrounded by trees.

As soon as the bike stops, you scramble to get off, unzip the jacket, leaving it open and fumble with the helmet strap, your fingers shaking like leaves. “Oi, oi, calm down, lass.” His fingers move swiftly as he helps you unstrap the helmet and sets it on the handlebars. “What's wrong?”

You shake your head, swallowing tears and wiping your face clean. Kid reaches out, hand in the air as he tries to cup your cheek, but you take a step back and bite your lower lip, stifling another sob. “I’m fine.” You mutter without meeting his gaze. Your voice wavers on the words, and you sound weak. “It’s nothing. I don’t need coddling.”

Kid scoffs slightly, his eyebrow raising as he takes a step back, giving you the space you clearly need. “Yer shakin’ like a damned leaf. Don’t need to act tough. It’s just me here.” The softness beneath his rough tone makes you want to cry harder, so you just nod. “Yer tough as steel, lass, I know that. But even steel gets bent now and then. And it's okay.”

Another tear escapes your eyes, and you swipe the sleeve of Kid’s jacket against your face, angrily, your shoulders squaring as you raise your chin, a humourless laugh escaping your lips, even though your eyes don’t meet his. “I guess I should’ve listened to you, huh? You kept telling me not to bother with random losers who don’t deserve me… and yet… I didn't listen.”

Your words carry all the weight of the world in them. Unspoken possibilities of ignored ‘what ifs’. If you had listened to Kid, would you feel less vulnerable? If you hadn’t dressed so provocatively, would the asshole still have tried something?

“Don’t go there, lass. Ye don’t gotta blame yerself for the actions of an arse.” His fingers inch forward, flexing and grasping at the air, like he wants to hold you or comfort you. Like he means to put your broken pieces back together so he can fix you. “Ye didn’t do anythin’ wrong.”

“But what if I did?” You ask, exasperated, arms stretching wide as a hiccup fights its way up your throat. “He said so himself: ‘why are you denying me when you’re dressed like a slut? It’s like you’re asking for it!’ So what if I was? Asking for it? What if I had dressed–..”

“No!” Kid walks forward, his hands cupping your face so you finally look at him. “Ye weren’t asking for anythin’. If he can’t keep it in his pants, that’s on him. Not ye.” Kid nearly growls, you can almost feel the anger seething through his pores. It’s almost as if he’s weighing getting back on the bike and finding your date to hurt him.

You step back, breaking contact again. “But what if I froze, Kid? What if I didn’t have it in me to punch him? To push him? It all happened so fast… I could’ve done something different, I–...”

“Ye did what ye had to do. Yer strong as fuck, and ye showed him that. I don’t think that nose is ever gonna heal straight.” Kid cocks his head and shoves your shoulder playfully, trying to distract you. “Ye got a mean hook.”

A semblance of a laugh leaves your lips, and you turn your hand into a fist, swinging it in the air. “Yeah, I know. I locked it all the way back like this, and then… Bam! Right on the nose!” You swing straight for Kid, trying to alleviate the tension.

He barks a laugh and grabs your wrist mid-air, stopping your swing. “So strong, lass. If I were a fly, I’d be dead right now.” You chuckle, and some of the dread from before leaves your chest. Kid’s eyes fall on your bruised knuckles, and they soften. “It was a shite situation ye were put in. It was not yer fault. There was nothin’ ye could’ve done different, got it?” He gently kisses your knuckles before caressing them with his thumb.

“I just… I… God, this is so stupid.” You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m lonely, Kid. It’s stupid, and I know it. I don’t need a man to be fulfilled, but I am. I’m lonely.” Shaking your head, you remove your hand from his grip and hide your face in your hands.

“Lonely?” Kid repeats your words, his voice rougher again. “What do ye mean? Ye got me, aye?”

Your laugh strikes suddenly, mirthful at first, then simmering down to a resigned smile. “That’s what you said. You told me I didn’t even need to leave the building if I wanted company.”

He smirks and takes a step closer to you. “Exactly. But I didn’t mean it like ye don’t deserve the world, lass. I meant it like… like I can be the one to give ye that world, if ye let me.” His cheeks flush a bit red, his voice is still rough, but his eyes are filled with gentleness.

Your gaze meets his again, and you blink several times. He’s looking at you like nothing else matters in the world. Almost as if you and he are the only important thing happening right now and you have the distinct feeling that if there were a war raging around you, you would still be the only thing that mattered to him.

“Tell me, lass. What if I kissed ye right now, hm?” His hands grab yours, his calloused thumb tracing circles on your knuckles. “Would ye stop me?”

What?

Your chest heaves with heavy breaths as your heart hammers away. You don’t want to stop him at all. You want him. You’ve wanted him for a while, and your tired brain tells you that maybe that’s why none of your dates worked. Because, unconsciously, they were not the ones your heart and body craved.

Your eyes soften as you take another step closer to Kid. “Why don’t you give it a try?” The whispered words are a promise of compliance, and Kid lets out a shaky growl before leaning down and taking your lips in his. His hand finds your neck, and he entwines his fingers through your locks, his mouth claiming yours as his other hand finds your waist and pulls you closer.

You sigh into the kiss, clenching his shirt with your hands, moulding yourself into his body like he’s your lifeline. This is all you’ve ever wanted, and you can’t even begin to fathom why you thought this was crossing a line.

Breathless, you both pull back while Kid’s hands cup your cheeks, his gaze never leaving yours. “Kid… I want more.” You plead, your nails digging into his muscular chest.

“Ye sure, lass?” The roughness in his voice tells you he’s as overwhelmed as you are. “Because if I start, I’m not gonna want to stop.”

The words make your stomach flip, and you grin, grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer to you. “I don’t want you to stop.” Then his lips are on yours again. The kiss is more urgent, fiery, and hungry. His hands roam your sides, settling on your hips and pulling you impossibly closer. He pulls back a smidge, breaths still mingling as he kisses his way down your jawline, his hand settling on your neck and tilting it to the side for better access.

“All this time watchin’ ye leave the apartment to go on dates with losers.” Kid nibbles your neck and sucks, pulling a mewl from your lips. “Knowin’ they’d never treat ye right, like ye deserve. None of them knew what a gem ye are.” Another lick and bite on the curve of your neck makes you gasp and roll your eyes, your arms wandering up and holding Kid by his neck.

With a quick pull, Kid lifts you off the ground, and you wrap your legs around his waist, feeling your dress ride up with the action, not caring one bit. He backtracks you to the bike and sets you sideways on the seat. As you fix your stare on his fiery eyes, all you can see is hunger and devotion, and that sends a thrill through your spine.

“I only want you, Kid.” You pull him down again, allowing him to take your tongue in his with languid strokes of passion. His fingers trace your collarbone and slither beneath the jacket to your shoulders. With a tug, he pulls the jacket off, and you shimmy out of the fabric, leaving your arms bare for him to caress.

“Damn right. I know how to treat ye right. Ye’ll see. Fuckin’ losers. Night after night, agonisin’ when ye’d choose one to be yer boyfriend.” He growls near your ear, his fingers never stopping their silent worship on your body, lighting fires with each stroke and igniting a heat between your thighs that starts to demand attention. He pulls back for a moment, placing his thumb and forefinger on your chin, tilting it up so you can meet his eyes through the fog of desire that clouds them.

“Five.”

“What?” You ask, still dazed, your body tingling from all the kisses and touches he’s laying on you.

“I watched ye go out with five losers this month alone.” Five? You can barely remember three, that’s how unmemorable they were. Kid leans in, brushing your ear with his lips, his other hand travelling to your nipple and toying with it through the fabric, making you suck in a breath. “That’s how many times ye’ll come for me tonight, lass. To make sure ye forget those losers.”

Five times?

“Kid, I–...” You begin, but he cuts your rambling with another soul-shattering kiss, his hands plucking your breast from the confines of your skimpy dress and fully groping it. Instinctively, you buck your hips against him, trying to grind him or feel some friction, anything.

“Calm down, lass. We have plenty of time. I’m not gonna rush anythin’. I told ye, I’m gonna treat ye right.” He lowers his lips, tracing a line of kisses from your neck to your collarbone, and then he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking and twirling it against his teeth, pulling a deep moan from your lips. “Fuck, ye sound better than I ever imagined.”

Kid lets go of you and climbs onto the seat of the bike. You’re about to turn to him, but he turns you around, making you face the handles of the bike, your back flush against his chest. Then he spreads your legs open, placing them over his thighs. You shiver when the cold wind hits your sensitive spot, your panties already soaked through. “Lean back, lass.”

Breathing faster and faster from anticipation, you melt against him, feeling his taut muscles ripple against your back. Your dress has ridden all the way to your hips, baring your legs to him and leaving you exposed. Kid uses one hand to tease your nipple while still kissing your neck and the curve of your shoulder. Then his other hand, traces the inside of your thigh, creeping closer to your core, making you gasp and hold your breath in want and need.

“Kid!” Your plea is evident, but you know he’s going to take his time with you. Everything about the situation has you on edge already. The powerful feel of his bike beneath you, his strong muscular frame enveloping you, his fingers hovering just near your entrance.

“So perfect, look at ye. See how well ye fit against me? Like ye were made just for me?” His fingers trace your slit over the panties, testing and teasing. “See? All wet and ready for what I have to give to ye. I can be all ye ever want, lass. Just let me.”

“Yes, Kid, please. I want you to.” His scent is intoxicating. It clings to you like a second skin, enveloping you in safety, warmth, and so much desire.

With a desperate grunt, Kid shifts your panties and plunges one digit inside your slit, turning your plea into a wanton moan as you arch your back, your hands finding purchase against his muscular thighs.

“So wet for me. Look at ye. I want to hear you scream my name, lass. Every time I make you come, yer gonna scream my name. Yer mine now. I’m never gonna let ye go.” He inserts another finger, his palm stroking and pressing your clit, and damn it if you’re not just there at the edge, ready to come undone for him. “It’s like I’ve known yer body all my life. I know how to make ye feel good, aye?”

“Yes, Kid, yes!” Your head lolls back as you mewl, his ministrations making your head spin, turning you into a puddle of mush. With a few more strokes, he pushes you over and you gasp out his name, blinding pleasure coursing through your veins, turning your vision white.

“That’s one.” He whispers against your ear, and then he doesn’t relent, his fingers keep pulling pleasure, pressing on your G-spot with his rough fingertips, turning the smaller waves of dissipating pleasure into something else, something more.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” You start chanting as a surge of bliss travels up your spine, tingling, igniting, burning.

“Wrong name, lass.”

“Kid! Kid!” You scream as your release topples over the previous one, briefer but more pleasurable.

“Two.” Kid removes his fingers from your core, leaving you panting for air as you lie, burning against him, all the previous cold of the night vanishing from your thoughts. He gets up from the bike, unbuckling his belt and taking out his massive cock. Instinctively, you bite your lower lip. It’s been a while since you’ve had anything real down there, and he’s bigger than your average toy.

“Satisfied?” He asks with a grin.

“I’m sure I will be.” You answer him back, earning a barking laugh.

“Turn on the seat, lass.” You do as he says, and Kid sits back down where he was, pulling your legs over his so you wrap them around his waist. “I hope ye don’t love yer panties too much.” You don’t even have time to question his sentence when he rips your panties off of you, making you gasp as another surge of heat courses through you. “Fuck, yer so perfect.”

You sigh and let your fingers trace the muscles of his abs over his shirt. Then your hand goes lower as you take his pulsating, veiny cock in your hands. You can’t help but lick your lips at the sight. Kid grunts and lets you pump him a few times until a bit of pre-cum starts leaking through the top.

“Aye, aye, enough, lass. Tonight’s about yer pleasure.” Kid gently removes your hand from his cock as he takes your lips in another fiery kiss, bringing you closer to him until you can feel him pressed against your thigh. “I’ve wanted ye since I saw ye. Since the day I helped ye move yer things into yer flat, I knew ye were the one for me.”

You can see the truthfulness in his eyes, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen in him. His fingers trace every curve of your face and jaw, and his eyes follow, as if he’s memorising all of you, soaking you in. His lips go in after, kissing you, worshipping every inch of you like a revered acolyte.

“Yer all I’ve ever wanted. Yer too perfect.” His hands find purchase under your thighs as he pulls you into him, sinking slowly into you. The stretch of his cock inside of you stings and burns, so you wrap yourself tighter around him, your face buried in the crook of his neck as his hands snake up your spine, cradling your neck. “There ye go. Slowly, we got time, lass. I’ve been dreamin’ of this since we met.”

He keeps pushing slowly into you until he’s fully sheathed. You take small breaths to accommodate him, but the sting of the stretch is long gone. The burn that you’re met with demands something very different now. “Show me, Kid. Show me how much we belong together.” You whisper into his ear, and then leave a trail of kisses down to his lips, shifting your hips slightly, showing him you’re ready.

“Ye have no idea what ye do to me. Ye drive me wild.” He leans his forehead against yours and starts to thrust lazily into you. You can feel every vein, every ridge of his cock touching your walls, rubbing them, igniting flames of pleasure inside you.

“Kid…” You moan out his name, pleasure mounting already as every thrust hits a perfect spot.

“Took me long enough to say it, lass. Took me too long. I didn’t know if ye wanted me back. Thought I was friend-zoned. Fuck, yer tight.” You thread your fingers through his hair, every movement making you dizzier as he keeps kissing your body, touching every curve and dip as if he’s committing all of you to his touch, to his memory.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe this is happenin’. I’m afraid I’ll wake up alone again in my bed.” Kid grunts and thrusts a bit harder, making you topple over the edge you’ve been playing at with a loud cry of his name. Your walls squeeze him tighter as your bliss washes through you in waves. “Three. Fuck.”

The chill of the night has nothing on both of you. You can feel little droplets of sweat running down your spine, and Kid’s forehead is damp with effort.

“Yer mine now. Tell me ye’ll no longer go after fuckin’ losers. Say ye’ll want only me.” You nod, back arching into him, seeking more pleasure as his reverent touches and devoted words wrap a fog of lust and love around you. You feel overwhelmed with emotion. You had no idea that Kid felt like this over you. “I need to hear it, lass.” He seems desperate to know you want him, so you force a thought to materialise in the form of words.

“I’m yours, all yours. Forever, Kid.” That snaps something in him, and he wraps your waist, both feet planted firmly on the ground to keep steady. With a flick of his wrist, he turns on the bike and revs the engine, making it vibrate and purr under you, adding another layer of stimulation to your already stimulated self. With two harsh thrusts - a contrast to his steady, languid previous ones - you shatter again with another long cry of his name.

“Four. One more, lass. We’ll take this one together, aye?” You can barely think straight. Every nerve is tingling with pleasure, every bone is quivering with want, and every muscle is aching with release.

“Kid… Kid…” You can barely utter a single word. Kid kisses your forehead softly, his hand pressing gentle circles on your back before he revs the engine again. You moan and clutch his shirt, barely able to stand straight as his thrusts become faster, harder, and more relentless.

“I’ll be all ye’ve ever wanted, all ye’ve ever needed. I’ll make ye feel good every day, ye’ll never feel lonely with me, lass. Yer mine, all mine, aye?” You nod once more as he guides your body back, and you feel the cold metal of the bike against your spine. The new angle makes him repeatedly hit your G-spot, and you know you’ll unravel fast.

“Kid, I’m gonna come.” You manage to breathe out between pants and moans, and you have no idea how much strength you still have left. Though Kid seems to have stamina that goes on for days, you’re already feeling overstimulated.

His thrusts are more erratic, his breath coming in short puffs of air. “Aye, aye, lass. I’m right there with ye.” And as you arch your back against the motorcycle, already losing yourself to a wave of ecstasy, Kid leans forward, letting out a primal grunt against your ear, and unloading his seed inside you, filling you up as your eyes water with bliss.

The gentle purr of the bike beneath you and the harsh breaths leaving your lips are the only things disturbing the silence of the night. Threading your fingers through Kid’s hair, you can’t stop smiling, even though your muscles are already aching and complaining.

He’s still inside you when he raises his head, wicked grin in place and a slight flush to his cheeks. “See how much fun we could’ve been having, lass?” You let out a loud laugh, and he grumbles against your neck, pulling out with a groan. “Want to get me goin’ again? Don’t laugh like that while I’m balls deep. All that tightenin’ gets me wild.”

He keeps kissing your neck and collarbone softly as you laugh, his hands gently massaging your thighs.

“I didn’t know, Kid.” You whisper, your back still pressed against the motorcycle, feeling empowered by the machine beneath you and the man above you instead of feeling trapped. “I had no idea you felt like this, you never said anything.”

“I know. I should’ve said it.” His groan vibrates against your chest. “Maybe it would've saved me the trouble of seein’ ye with assholes.”

“Yes, Kid. It really would. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, even though I thought about it.”

Kid lifts himself up and you use his shoulders to return to a seated position as he adjusts the straps of your dress. “Ye have? Ye thought about us?” You nod. “Doin’ this?”

You chuckle as you’re assaulted by a lone shiver. Now that you both have stopped, you’re getting cold. “Not exactly this. I don’t think you ever pulled five orgasms out of me in my fantasies.”

Kid’s wicked grin brings you another kind of shiver, but this one has nothing to do with the cold. “Lass, ye’ve been selling yerself short in yer fantasies. Five is just the warm-up.”

As you laugh into his fiery kiss, his hands pull you closer to him, claiming you, worshipping you. And despite the shitty beginning of a shitty night, you couldn’t have asked for a better ending. Turns out, you really didn’t need to leave the apartment.

But as Kid revs the engine of his Harley again, you realise you’re glad you did.

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @walmartmihawk

#one piece #one piece x reader #x reader #reader insert #alternate universe #modern day au #eustass captain kid #eustass kid x reader #eustass x reader #eustass kid #kid x reader #kid x you #you x kid #reader x kid

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endless-ineffabilities · 5 months ago

Text

chemical override (14)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: this took aaaaaaages. I won't keep you. Go right ahead. Check back at the end with moi 💋

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The Mallorca holiday is not the only thing that ends in this chapter. Ewan and his Darling reckon with the truth, and they have to decide whether it's all worth it. Especially with what's coming...

The rest of the evening goes off without a hitch. It’s as if the stars have aligned and the universe has conspired to give two lovers the perfect date they so deserve after months and months of rolling in the muck.

It could be plain luck, but really, the credit goes to Ewan’s meticulous planning. Before leaving for Spain, he already knew he would have to pull out all the stops to get some proper time alone with you. Away from the rest of the group. And especially away from the guy you’re dating.

The dedicated artiste in him can find some twisted pleasure in how this area of his life imitates his art. Wouldn’t it be easier to tap into Aemond if some part of him—of Ewan—carries some resentment for Matt?

Ewan had it in him to envision how this series of events would serve as his fuel for the Battle Above the Gods’ Eye.

So long as he gets you back. As you sit across the candlelit table, he can’t stop staring. His dimples carve themselves deeper with every laugh or glance you throw his way. It’s the kind of brazen adoration that could make a person feel exposed, vulnerable even—but not with you. He could let you dig as deep as you’d like and he will still feel safe. Intoxicating, but in a good way.

In turn, your eyes become drawn to those crescents on his cheeks, and you display a loving expression of your own. He blossoms under your scrutiny.

You’re in the middle of shoving a forkful of entrée into your mouth, not very demure-like, when he dreamily says, as if in a trance, “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

The fork freezes mid-air, and your resulting snort further proves the absurdity of his sentiment. You sure have an almost unguarded way of presenting yourself for a Hollywood actress. Not that it matters with Ewan. You could be clad in nothing but a potato sack and the lad would think the sun shines out of your arse. That being said, the potato sack would allow him easy access to the main source of his bliss—nevertheless—the look he continues to give you proves nothing short of devotion.

“So smooth, Ewan,” you respond, feeling warm all over. “Do you have any other lines, or can I eat my food in peace now?”

“Hey, I’m not stopping you,” he smirks.

“No, you’re just staring.”

“Guess I’m just… making up for lost time,” he expresses, more sincere this time, unable to mask the longing in his tone.

You hold back your snarky retort. The logical side of you wants to believe that the period you spent apart had been necessary, and that both of you grew as people in the interim. He landed the role, you were able to focus on filming, and it was well and good—until it all came crashing down when he broke first that December night.

If you hadn’t broken things off and the production for Ewan’s film bypassed him, it would have been on your conscience. But maybe your continued romance would have provided some balm for the both of you.

It’s no use looking back on that now. You both made your choices. And now you stand on the precipice of what could be the end, or the beginning of everything anew.

He is indulging in his wine when you finally find your words. “I’m sorry, Ewan. For everything.”

He catches on the crack in your voice and the quiver of your lip. His hand shoots across the table to encase yours. “Hey, darling, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay.”

“Are we?”

“Yeah. Look, you know how I feel about you. I love you, and that’s all that matters. Everything else is just noise.”

“But—”

“I’ll always love you,” he pauses, before dropping the words that make your heart clench uncontrollably, “even if you choose him.”

“Oh, Ewan—”

“Don’t get me wrong. It would hurt like a bitch. It would kill me… but I’ll survive, you know what I mean?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You’re too good to me.”

“No,” he sighs, smiling ruefully. “Thing is, I haven’t been. Not always, and I’ll have to live with that. But whatever makes you happy now… is what I want. It’s all I want.”

“Okay,” you reply, and you mean it. You believe him.

“So,” he says, his voice a little lighter, “darling, should I be offended that you still haven’t given me my birthday gift?”

Your brows shoot straight up. “Oh? I guess I should have… Well, what would you like?”

Ewan holds your gaze unwaveringly for a moment, waiting for you to catch on to the significance of his impish smirk. You roll your eyes fondly. “Not here, babe. There are other people in this restaurant. It wouldn’t be ideal. Besides, we really shouldn’t give Deuxmoi more fodder for their messed-up blind items.”

A beat of silence, broken by your shared laughter. And the night unfolds perfectly.

You’re halfway to the restaurant’s exit when the inevitable happens—a hesitant voice calls out behind you, stopping you both in your tracks.

“Excuse me?”

You turn to find a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, standing a few steps away. Her phone is clutched tightly in her hands, and her eyes are wide with recognition. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt… but are you… from the show House of the Dragon?”

Ewan freezes for half a second, his brows lifting in surprise, before his easy charm kicks in. “That would be us.”

“Busted,” you add with a grin.

“Oh my God,” the girl whispers, visibly overwhelmed. “Would it… would it be okay if I got a picture? I’m such a huge fan of both of you.”

Ewan glances at you for approval, before he smiles and nods at the girl. “Sure, let’s do it.”

The girl practically vibrates with excitement as she hands her phone to a passing waiter. She giggles nervously, moving in close for the photo, and then you notice her glancing at you in a state of awe. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispers.

“Damn right, she is,” Ewan says sincerely.

“Thank you so much,” the girl gushes, taking her phone back from the waiter. “You’re both amazing. Really.”

As she walks away, Ewan leans in and mumbles in your ear, “I guess we’re not as inconspicuous as we thought.”

You laugh under your breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

The cool night air greets you two, sporting your superhero masks, the fabric blocking the faint metallic scent of oncoming rain. You make it halfway down the long main street before the sky opens up, the first fat raindrops splashing against the cobblestones. Within seconds, it’s pouring, the rain drenching you both as you scramble for cover.

Ewan pulls you toward a narrow alley, where an aging awning juts out above a shuttered shopfront. The shelter is flimsy at best, but it’s enough to keep the worst of the downpour at bay. You’re both breathless and laughing, your clothes sticking to your skin.

He lifts his mask just enough to show his mouth, a grin tugging at the corners. “Rain’s not so bad, is it?”

You pull your own mask off entirely, shaking out your damp hair as you glance up at him. “Speak for yourself, Spidey. I’m soaked.”

He takes a step closer, his hands sliding gently around your waist. “And yet you look incredible.”

You snort, though your cheeks flush at the usual intensity of his words. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stunning,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. His fingers tighten on your waist, and you can feel the warmth of him even through the cold rain. “C’mere.”

You don’t hesitate. Reaching up, you tug his mask higher, just past his nose, exposing his lips. Then you rise onto your toes, closing the space between you. The kiss is deep, unhurried, and utterly consuming. Rain slides down your face and his, cool droplets mingling with the warmth of your skin. One of his hands moves up to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you impossibly closer to deepen the kiss.

You moan against his mouth, and his heart soars.

When you finally pull back, you’re both panting, your lips wet and foreheads pressed together.

“You’re unreal, darling,” he whispers, his voice rough with desire. “How did I get so fucking lucky?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you kiss him again, softer this time, as if sealing a promise only the two of you could ever understand.

Matt stands on the villa’s enclosed balcony, nursing a half-empty glass of Rioja and gazing out into the moonlit courtyard. The rain has softened to a mere drizzle, but everyone remains scattered inside the large holiday house. A knot of frustration is growing in his chest. He hadn’t been looking for anything serious when the two of you started seeing each other—at least that’s what he keeps telling himself. But watching you walk hand in hand with Ewan as you enter the gates feels like a punch to the gut.

You pause near the courtyard’s edge, leaning into Ewan’s shoulder as you exchange a few quiet words. Even from this distance, Matt can see the easy intimacy between you—the kind of connection he hasn’t quite managed to reach with you. He drains the rest of his wine in one gulp, the bitterness lingering on his tongue as he sets the glass down on the railing with more force than necessary.

“You know, glaring at them isn’t going to change anything,” comes a familiar, teasing voice.

He turns to find Liv leaning against the doorframe, one brow arched and a knowing smirk on her lips. Unlike him, she seems utterly at ease, as if she’s been waiting for this moment.

“Wasn’t glaring,” he mutters, though the tension in his jaw betrays him.

“Right,” she drawls, stepping onto the balcony. “Just brooding in the dark getting sloshed. Very subtle.”

Matt lets out a low chuckle despite himself, running a hand through his hair. “Subtlety’s overrated, love.”

Liv moves to stand beside him, following his gaze toward the courtyard. You and Ewan are heading inside now, your laughter grating at Matt’s ears as he watches your soaked figures, not that either of you seems to care.

“You’re not going to make a scene, are you?” Liv asks, her tone light but edged with genuine concern.

He shakes his head. “Course not. We’re professionals.”

“But?” she prompts, tilting her head to study him.

“But it doesn’t mean I’m giving up.” His voice is steady, but there’s a vulnerability beneath it that catches her off guard. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You know I support you,” she says finally, “but there’s a fine line between persistence and masochism.”

He glances at her, his lips twitching into a wry smile. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m serious, Matt,” she insists, though her tone softens. “If you’re going to fight for her, do it because you love her, not because you’re afraid of losing.”

Matt looks at her, really looks at her, and for the first time, he notices the faint freckles dusting her nose, the flecks of gold in her deep brown eyes. There’s something unspoken in her gaze—an understanding, perhaps even admiration—and it nearly throws him off balance.

“Thanks,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter. “For the advice.”

“Don’t mention it.” She offers him a small, lopsided smile. “Just don’t make an arse of yourself, yeah? Remember, you are Daemon fucking Targaryen, after all.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “That I am.”

As she turns to leave, Matt finds himself watching her for a beat longer than necessary, a thought flickering at the edge of his mind. But he pushes it aside, refocusing on the task ahead. You’re still inside, still within reach…

But no.

He’s not ready to let you go—not yet. But the truth is, you were never his to hold onto. Maybe you never had been.

The vacation winds down far too quickly, as such things always do. Bags are packed and lined against walls, the last remnants of a shared holiday ready to disperse back to their separate lives.

Louise moves through the villa with her phone in hand, snapping selfies with everyone in sight. Her laughter is infectious as she cajoles even the most camera-shy among the cast to join. Namely, Ewan Mitchell. She’s especially persistent with him, sneaking in shots when he isn’t looking or pulling others into the frame to get him to relax.

Freddie and Tom take one last dip in the pool, their shouts and splashes echoing through the courtyard. They’re trying to see who can hold their breath underwater the longest, both acting like overgrown kids unwilling to admit the holiday is ending. Bethany and Phia, meanwhile, are busy tidying up the kitchen. Somehow, they manage to rope in a few of the guys to help, using mock threats of withholding night-out invitations to get the job done.

You sit in the quiet of the villa’s courtyard, the sunrise emerging low on the horizon, painting the scene in hues of gold and amber. You find yourself enjoying the stillness, savouring this pocket of calm before reality rushes back in.

But the peace is short-lived. A familiar voice calls your name, and you glance up to see Matt approaching with his deliberate gait, his eyes shaded with an emotion you’re almost afraid to name.

You know he knows. You know it’s time.

“Hey,” he says, stopping a few feet away. The air between you is charged, heavy with things unsaid, but perhaps these very same things have lingered since the beginning of your little romance.

“Hey,” you mirror softly, already knowing where this conversation is heading.

He gestures toward the empty chair beside you. “Mind if I join?”

You shake your head, and he takes the seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sounds of the villa fill the silence—distant chatter, everyone fussing and unaware of what’s unraveling between yourself and Matt.

Finally, he breaks the quiet. “I’ve been thinking about us. About… what comes next.”

You’re not surprised. You had seen the tension in his jaw last night, the flicker of frustration in his eyes as you returned to the villa hand in hand with Ewan. You’d known this conversation was inevitable.

“Matt…” you start, but he holds up a hand, stopping you.

“Just… let me say this first,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “I know things between us weren’t supposed to get complicated. And I know I wasn’t looking for something serious when we started this. But somewhere along the way, that changed for me.”

He shifts, his fingers threading together as he searches for the right words. “I don’t regret any of it. Not a single moment. But I also know I can’t hold onto something that was never really mine to begin with.”

Your chest tightens at his words, taking in the raw honesty in his tone. You reach out, placing a hand over his. “You mean a lot to me, Matt. You really do. But…”

“But it’s him, isn’t it?” he finishes for you, his smile stiff and not reaching his eyes. “It’s always been him.”

You want to nod, but it doesn’t feel right. You worry that any sort of affirmation from you at this moment would be too cruel. Salt in his wound. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I know,” he says simply. He leans back, exhaling deeply as he tilts his head as he gazes at you. “While I still have you, my love… while you’re still here with me… mind if I steal one last kiss?”

His words take you by surprise, but the sincerity in his eyes makes you nod. He leans in, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips meet yours. The kiss is gentle, filled with bittersweet yearning, and when he pulls away, there’s a sense of finality in his gaze.

“I would have been the happiest man if you let me fall in love with you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek, “my Alyna.”

Then he rises, giving you one last lingering look before turning and walking away.

The memory of that night plays in your mind as you sit on the plane, your hand intertwined with Ewan’s. He’s staring out the window, his profile bathed in the soft glow of the light streaming from the window. You’re both quiet, but his thumb strokes idly against the back of your hand, a silent reassurance of his presence.

The flashback is vivid—Matt’s earnestness, the way he had let you go with grace. But even in that moment, there had been no doubt in your mind. It had always been Ewan. From the moment you met him, from the way he looks at you now as if you are the only thing in the world that matters, you knew. Every detour, every mistake, every painful scenario had only ever led you back to him.

Ewan turns to you then, his eyes soft and searching. “You okay, darling?”

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” he asks, his tone gentle.

You hesitate for a moment before answering. “About how lucky I am.”

Those damn dimples appear as he smiles. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. The steady rhythm of his breathing soothes you as your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a long while, you feel truly at peace. The past is behind you, and the future—whatever it may hold—is something you’re ready to face together.

As the plane cuts through the clouds, carrying you both to LA, you let the weight of the last few months fall away. Your boyfriend’s arm wraps around you, anchoring you with him in the present. And everything feels exactly as it should.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and the two of you barely make it into the hallway before your lips clash again. The mimosas from the bar downstairs left a faint tang in your mouth, but Ewan’s familiar taste is just as sharp as he slides his tongue past your lips. His hands grip your face with sheer desire as he kisses you, his body pressing you against the wall outside your suite.

You fumble with the room key, laughing breathlessly against his lips when the thin piece of plastic slips from your fingers. “Ewan,” you groan, “if you don’t let me get the door open, we’re going to scandalise the hotel staff.”

His teeth grazes the curve of your jaw as he growls softly, “Don’t care. Let them watch, darling.”

The lock finally clicks, and the two of you tumble inside, the door swinging shut with a muted thud behind you. He kicks off his shoes without a thought, already reaching for the zipper at the back of your dress. His fingers are skilled, traversing the familiar territory of your curves, impatiently hitching the fabric down to your hips.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his accent curling deliciously around the words as his gaze devours every inch of you.

Your hands aren’t idle either, tugging his shirt over his head and raking your nails lightly down his chest. He hisses at the sensation, his muscles tensing under your touch. “God, I missed this,” you purr, your lips following the path of your hands.

“Missed you,” he counters, pulling you closer until there isn’t a breath of space left between you. The queen-sized bed is only a few steps away, but neither of you seem to care, too lost in the frenzy of lips, teeth, tongue, and hands.

When he finally lifts you into his arms and carries you to the mattress, he lays you down with a gentleness that belies the hunger in his eyes and the world stands still as he hovers over you.

“I need you, my darling,” he confesses lowly.

“You have me,” you whisper back, pulling him down to meet your lips once more.

What follows is a collision of need and intimacy, a desperate reclamation of what had always been yours.

The next morning, sunlight pours through the sheer curtain of your hotel room. The soft sounds of downtown LA waking up filter through the window. You snuggle against him, his arm lazily draped around your waist, your bare skin pressed together under the tangled sheets. It had been a long, passionate night of lovemaking. Leave it to Ewan to make up for months of lost time in a matter of hours.

He presses a sleepy kiss to your shoulder, his voice still groggy with sleep. “Good morning, love.”

You smile, closing your eyes again as his lips brush your temple. This is peace—a fleeting, beautiful pocket of bliss. But peace isn’t destined to last, especially not for those in your profession.

Something will get brought up, unearthed, stirred.

Meanwhile, across the internet, chaos has erupted.

A Daily Mail article runs alongside blurry paparazzi photos of you and Matt in Spain and an older photo of you sharing a laugh on a date with Ewan in LA. The headline screams betrayal: “Caught Between Two Dragons: Actress Allegedly Juggled Co-Stars Matt Smith and Ewan Mitchell During Spain Getaway!” The story spins a salacious tale, claiming you had been seen cozying up to Matt before jetting off with Ewan.

Of course, TMZ can be relied on to publish the most unreliable piece, alleging that Ewan became involved with you while still publicly linked to Jenna. Photos of Ewan and you with fans in Spain were put side by side with those of him and Jenna smiling at each other in interviews. “Sources claim Mitchell has been sneaking around, one girlfriend from his TV show set and one from his upcoming film set…”

A Deuxmoi post soon follows, fueling the fire with even more speculation. “Spotted: rising actress allegedly two-timing her co-stars,” it reads, accompanied by grainy photos that should be anything but believable. There’s a shot of you and Ewan at the cozy, private dinner in Mallorca, looking every bit like a couple, followed by a picture—clearly taken from a distance—of you and Matt sharing that bittersweet goodbye kiss on the villa terrace. Louise’s sneaky photo has gone viral, misinterpreted and plastered across social media.

The story is twisted, of course—context lost in the frenzy of assumptions and rumours. But the truth rarely matters to the public. The narrative has already taken on a life of its own, the whispers and pointed fingers spreading, along with the swelling tide of judgment from people who don’t know you, or the situation, at all.

The internet is divided.

Fans on Twitter rally in support.

“I don’t care what the tabloids say! She and Ewan belong together. The chemistry doesn’t lie.”

“They’re all adults!!! let them figure it out. The press needs to stop pitting people against each other.”

But the criticism was harsh, too.

“If she’s been playing both sides, that’s low. Poor Matt.”

“They're both cheaters. They deserve each other.”

“This is such a PR mess. Just admit it if you’re together!”

Back in the hotel room, the chaos of the outside world is a distant hum, until your phone buzzes incessantly on the nightstand. You groan, reaching for it, but Ewan pulls you back to his chest.

“Don’t,” he murmurs against your neck. “I don’t wanna share you with the world just yet, darling. You’re all mine.”

Everyone can speculate, criticise, gossip, and whatnot, but none of that noise matters when you’re in the arms of the one you love.

The world can fuckin’ wait.

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @onlyrealjoy @hotdismylife @thepurplecrown @just-fics-station @clarkysblog @urmomsgirlfriend1 @misfitbimbosblog (continued...)

Some notes in the margins...

If this reads like I'm trying to rediscover my footing in this story, that's cause I am. Trust me, I am not satisfied with this chapter. But I am also my own biggest critic...

Can you guess which scene(s) I slacked on?

Plus, the way I talked big game about the supposedly legendary smut scene. I just... could not. For now. I reckon it'll be a bonus chapter soon.

More drama! More drama! At least it's just them two now 😉

#chemical override #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell imagine #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader

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lazysoulwriter · 6 months ago

Text

Beyond the Frame - Paul Mescal.

The soft rustling of leaves filled the air as Paul and (y/n) stepped onto the well-trodden path winding through the Irish countryside. It was a rare day off for them both, nestled in the heart of Wicklow, where nature had claimed every inch with open arms. The trees arched overhead like protectors, their leaves shimmering with morning dew. The air smelled of fresh pine and damp earth, a serene symphony that enveloped them as they wandered deeper into the wilderness.

Paul had insisted on this trip—“A break from the world,” he’d said, with his usual lopsided grin—and (y/n) had agreed, eager to spend the day surrounded by nothing but green hills and the soft cooing of birds. The city had been too much lately, too loud. But here, everything was peaceful.

“Hold still,” Paul called, his voice breaking the stillness but blending so well with the scenery. (y/n) turned to see him, camera in hand, poised to capture her. His hair was tousled from the wind, and a boyish excitement lit up his features.

She laughed, feeling a little self-conscious. “Again?”

He nodded, stepping closer as he focused the lens. “I need to capture the light just right. You know,” he said, almost teasing, “you’re the greatest work of art I’ve ever seen. How could I not take photos of you in every corner of this place?”

(y/n) rolled her eyes playfully, but her heart fluttered at his words. Paul’s charm was something she’d never quite gotten used to, no matter how long they’d been together. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Mescal,” she teased back, but she stayed still, letting him click away.

They continued their walk, Paul snapping photos at every opportunity—by the riverbank, where the water glistened under the midday sun; in a clearing where wildflowers bloomed in soft, pastel hues; by an old oak tree that must’ve stood for centuries, its roots deep and twisted into the earth. With every shot, Paul’s smile grew, and every time he lowered the camera, he looked at her with a mix of awe and love that made her feel more beautiful than any of the picturesque surroundings.

As the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, they found themselves sitting on a small hill that overlooked the valley. The world below seemed endless, a sea of green with patches of blue sky peeking through the clouds. Paul wrapped an arm around (y/n), pulling her close as they sat in silence for a moment, just listening to the wind.

“You know,” Paul said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take a picture that does you justice.”

(y/n) turned to him, brow raised. “Is that so?”

He nodded. “You’re just... you’re not like anything else, not like anything that can be captured in a frame. You’re more real than any photo, more alive. It’s like…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “It’s like the universe took all the beauty it could find and put it into one person. And here you are.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You have a way with words, Paul. But I think you’re biased.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “But I’m okay with that.”

They stayed like that for a long time, watching the sun set in soft, golden waves over the Irish landscape. The world seemed to slow down, and for that moment, it felt like nothing else mattered—no schedules, no work, just them, wrapped in nature and in each other’s presence.

As the last light of day faded and the sky turned to shades of lavender and indigo, Paul picked up the camera one last time. Without saying a word, he captured (y/n) against the backdrop of twilight, her silhouette framed by the colors of dusk.

“Last one,” he promised, grinning. “But you have to admit, you’re the best muse I could ask for.”

(y/n) laughed softly, reaching over to take the camera from him. “Alright, now it’s your turn. Let me take a picture of the man who thinks I’m a masterpiece.”

Paul obliged, leaning back in the grass, a content smile on his face. As (y/n) focused the lens, she couldn’t help but think that this—this day, this love—was the real work of art.

And it was theirs to keep.

#paul mescal #paul mescal imagines #paul mescal x reader #paul mescal fanfic #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #normal people #fanfic #imagines #paul mescal x y/n #paul mescal imagine #pm

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joosthead · 4 months ago

Text

skin || j.k. x f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ joost wants to make a song.

₊˚⊹⋆ for @spentandpent’s contest 😅🩷 (2 months late)

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not dutch

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 10.3k

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (established relationship, consensual audio recording during sex, f!receiving oral, mirror, ruined orgasm, overstimulation, squirting, vibrator, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv, slight breeding kink, creampie), kind of really porny i can't lie. pwp. crying both out of (momentary) sadness and because cumming 🩷 reader🤝being total crybabies🤝juno

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “skin” by mac miller, “p power” by gunna

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: vibrator. go big or go home right 🩷 as always @howisjoostfanfictionforfree my partner in filth 🩷 @spentandpent for infecting me w the overstim brainworms 🩷 and lovely @xiaoflan for listening to me complain about this fic ! 😆🩷 i love and appreciate you all 🩷 the art for the header is by one of my amazing best friends <3

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

“Are you ready, mijn schat?” Joost asks in a soft voice, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.

“Ready as I'll ever be, Joosti.”

One of his nicest microphones is set up on your bedside table, wires crossing every which way, his laptop on the ground and hooked up to it.

This was an idea that came about spontaneously, as most things regarding Joost come about; on the train home together, sharing his wired earphones with each other and listening to your playlist of liked songs when Skin by Mac Miller came on. His ears perked up and his eyes brightened at the first few seconds, and you knew you were in for it.

There’s a woman in the first few seconds—she sounds like she’s having a positively great time, mewling softly, panting in a way that sounds almost like you when Joost is fucking you good. This was on your playlist?!?! You couldn’t fathom a situation where you’d listen to this in public, but here you were, hearing it all as you watched Joost and his mouth drop open a bit.

Your cheeks warmed and he poked you in the side—“Oh my god,” he said, taking your hand and shaking it. “You know what this means, right?” You shook your head no though you knew the answer—”Our turn!!!!!” He said it so loud that an old lady beside you gave him a dirty look, and he just smiled at her. “Can we? Can we?”

“Joost.”

“I just want to hear what it’s like—if I made a song and your beautiful voice was in the background like this or you were my little producer tag.”

“Very creative,” you laughed, sarcastic. Secretly…you two aren’t exactly public about your relationship. He would post about your anniversaries, your birthday, Valentine’s Day, your vacations; they know you exist, and that he has a long-term girlfriend, but you were so private you were almost elusive. “You want my moan in the back of your song?”

Something so…obvious under his belt. Something so loud. It was unlike you, and you knew it would never be released, at least not in the raw form he’d likely want it to be in, but it was still something. Something that made your stomach turn in that way that felt good and not scary, even with how rarely you were in the public eye.

You existed in the backgrounds of Joost, Appie, Alanis, Stuntje’s Instagram stories; you existed as a tag of a username, a pixelated and blurred out face in Joost’s photo dumps to protect your privacy. You exist out of the spotlight, in the background, not as the beat of his song, but you figure—it is only a matter of time until you join him in the sun.

“Who better than you? I want you everywhere, schat. Your moan will become my trademark,” he reasons, and as always—master of persuasion, at least with you. “One time. And it’ll just be between us, okay? Or mostly for me, I love hearing you.”

You decided in a quick second that you’d do it—all Joost has ever done is protect you, and even with your easily overthinking mind, this sounds fun as all hell to the little devil in your mind that wants everyone to know that he’s yours, you're his. No one else’s. Being possessive doesn’t come naturally in any other part of your life other than Joost.

“Okay,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder, holding his hand in yours. “Let’s do it, Joosti.”

“Wahhh—I love you!!!” Joost exclaimed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and going back to happily looking out the window.

“Mijn meisje,” he says softly, and it makes your stomach turn, the smooth glide of his voice as you lie back onto your pillows. You imagine how it’ll sound in the mp3 file. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, shaking your head. “We would’ve had sex anyway—why not make something of it?”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

You nod, “I can imagine.” Joost fiddles with a dial on the side of the microphone, presses a button somewhere else, tidies the wires. “What do you think it’ll sound like?”

Joost snickers a little to himself before starting— “Agh! Joost! Fuck me harder!” he whines, high pitched and teasing. “Urgh, Joosti, you’re so huge inside of me!”

“I do not fucking sound like that,” you laugh, slapping him on the shoulder to his barking laughter. “Schat, you’re so tight, I think I’ll cum in three seconds!”

“Hey!” Joost says, laughing as he leans to you for a kiss. “Okay, it might be the truth but I think it’ll sound good. As long as it’s you, we should win a Dutch Grammy for this.”

Outside the window, it’s rainy; the roof is pelted with the droplets of water of an autumn in Amsterdam, loud and incessant and comforting. Your room in this old house is humid with the moisture, but you’re sure it’s mostly just the two of you and your warmth making it feel so stuffy.

“We haven’t even made it yet and you want a Grammy?”

“Why not? I know we’ll get one, don't doubt us,” he grins, slinking off the bed and crouching in front of his computer. Joost’s customary wired earphones are plugged into it and he places a bud in his ear. “Mic check, 1, 2, 3,” he says, Joost Klein style, the sound waves appearing on the screen. “This issssss me and my baby’s recording session number one—“

“Number 1? The only one, Joost.”

“Okay, okay. Recording 1 of 1. Our ears only.” Pausing a little, Joost gets that expression on his face that lets you know he’s about to say something strange and he does: “Do you think we can make ASMR mouth sounds from this? Dutch kissing ASMR or something?”

“I think we can make more than mouth sounds when it comes down to it.”

Joost laughs, lifting his computer and placing it on the corner of the table behind the mic; gets up close to it, whispering and tapping on the wood of your bedside table like the people in the ASMR videos you both watch at his behest before bed, “Explain to them what we are going to do, schat,” you laugh and he shushes you, “This is very serious work, we have to be quiet, shhhh.”

“Uhm…” you say quietly, stifling back a snicker as you get close to the mic from the side. “We’re going to record us fucking—“

“Bad word, schat,” Joost whispers, shaking his head at you disappointedly, “Think about the advertisers.”

Tapping on the metal body of the microphone, you roll your eyes and start again, “We’re going to have s-word—“

“That’s better.”

“And record the sound from it so Joosti can put it in a song,” you whisper and he nods, mouthing, “Good job!” and giving a thumbs up before he brushes aside your hair to put the other half of his wired earphones in your ear.

Immediately, you’re met with the sounds of your shared soft breathing and Joost’s hollow tippy taps on the base of the mic. When he goes quiet, the pitter patter of the raindrops upon your roof are loud enough to hear clearly. “I turned up the sensitivity so we don’t have to move it around while we’re recording,” he says, and you nod.

“I can hear that.” Every single sound and movement you make for the coming hours will be captured on this little waveform. Your voice echoes back to you in your ears, and you scrunch up your face. “I hate my voice.”

“I love your voice, mijn schat,” he says, getting on the bed in front of you. “Sounds even better when you’re saying my name.” Smiling at him, you settle back against your pillows in your prettiest pajama set, a camisole and a pair of loose shorts, both printed with small blue flowers all over. Joost takes the ribbed fabric of your shorts between his fingers, tickling your thigh, “This one is my favorite one.”

“Every one is your favorite one,” you counter as you open your legs for Joost to sit between.

“As long as you are wearing it, schat—of course,” Joost says, sighing wistfully as he takes the earphones out from both your ears and drapes them on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want to film? You’re so pretty.”

You roll your eyes as he laughs—it was definitely a topic of conversation after the fact, recording video of it like you have a few times before, just isolating the sound after. You argued that the sound from a real microphone would be better, and he argued, “Why not both?”

You shut it down, telling him that your room would just become your own personal porn studio if he did both and would never go back to normal, and he died of laughter as the old lady on the train gave you a shocked look and moved away.

No filming. At least not today.

“Do you want your song, or do you want a video?”

“That is an extremely hard decision, baby.”

“Make it before I make it for you.”

“I want my song,” Joost says, simply and finally, and you nod.

“You’ll get your song.”

Joost lies down on top of you and the weight is comfortable as he holds himself up with one hand and cups your face in the other.

He hasn’t shaved in a few days, his stubble scratchy against your chin as he comes forward and kisses you, soft lips against yours, his body warm and heavy and already grinding his crotch against your center as he slides his hand up your side, bringing up the hem of your camisole.

You’re hyperfocusing on all the sounds; you’re both quieter than normal, just the smack of your lips against each others, the licking of his tongue into your mouth; the sound of fabric against fabric as he grinds his hips into yours and groans, half-hard already; the shifting of Joost lifting your tank top and exposing your tits to his dilating blue eyes, getting back up off you on his knees.

Joost runs his knuckles down the curve of your breast and over to the other, making your nipples pebble in the already cooling air, your muscles jumping and leaping with how sensitive you are. “How cute,” he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. There’s something different about him today—if you think about it, if you were a music artist and your girlfriend let you record audio of how good the sex is, you’d be cocky too.

The confidence looks good on him, a small smirk on his lips as you gaze up at him through your eyelashes and take off your shirt completely, tossing it to the side and lying back again.

Joost tugs on your shorts and you shimmy them down as he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, the sensation tying a knot in your stomach with want for him. “Why aren’t you taking off your clothes?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as he lies atop you again.

“Just want to try something,” he says, placing a kiss between your breasts before he moves over to your nipple, taking it in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

Grazing it lightly with his teeth, you let out a small hiss at the sensation before he closes his lips around it and sucks; your mouth drops open watching him as he does it, intent and content with his place on you. You just got him back after a month and a half away in Berlin working on music nonstop—you have an inkling that you both feel like this is where he belongs.

For a while, you both lie there as he mindlessly suckles at your tits, as you play with his hair and pretend like there isn’t a pool in your panties waiting to be addressed further than this—you don’t want to rush him. “Art can’t be rushed,” or whatever he says when he’s too busy editing visuals or tweaking his tracks in progress.

Stifling back a sigh, you tug at the short hair on the nape of his neck, his tongue swirling around the stiff peak of your nipple. A tiny little mewl lets itself out of your mouth as he laps at it. Pulling back with a pop, nipping at the skin next to it—“Dude…” he starts. “You’re being… so quiet. Is someone a little shy, schat?” Joost grins, kissing you.

You furrow your brows. You are but you’re not going to get called out by the most outgoing person you know like this. “No, I’m not.”

“I think you are, you haven’t said a word.”

“I’m not,” you insist, smiling once you realize that you have the perfect comeback. “You’re just not doing enough to make me say anything.”

Joost’s entire face changes, falling completely flat with his eyes narrowed at you and you grin. “Oh, I haven’t done enough? Is that what you said, lieverd?”

“I don’t wanna say it’s not enough. But definitely not enough to give you your Dutch Grammy award-winning sound bite. The pace you're moving, we’ll get a participation trophy at best.”

“I’m not doing enough—I am lying on your tummy letting you berate me while I suck your boobs, don’t think I forgot about the last month!!!” he exclaims, voice rough and accusatory and silly, smile so wide as he jabs his finger in your face. “Don’t think I forgot!!!”

“You’re still on that?” you laugh, squishing his cheeks, getting his hair out of his eyes.

“Duh,” he grumbles. “It’s half the reason why I wanted to do this.”

“Forgive me, then.”

There’s been no time for you to call or Facetime him in this past month; only texting and one-sided voice messages from Joost pleading for you to send him a voice memo back but you’ve refused, either willingly or unwillingly. You’ve been so tired, your voice and energy all going to talking to clients and people in real life that you just couldn’t muster the strength to send him back any after a long day—Joost couldn’t call for long either, too occupied with the final touches on the album.

He asked you one night, sleepy voice rasping about how he just wanted to hear you, and he sounded so hot—you texted back that you couldn’t sound sexy and all he said was that he didn’t care if you sounded sexy. He just wanted you.

Still, you couldn’t let it happen.

Joost whined all the way up until his train home got to the station; all the way home in the car as you drove him and asked about his work; all the way up to now, pouting with his prickly chin on your bare chest and his arms wrapped around your waist.

“If that isn’t enough, how far can I go to get my audio clip, then?” Joost asks.

The both of you are competitive as can be with each other.

So long ago, you bet him he couldn’t make you cum just from internal stimulation alone—he proved you wrong and then some. He bet you last year (and every year before that you’ve been together) that he could last all of November not cumming—you manage to prove him wrong anywhere from 2-5 days before his birthday on the 10th. Everything is a competition, everything is a game for you two, that’s what makes the relationship so fun.

If you give Joost an inch, he’ll take a mile, and you know that better than anyone.

“As far as you think it takes, Joosti.”

Wordlessly, he gets up off from you and sits on the side of the bed facing the wall, in front of the mirror that’s there now—obtained at a swap meet somewhere in the city and hauled back by you both; standing against your wall, the top rounded in an arch, used mostly for outfit checks and Joost to try on a million different clothing pieces before he decides on things he wears all the time.

“Sit between my legs, baby.”

“Why should I do that for you?”

“Because I want you to do it for me,” he says, looking back at you and patting his lap. “Here. Sit down or none of this will happen.”

Usually, Joost is never so commanding—he’d rather ask you, sweetly and nicely to please do something for him. There isn’t a demanding bone in his body. And yet…

You take the seat between his legs and look at yourself as he hooks his fingers in the white and lacy waistband of your panties and pulls them down your thighs, down your calves. His lips ghost over the nape of your neck as he watches you in the mirror—Joost is always intense, always strong-willed, but it’s as if he’s come back a changed man.

“I want you to watch me do enough.”

He hooks his hand under your right knee; you let him bring your leg up and drape it over his, spread wider than you’re used to. The same is done to the other leg; if you tried to close them, you’d be unable to.

“I’ll get those sounds out of you if it kills me, lieverd.”

The cotton of his shorts, Tears as always; your shared necklaces resting on the chest hair that pokes out of the neckline of his wifebeater—they rub against your backside as you adjust your position on him, Joost’s warm and clothed body making your naked skin feel piping hot.

He places his hands on your inner thighs, squeezing lightly. There is the feel; of his rough fingertips gliding against your silky skin, dancing across the jumpy nerves of the junction between your leg and the beginnings of the most sensitive parts of you.

“Do you know how hard it was for me not to hear your voice for so long, lieverd?”

With his gentle hands, Joost spreads you open, exposing the most private part of you to both of your eyes, his chin hooked on your shoulder and looking down directly at it. You almost shrink into yourself, bringing you closer to his chest against your back, rising and falling steadily. In contrast, your breathing is so erratic, you feel as if your lungs might tire.

The microphone will pick up your labored breathing, as much as you’re trying not to make a single sound; the mirror reflects your furrowed brow back at you as he dips his fingers inside, light and gentle, bringing the wetness back up to circle your clit slowly.

“Mooi,” Joost murmurs, gazing intensely down at your form in his hands, putty in and between his fingers. “Look at you, hm?”

You’ve done this so many times—watched as he’s fucked you, in the mirror or when you watch your bodies meeting, over and over again when he fucks into you, cock reaching your deepest parts. But today is something different, you can’t tell why, but it brings hot heat to your chest and cheeks, to see it so clearly.

You can’t deny it—it’s you in that mirror, it’s you with your legs spread for him, it’s you.

It’s Joost behind you, a mess of blonde hair, no glasses on today, his rough chin against your shoulder as he pets you slowly. 1982 exposing you, 1983 doing the rest of the work.

“Als een mooie bloem, mijn lief,” he murmurs, two fingers spreading your lips, another rubbing your clit so gingerly you want to swear at him to go faster, harder, but you know he’ll just do the opposite of your wishes in this mood he’s in.

“A flower?” you breathe out, and Joost smiles at you in the reflection. Still though, you know your words aren’t what he wants at the moment.

“Pretty flower,” he says, and the smile is gone.

The sound—the sound of his fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit, the wetness from your pussy all he needs to do so, not spit or lube or anything else. Just the slickness of the back and forth of his hands on you.

The rain beats down on your roof, louder now, the backdrop for those filthy sounds coming from you. “You’re still so quiet, I think the mic will capture the rain more than you,” he mumbles into your neck, kissing and nipping at it. ”The quieter you are, the longer we have to do this.”

“Is that really an issue?” you say, labored through the consistent circles of your clit. You turn away, looking at the side of his face—“Ah, my god,” you whisper, moaning softly as he brings his hand up to your nipple, rolling it between his fingers and kneading your breast.

“Not really, but I question how much you can take.”

“I can take a lot, you know that.”

“If you can take a lot—why are you looking away?”

He moves your chin gently so you're looking at yourself in the mirror again, and he’s looking at you so intently, pupils so blown out you'd almost think his irises were black. You look down at your pussy to avoid how burning his gaze is; watch as he pets at your entrance, and slides his two middle fingers inside, the stretch warm and all you’ve needed the past several minutes.

Still you hold it back, chomping down on your bottom lip not to let any sound close to a real moan out—you’ve made the rules for yourself: not loud enough to be usable, the least amount of sounds possible, and the biggest one, proving to be the hardest as he continues…don’t say “Joost.”

When Joost starts curling his fingers inside of you, pace slow as ever and he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit—you have to stifle a whimper, both at the sound, and the appearance of it, his fingers disappeared inside of you. “You’re really going to do this, lieverd?”

“I never said I’d make getting your song easy.”

“I like a challenge.” Joost gives you a kiss to your temple and you smile even as he ceases his fingers moving. “That's why you’re my girlfriend.”

“Hey,” you giggle, and then stop giggling when he moves his fingers faster and it makes a truly blushworthy squelching noise come from inside you. He does it again—why would he stop, seeing the way your face screws up in pleasure in the mirror at the pads of his fingers on your g-spot?

For some reason, you expected him to be nice about it, let you have a little break—but two can play this game, you know that well.

Your wetness is louder than even the rain, his rhythm making the sound almost incessant. “Do you think we could make that the beat?” he thinks out loud and you give him a bewildered expression.

“You…no. One day I’ll understand your thought processes.”

“What do you mean? You already do.”

You never realized how loud it could be to do any of this. Can people hear you so clearly all the time? Your neighbours, your roommates, strangers.

The countless times you’ve fucked in backstage dressing rooms, club bathrooms, the backyard—this is what it sounds like? There is no mistaking it. On the audio recording, it’ll be even clearer. Your voice, high pitched and breathy. Joost’s voice, deep and low and rumbling against your neck.

“How many people do you think, schat? How many have heard us?…I think they would like it, how it sounds when I’m inside you.” You shake your head, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tension in your chest rising at the same time at his words.

“You're so wet, my baby, and this is only the beginning—what about when you cum? How loud do you think you are then? What will my fans think when they hear this, hm?”

“Jo—mmm, fuck,” you sigh, stopping yourself from saying his name.

This shame and arousal growing inside of you—they’re like two sides of the same coin for you, and they accompany that tightening in your stomach, so close to cumming. The impish and petulant devil on your shoulder tells you not to do it so quickly, not to let Joost get what he wants after you agreed so eagerly to this entire thing.

You screw your face up, thinking of… paperwork and saying bye to Joost at the airport and sad kittens in animal shelters—you have never actively avoided an orgasm in your life, but this is working quite well, and it seems to be obvious.

“Schat, are you serious right now?” You open your eyes to see yourself and Joost behind you, his lips a straight line, no amusement to be found on his normally jovial face. “What are you doing?”

“Being a challenge, I thought you knew,” you say, voice more wavering than strong—your eyebrows furrow, a sheen of sweat on your forehead as Joost continues crooking his fingers right into your g-spot. Almost immediately, you lose your focus on keeping your climax away, melting into the pleasure of his thick fingers fucking you open.

“Say my name, baby, that’s all I want from you.”

“No,” you say softly, turning your head and resting it back on his shoulder—he knows what you want, and he can’t resist you. “Please?”

Joost looks at you, blue eyes so warm you almost think he’ll give you what you’re asking—a kiss, his lips on yours, but he only gets so close that your noses brush, that all you can do is breathe into his mouth and hope he gets closer.

You try to adjust yourself, but he holds you in place with his forearms, still thrusting his fingers inside of you, your face contorting in pleasure with every single move he makes closer and closer to your face, tipping you right over the edge, right where your climax is and then—

Nothing.

As quickly as he moved them, Joost takes his fingers out of you, resting them wet on your thigh as you tense with what you thought was going to be an orgasm, a tidal wave of bliss flowing through you. In reality, the waves subside quicker than usual without him fucking you through it, and the sensation is ruined—almost completely.

Pathetically, you let out a whimper, can’t even let out the moan or the gasp of his name he wants so badly, that’s how miserable it feels. Joost’s never done that with you before—he’s always gotten you to the peak and rode down with you through it, kissing and licking and petting you through it and even past that point, mischievous and pushing your buttons when you swear at him to give you a break from all the bliss.

“Joost,” you pout, eyebrows furrowed and mouth downturned. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? You weren’t doing what I wanted, schat, why should you get a good one out of that?” Joost scoffs, and though he doesn’t seem too serious, breathing heavily against your back with you, you can’t help but feel like you did something so wrong. “You’re playing too much.”

It makes sense now—he asked you for one thing—one thing.

Wasn’t much to ask, either. Microphone and equipment straight from his yet to be unpacked suitcase. Joost’s one reprieve from album mode until he’d take the train back for him and Tantu to do a final once over on every single track. This stage in the process takes weeks, sometimes even months—pushing too many buttons on the control panel, their soundboards and computers and plans all prodded and poked and pushed to the limit until the project is the amalgamation of their creative vision and perfection.

This time, you pushed too many buttons; through all of this, you’ve forgotten that Joost has been at home less than 24 hours, that the train ride from Berlin to Amsterdam was 6 hours long with no stops, no wi-fi, no you to soothe his worries, only album preparations far past his self-imposed deadlines and his own thoughts.

You’re both workaholics—it’s why you get along so well, but it means that you know better than anyone that the last thing you’d want to be after so long is annoyed, and annoyed on purpose at that.

When he’s as petulant as you’ve been so far, you know that you can get annoyed as well, asking him to just—stop. And he does, but you couldn’t do that for him. Joost has gotten frustrated with you before, sure, it happens enough that you’re not so affected by it anymore.

But he’s never been so frustrated before that he’s ruined your orgasm. For some reason, the expression on Joost’s face, the heat of the moment, the dull pulse between your legs at both your immense need for him and the emptiness you feel at such a clipped climax has you emotional and overanalyzing the last half hour, every bratty quip of yours, every response from him.

“I’m really sorry, I know you had a long few days, I shouldn’t have—” Water lines your eyes, and you try to blink it away when you ask in a weak voice, “Are you mad at me?” You feel terrible. Embarrassed.

Joost meets your eyes in the mirror, eyes widening in surprise at your emotions strung so tight; you break, a tear running down your cheek which you quickly wipe away because you feel like you're making a big deal out of things and it’s just—aghhh!!!!

“No, my baby, of course not,” he smiles, face sympathetic, lips pouting at his baby being so emotional. Such a reaction would usually make you roll your eyes at him, but he’s so sweet, you have to nuzzle closer to him. “Come here,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and letting you curl up in his lap. “You’re so cute, mijn schat,” he coos, giving you a wet kiss on the cheek as he hugs you tight.

Joost is so kind to you, it makes you feel a bit silly—not in a bad way, just one where you’d never think you’d be sitting on his lap, naked, being comforted about having your orgasm ruined by him. Almost five years of this kindness, you’re not sure you’ll ever be used to it.

“I just got a little frustrated that’s all, none of it was serious, okay? I thought it would be a little fun for us to try something new like that, but I should’ve talked about it with you before—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes a little. “Just don’t look so serious next time, I really thought you were angry.”

“I got too in the moment, I guess.” Joost moves your hair aside and kisses you on the lips, tender and sweet. “I’ll make up for it, I promise you.”

With that, you nod, letting him kiss you, letting him suck your lower lip in his mouth and then lick into yours, touch so devastatingly slow it almost makes you whine again with anticipation. Joost places a gentle hand over your throat, giving it a small squeeze, and he laughs when you moan, quiet and stifled into his mouth at the pressure. “You know, you’re very pretty when you’re desperate,” he says softly when he pulls away, and your cheeks burn.

“I could say the same about you, Joosti.” He noses at the side of your face, and you melt at the feeling of his skin on yours. “Am I not pretty all the time?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t start, schatje. Gorgeous, beautiful angel—is that what you want me to say? Lie down and hold your legs back.”

Quickly, you get off of him and lie back down on the bed on your mountain of pillows, and he takes his place sitting between your legs, wet fingers running through your folds as he takes a look at you, all of you. “Aren’t you pretty?”

He takes your left hand, kisses your palm then your fingers, then he places it firmly on the back of your left knee. He does the same for your right side, then lies in between your open legs, staring, examining. One finger down your slit, collecting your wetness on the tip—Joost leaves a bite on the meat of your ass, trailing kisses all the way until he kisses over your entrance, over your clit.

You breathe heavily with anticipation, but still, you find it in you to tease. “Doing a lot of silent things for an audio recording, Joosti.”

“Not silent—all of it is important, every second.” He shakes his head to

“Defeats the whole purpose of the audio? Doesn't it?” You smile, flexing your ankles, feeling your muscles stretch as Joost teases your clit with his index finger, makes you open your legs wider. “The whole point is to record how good you make me feel, right?”

“You want to be silent so badly for me, you want to play around so much—why are you calling me out for it? That I want us to have fun?” Joost rolls his eyes, but then smiles at you, trying to soothe the burn. “I like when you play,” he murmurs, then spits on your pussy, making you full body shiver when you do. “Play even more, let’s make this recording go hours.”

“And I’ll cum all I want?”

“Careful what you wish for.” Joost rubs the spit over your bud, spreading you with two fingers and petting at it with another. “Als een prinses, schatje. Spoiled.”

“Spoiled,” you mock, and he shakes his head at you, grinning.

You probably shouldn’t rile Joost up so much—it’s too late for you to save yourself when he dives in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard. The spit and silky softness of his tongue make you keen, how good it feels to have him on you, his lips sucking so much, so good, so wet.

The slide of Joost’s finger inside of you surprises you, how gently he pets against your spot internally as he laps at your pussy; you sigh, having to close your mouth on purpose to not make any sound. He sucks your clit between his lips, tightening, loosening, several seconds passing as he continues the pattern, making you groan with the feeling of him eating you out so well. It’s too much; you cry out when it hits what feels like 10 minutes with his tongue on you, but is really only 20 seconds at most.

Too much, so good—bucking your hips up, you squirm, futile against his strong hands holding you down by the backs of your knees folded almost to your chest as he drinks you in, the wet sound of his mouth smacking against you so humiliatingly wonderful you could cry. How are you supposed to stay silent now?

“I’ll never get enough of this, lieverd,” he says before diving back in, lips wrapped around your clit as you moan out at the suction, whining as you hold onto his arms for support, because pushing against him is no use—either way, who are you kidding? The last thing you want is for him to stop, especially after that first “orgasm”. Completely breathless, you stop trying, tired hips back on the damp bed sheets.

“Good girl, baby,” Joost praises at your defeat, your finally being subdued. The nickname makes you shudder, arousal pooling deep in your stomach, and you squeeze at his arms for some sort of comfort in response.

Joost nips at the thin and sensitive skin of your inner thigh and it makes you yelp, then he comes back and licks through you again, fucking his tongue inside of you.

There’s no sense of organization or pattern anymore with what he’s trying to do—he’s lost it. He’s lost it.

Your climax hits you like a freight train, your stomach and thigh muscles spasming, any control you had—lost. “Mmmf…fuck!” you exclaim, throwing your head back on your pillows as Joost keeps sucking your clit through your orgasm, white on the edges of your vision at how intense he’s doing it. “Ugh… shit!” you cry, panting out when he keeps going.

“It’s only a matter of time until you give me what I want, schatje,” he says in a quiet, sing-song voice, then attaches himself back to you. Your clit is practically numb with pleasure now, and yet, the waves are rolling through you, erratic and wonderfully uncomfortable.

You laugh out, tears at the edges of your eyes at how intense your nerves feel, how fried they are—“Joost, enough!” and he lets up off you. He sits back up and pouts at you, lips and cheeks wet with your arousal.

“‘Jooooooost!!!’” He laments, cursing at the sky in jest, and you laugh at how dramatic he is. “The line is ‘Joost!!’ Lieverd! Joost!!!” he says his own name in a weird, breathy moan that you’re half sure really will make it to a final draft of a song of his.

Holding yourself up, legs open and so wet between them, you purse your lips for a kiss, which Joost gives you. “You said we can make the recording go hours—I’m sure I’ll say it one of these times.”

“Okay, I’m glad I say the recording can go long—I will need a minute.” As Joost pulls back, you tilt your head to the side; he sounds… strange. Embarrassed, almost, and his cheeks are pink, and he can’t look you in the eye anymore, completely different from your ravenous and intimidating boyfriend from 45 minutes ago. “I think I came in my pants.”

“You’re kidding,” you scoff, throwing your head back and laughing.

Joost gets back up off the bed, stands. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” he says, pointing down to the wet spot on his crotch—he must’ve ground against the bed too much, how cute.

“You haven’t done that since we started dating,” you laugh, watching as he strips off his shorts and his underwear looks just as bad.

“Well, I did it again. Your fault. This sucks.” Joost shimmies down his boxers, picking them up and throwing them in the hamper; it hangs on the rim, he’s already soft, and he looks at you so dejectedly, then at the ground. You start to say ‘aww’ —he’s so cute and pathetic this way, but he wags a finger at you, saying, “Do not say ‘aww’ at my dick, you’re annoying,” and it makes you laugh harder until he’s laughing too, climbing on the bed and kissing you sweetly, pulling back only to take off his shirt and then immediately come back to you.

Laying atop you, he wraps his lips around your nipple, pulling at it gently with his teeth as you wince in the pain and the pleasure. Joost lays his tongue flat against it, laps at it, switches to the other one.

“I just love you,” he sighs, latching onto you again immediately after, and it makes you smile—insatiable, truly.

A few moments of this—letting Joost lave over your skin, the stiff peaks of your breasts, sucking hickeys into the meat of them—and he’s ready to sit back against the headboard together.

Your legs are open and his hand is between them in an instant, running his fingers along your skin. It feels strangely electric…not his fingers on you, but his arm against yours, the side of his sweat-sheened body against your hip, what it feels like to see “Thanks for today” on his collarbone and your name and lipstick mark tattooed on the other side of his neck forever.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Joost’s voice—“Why aren’t you saying my name, hm?” he says, gazing at your lips, his nose brushing against yours. You press a chaste kiss to his chin as he circles your clit, spreading your wetness around with his fingers. “It’s mean. It is sinister, what you’re doing.”

“You’re gonna have to work for it, I’m serious.”

“I will work overtime, I’ll be just like you,” he smirks, and shuts you up when he attaches his lips to yours, slips his middle fingers inside of you, grinds the heel of his hand on your clit as you gasp into his mouth, let him move down and suck at your jaw, your pulse point.

The concentration it takes not to lose it makes your eyebrows knit together. He murmurs, “Do you hear that, my love? Do you hear how wet I make you?” says it into your open and mewling mouth, the sound of it all—the squelch of your wetness at the behest of his fingers fucking your pussy. You’re beholden to him, and he enjoys it so much. The person you are at work and in life; normally so collected, preferring the comfortable quiet of your life together, now so bold to let him do this.

“Wat een mooi geluid, mijn meisje. You have me under your spell—what will happen when everyone hears this? Your siren song, hm? Is that what you want? Everyone to know how good I make you feel?”

The surprise on everyone’s faces that you could sound like this, all because of Joost—goofy, grinning, laughing Joost. Serious as ever about coaxing these sounds out of you as he kisses you slowly, tongue so languid on yours, tempting you, seducing you into giving him what he wants.

You’re almost delirious, the bubbling of laughter rising in your body as you grip onto his arm, so big, three of Joost’s thick fingers nestled inside of you and curling against your spot, stroking it with no abandon. You’re stretched thin around him, squirming and twitching with the rising peak coming to a head in your body.

He doesn’t even thrust his middle fingers in and out of you; only keeps them there, deep and to the knuckle inside of your pussy as he curls his fingers inside of you again and again, petting and petting and petting at the most sensitive part inside of you. At the same time, he circles your clit with his thumb—you could almost pass out with how good it feels, how hot you are in this room, rain beating on your roof, his mouth on yours and receiving every single moan and breath you put out.

The only thing absent is a crackling fire and a bottle of wine to fit the mood, but you can’t really complain.

“Happy?” he asks, smiling.

“Joost,” you choke out, eyebrows furrowing as you gaze at him, then close your eyes, touching your forehead to his, clutching his bicep, the challenge to yourself not to say his name all but forgotten.

“Yeah, baby?” Joost grins—in the pursuit of his craft, your boyfriend has turned evil.

“I feel like…” you start, face screwed in pleasure, words stolen from you by his curling fingers, confused at this feeling inside of you you’ve never felt before. “I just feel…”

“What is it, baby?” Joost teases, fucking into you, devilish. “Can you tell me? Can you use your words, like I’ve been asking you to?”

“I’m gonna…”

Burning hot and building up and up and up inside of you, in your stomach, in your chest, your tired thighs tensing the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens until it snaps, hard and fast; you don’t even realize the curses and almost chanting of his name tumbling out of your mouth as you look down and see—

Clear liquid runs down from your pussy, down your ass as you groan out, a punched out moan tumbling from your lips. The wet squelch around his still moving fingers even louder now—oh my god? There’s wetness beneath you now, a small laugh of disbelief coming from Joost as you gush all over his fingers and hand and writhe with your powerful climax, the bed under you wet, the comforter wet, everything wet, and all because of Joost.

You whine and he nods, smiling at you. “Schatje…I didn’t think it would work…”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing and half embarrassed at the mess you’ve made, panting and completely out of breath. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?! Mijn schat, that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, I think.” He takes his fingers out of you with a sound that makes you cringe, and holds his hand in the air, fingertips dripping with your wetness, shiny and slick. You had no idea you could even do that, let alone feel whatever white hot pleasure was ripping through you while you did, and you laugh at his amazement with your hands over your mouth.

“We’ll have to change the sheets again,” you pout once you realize—you just changed them yesterday before he got here, and the other set of sheets is dirty. Ughhhhh.

“I’ll wash the other sheets—I would change them a million times over if it meant you doing that again.”

“We’ll run out of sheets before that happens, Joost.” He hates changing the sheets, but he’s so desperate for it, obviously.

“I’ll make new ones,” Joost says proudly, then kisses you. “Please don’t worry about the bed. I’ll take care of it, and to be honest, I would like you to mess it up even more.” Kiss on your lips. Your worries have melted away with it. “You were so good to me, yet I still didn’t get my song. Tell me, why is that, mijn schat? You want me to torture you for longer?” he says softly, kissing you on the lips.

“It’s not torture,” you breathe out and Joost laughs. “I said your name, what more do you want from me?”

“It’s not torture? Is that right?” he asks, and you nod, coming up to kiss him again, “I want to be inside you, lieverd, that’s what I want.”

Only now do you notice that he’s hard again—the same hand he used to finger you wrapped around his cock, your wetness his lubrication alongside the precum drooling from his tip. “That’s what you’ll get, then,” you say, sweet and smiling and so ready for it even after Joost has had his way with you for what feels like hours now.

It’s your wetness that’s darkened Joost’s arm hair and the hair on his stomach; your wetness facilitating his sharp sighs as he pleasures himself to the sight of you, the thought of you, the sound of you.

Beaming, Joost turns away to the side. “If it isn’t obvious to you, the audience,” he says into the microphone in a silly voice. “This is the first time I’ve made her squirt, and she still wants me so bad!! What the fuck!! I am sooo so lucky!!! What amazing sight, wow. Shoutout lieverd, for real!!” Your laugh is sure to be captured in the background, your small “Shoutout Joosti!” too. Joost turns back to you—”My one in a trillion, baby,” a kiss to your lips, your body being laid on the damp sheets again and your legs opening in response.

“mijn_schatje_loml_voor_altijd_TANTUPLSDONOTLISTEN.mp3” has been running for 1 hour, 33 minutes, 8 seconds, 3 milliseconds—feels like so much longer. Joost lies between your legs again on his stomach, his cheek on your thigh, his calves in the air swinging and happy and him batting his eyelashes at you “innocently.” “Dickhead,” you laugh, knowing he wants to put his tongue on you again, and he laughs too.

“Your favourite one, though, right?”

“Yes, my favourite one.” You roll your eyes at his giggles but smile nonetheless at him. “I want you inside me, Joosti, don’t make me wait, please.”

Joost holds up a finger—“One criticism—”

“Already?!” you exclaim. “What is it?”

Joost gets up off of you and goes to the dresser to the side of your bed. You tilt your head in confusion—there isn’t much in there he could need for the rest of this, but he seems to be determined. “I think it’s the cutest thing when you call me Joosti and I never want you to stop doing that,” he starts, rummaging through the drawer. “But I think for the sake of the song, or your part in it, it would be better if you just said ‘Joost.’ Can you do that?”

“I can do that, Joost,” you tease, your perfectionist musician of a boyfriend coming out in full force.

“Good, good, schat. Now can you say it while I’m using this on you?”

Joost turns around holding…Ole Reliable, the name you both call a taupe vibrating wand that was your best friend before you two started dating, is your best friend when he’s gone for longer than a month or two and your fingers aren’t enough when you two are FaceTiming…to Joost’s absolute displeasure. When he’s home, it hides in your underwear drawer—but trust, he knows where it is.

“Be serious, Joost,” you laugh in disbelief. There’s no way that Ole Reliable will be part of this with how much lighthearted vitriol Joost has treated it in the past, calling it his “mortal enemy,” his “biggest competition.” This isn’t real.

“It takes you like, 3 hours to cum after I’ve made you cum so many times, this will help,” he shrugs, and he’s right. You’re so overstimulated at this point that he’d have to fuck you for longer to get you over the edge, but the vibrator is a bit overkill—it’s powerful, and you’ve made your own legs shake with it countless times, with or without Joost.

“I think I’ll end up…squirting—ew, I hate that word—even more if you use it.”

“It’s not so bad of a word, mijn schat. And either way—bed is already dirty. Why not go all out so we don’t have to clean up again?”

Joost makes a good point, and you know he’ll want to see more of your newfound ability later on—minimizing the cleanup later sounds good, so you lie back, open your legs, run your fingers through your wet folds as his eyes widen at your eagerness. “Let’s go all out,” you giggle and he flops on top of you, exclaiming, “Yayyyyy!!!”

It’s slow, the way he hooks your legs over his thighs, long presses the button of the vibrator, presses it again once so it turns on completely, and then recoils in surprise when he presses the largest button again and again. “Whaaattt the fuck, I didn’t know there were so many patterns in it. That is crazy. You use this?! What is ‘thumping feature.’ There are so many buttons. What…” Joost looks at it in wonder, the vibrations sure to be going through his entire forearm—that thing is strong, and you know it.

“There are only 2 buttons, Joost.”

“That is a lot to me.”

Cycling it back to the lowest, most tame setting, he places the head on your clit, gentle; you hiss at the waves coming through you, even at the lowest rate it could possibly go. “Do you like that, baby?” he asks, voice low, other hand coming down to slip a finger in your pussy. “You look like you love it.”

Nodding, Joost takes your hand and wraps it around the handle of the wand, and you hold it against yourself as he jerks his cock between your legs, enveloping the warm head of it in your entrance. It slips in so nice—you’ve been ready for it for hours now, you'd be surprised if it didn’t just slide in. Your eyes roll back, the back of your head hitting the wire frame of your bed, the vibrations coursing through you and his big cock parting your slit.

“Oh, fuckkk, schat,” Joost moans as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy. “So fucking wet, baby, you feel so good.”

Breathless, you nod, as Joost glides right in; he’s thick, but you're so wet. Three orgasms and counting for you, it’s so easy now. Angling the vibrator, you move it so you can see it all—how messy it is when he pulls his hips back to adjust how he’s thrusting into you, his pubes and happy trail wet with your juices, the hair on his thighs wet as well. What a mess you’ve made.

“Oh my god—“ he says, rolling his neck back in pleasure once he finally bottoms out inside of you, the wand pressed against his pelvis just as much as it’s pressed against yours. Joost bites his lip, shaking his head. Not so much of a mortal enemy, after all, is it? “How do I compete with this thing…”

“This thing could never be you, Joost,” you breathe, and it’s true. So tired, so happy, you’re a little emotional about it for some reason.

How he holds you so warm and safe and tight, always, never a question on if he wants and loves you—he always does and always will. In bed together like this, sheltered from the rain in your home together, your cats scratching at the door and a whole life ahead of you; on the train giggling with each other about the middle-aged and elderly side-eyeing his barking and boisterous laughter; in club bathrooms and snow covered curbs and swimming pools in your backyard and the couch downstairs.

The rest of the world should be envious about what you have, who you hold. Joost, this house, that audio recording, and you, forever.

“Hehe!” Joost leans over to the microphone and gloats into it, “Me—1! Vibrator—zeroooo! Hahahahah!”

You laugh—and this, forever. You could never trade this in.

Pulling Joost in, you kiss him sweet and slow, little thrusts of him inside of you as he moans into your mouth incessantly, every breath of his a whimper, it must feel so good—buried balls deep in your pussy, vibrator against your clit and pressed against the few centimeters of shaft that can’t fit in you when he begins thrusting inside of you sloppily, the hollow clap of his hips against you filthy as you moan out his name against the humming backdrop of the toy you're using together.

Every nerve in your body winds itself tight around the coil in your stomach as he fucks into you, a smooth and steady rhythm that makes you lose yourself, trying to wrap yourself around him, wanting to devour him whole, wanting to make it so it’s just you and him and no one else in the world, no one outside these walls, no one else. With Joost breathing into your mouth, his sweaty bangs tickling your forehead, the taste of his tongue on yours—there might as well be no one on this earth except you and him.

“I can't do it, Joost, it’s too much,” you whine as he keeps driving into you—god, you want it so badly, but three and a half orgasms later and you’re entirely spent, letting him do all the work as you moan loudly, no control over yourself or your body. The vibrator is pressed flush against your clit and gets you to the precipice faster than you’d like right now.

“You can do it, baby,” he coos, and you know there’s no way to get out of this. Either way, you wouldn’t want to, legs wrapped around him, the buzzing of the vibrator such music to your ears, the feeling of his cock driving into you and Joost, a warm and heavy and perfect weight atop you. As you claw at his shoulders, his back, he holds you open with his strong hands, your squirming no match for his strength with every deep seat of his cock inside of you. “I know you can, you can do it.”

When he says it, you believe it; you have to bite and suck at his neck in order to focus on keeping it together long enough for him to cum, apologizing to Lola in your head at your treatment of her, how she’ll be blooming purple and red by the time the sun rises tomorrow. Joost ruts into you, pressing the vibrator hard to your clit and it’s so…it’s so much, the mattress squeaks with how spirited his hips are against you, loud slaps of skin against skin and your name, his name, intertwined on this wavelength, on this track for everyone to hear.

“Joost…fuck, Joost!” you cry out again and again, tears coming to your eyes with how hard and fast your orgasm rips through you, repeating Joost’s name like a prayer, an oath, gushing around him and too fucked out to kiss back properly when he licks into your mouth, grounding you back to this bed even as you sob out in pleasure, fat tears rolling down your cheeks at how amazing he’s making you feel. “I love you,” you breathe, blissed and fucked out tears streaming down your cheeks at how good it feels, all open and airy.

“Why are you all sappy, baby? ‘Cause I’m fucking you so well?” Joost teases, pressing wet kisses to your tear stained cheeks, your mouth bitten red with his nips, his kisses all throughout this.

“Yes, I love you, Joost,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck, bringing him closer even if it means the vibrator gets pushed even harder against your aching clit.

He laughs, continuing his feverish thrusting as he finally gives you the kiss you want. “I love you too, mijn hart.”

You don’t notice him fumbling around on the side table as he kisses you, bringing the wired earphone from the nightstand back to your ear, your eyes widening in surprise.

“Do you hear that, mijn schat?” The feedback, his voice, doubled and almost echoing as you hear it in real life and it plays out in your ears, delayed. You have to try and dampen the rest of your senses to focus on what you’re hearing. The slopping of his hips against your ass, the low pitched vibrations of the wand, his voice.

Joost’s voice that distracts you until you’re snapped out of it by him pulling out, stroking his cock and panting heavily, cheeks and chest and neck pink with exertion, skin shining with sweat. “What are you doing?” you mumble.

“You’ve already done so much, schat,” Joost breathes, and you shake your head, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.

“Finish what we started, I want it all.”

Obediently, Joost nods, inching himself back inside you again; it sounds so wet in your ears, the microphone capturing every gritty detail, every squelch of yours and his.

“Schat, I wanna…fuck, I wanna cum inside you so bad,” he whines, erratic thrusting with every word, losing it again, losing the practiced, methodical musician that you know so well. Even with his whining, his voice is deep, needy, chanting your name like you moaned his. “Wanna…fuck, I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I want everyone to hear it, see it, know you’re mine…mine, mine, mine…”

“Yeah, baby?” you smile, his cheek laid against your tits as he grinds against you, then goes back for long, deep strokes inside of you. Joost groans so loud against your skin, spit and sweat on the softness of your breasts; so overwhelmed, he takes your nipple in his mouth and sucks, nipping at you through his own orgasm, stuttering his hips into your pussy.

Warm ribbons of Joost’s cum paint your insides and fill you up so well, your moans finally joining his as he comes down from his high, moaning and sobbing out your name, lieverd, schat, collapsing on your chest and heaving for his breath again as you catch yours once more, satisfied with your recording together.

“That a good enough song for you, Joost?” you smile, eyes already closing with the bliss of such a good recording session together.

“Dutch Grammy worthy, mijn meisje,” Joost breathes, and you laugh as he reaches to the side and shuts his laptop, ending your recording. “How about another recording session later?”

—

A month later and you’re carrying a paper bag of takeout from a few blocks down, earphones blasting a new demo from Joost and Tantu, using the spare key under Tantu’s doormat to get into his apartment from the cold. You set down the bag on the counter of his tiny kitchen, place the key back under the doormat, get three bowls together to split the takeout between, get utensils and glasses of water and what have you before you enter the bedroom studio.

The takeout fights you tooth and nail; cheap food spilling everywhere, oil and sauce and vegetables on the counter and the rims of the bowls that you have to wipe up with the one (1. ONE!) paper towel left on the roll in the kitchen. Is this what happens when Ruby isn’t in town and they’re in album mode? You figure it must.

You manage to wrestle it all together precariously, using every square centimeter of the one paper towel you have in your arsenal before picking up all three bowls—two of them nestled in your left arm, one of them held in your right hand.

The door to the bedroom is closed shut—your arms are full, and you spend a few moments fussing about how to get in without having to go back into the kitchen and set down the food, but you hear Tantu and Joost’s muffled voices through the door.

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have skipped ahead—“

“You should've never played it, Tantu!”

“Well, you shouldn’t have kept it on your desktop for anyone to see! With my name on it!”

You tilt your head in confusion, and then knock on the door with your foot; in an instant, Tantu opens it for you, and you hear, loud and clear: “I wanna fuck it in you ‘til it takes, I w—” before Joost slams the laptop shut and says, “Baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”

2 fics in a few weeks!! lfg!!! i hope you enjoyed!! <3 thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) they keep me writing!! askbox anon on hereeee - juno

#joost klein smut #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost smut #joost x you #joost fanfiction #joost klein fanfiction #joost fanfic #joost klein x you #juno's fics #juno’s writing #juno’s smut #normal au

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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a guide to ditching the world’s most persistent nerd!

CH02 – the psychology of making gojo satoru fold

pairing - nerd!gojo x baddie!reader

summary : gojo satoru has been the bane of your existence since kindergarten. you invited him to play during recess? he chose studying instead. you tried to give him chocolates? he rejected them for the sake of your dental health. you called him boring and never looked back.

years later, you’re a party girl with daddy issues, and he's the smartest, richest, greenest green flag at your elite university. when you're paired up for a project worth 60% of your final grade, you think you can slack off—except gojo keeps finding you at every exclusive club, dragging you back to work like the menace he is.

you flirt to distract him, he humors you. you push, he pulls. you seduce, he tucks your hair behind your ear and looks at you like you're the most precious thing in the world.

oh no.

tags -> modern au, university au, tooth rooting fluff with a side of light angst, unresolved romantic tension, suggestive themes, gojo satoru is a green flag menace, reader has issues, power struggles but gojo is unaware he's in one, forced proximity via group project, reader tries to ditch gojo satoru and fails spectacularly, pining disguised as irritation, rich kids and their rich kid problems, the art of denial, humor (i hope), eventual happy ending

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chapter summary : step two in ditching the world’s most persistent nerd: don't let him drag you out of a party. don't let him make you do actual work. and absolutely do not, under any circumstances, fall asleep.

the elevator ride up is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside and the distant mechanical whir of the lift ascending. your head still feels light from the alcohol, but your steps remain steady, heels clicking against the pristine marble floor when the doors finally slide open. the moment you step inside his condominium, you’re hit with the undeniable scent of wealth—sleek furniture, dim lighting, and a view so expansive it looks unreal. figures. you slip his knitted jacket off and toss it onto the nearest chair, stretching lazily, the hem of your dress riding up just enough to tease. “not bad,” you remark, eyeing the extravagant space. then, with a smirk, “where do you keep the bodies?”

satoru doesn’t even blink, already unbothered as he loosens his collar and drags a hand through his snow-white hair. “depends,” he muses, voice smooth. “you planning to add to the collection?” his eyes flicker over to you—assessing, knowing—but he doesn’t entertain the game, simply gesturing toward his study before walking toward the kitchen. annoying. you roll your eyes, but your gaze lingers on the door he motioned to, curiosity piqued. you strut past him, hips swaying just slightly, the party dress hugging your figure, knowing full well how much skin you’re showing. but he doesn’t bite. doesn’t even look twice. even more annoying.

the second he’s out of sight, you do what any respectable person would do: snoop. the study is almost too neat, shelves lined with thick business books, economic journals, and textbooks with titles long enough to put you to sleep. you run a finger along the pristine desk, noting how not even a speck of dust dares to settle here. no secret safes, no love letters, no hidden scandals—just papers, numbers, and more numbers. you grab a random notebook, flipping through. first page: a financial breakdown of some high-end luxury brand. second page: risk assessment models. third page: an obnoxiously perfect forecast analysis, complete with color-coded graphs. of course.

you throw your head back with a groan, dramatically collapsing into his chair. "even his handwriting is perfect,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the numbers blur together, boredom setting in fast, but before you can dig any deeper, footsteps approach. by the time satoru returns, electrolyte drink in hand, you’re already leaning against the desk, flipping through one of his books with all the enthusiasm of a dying flower. you don’t bother looking up. “so this is what you do in your free time?” you deadpan, voice flat. “thrilling.”

he quirks a brow, setting the bottle down beside you. “what, expecting something more exciting?” his voice carries amusement, as if he already knows your answer. you wave a lazy hand, flipping another page. “i dunno. secret stocks, offshore accounts, blackmail files—something shady.” satoru snorts, shaking his head. “do i look like a criminal mastermind to you?” his tone is teasing, but there’s something in the way he leans against the desk, casual yet calculating, that makes you tilt your head. you examine him—his ridiculous glasses, his perfectly pressed shirt, the smug way he watches you. “honestly?” you hum, “kinda.”

he makes a thoughtful sound, like he’s considering it. “if i were, you’d be the first person i’d test my tactics on.” the statement is lighthearted, but something in his tone makes your skin prickle. your eyes narrow. “that sounds like a threat.” he grins, slow and easy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “then you better behave.”

you don’t glorify him with a response. instead, you watch as he moves to the large table in the center of the room, pulling out his notes and flipping through them with practiced ease. the overhead lights cast a soft glow over the sleek wood, papers neatly stacked, his laptop booting up with an efficient ding. he drops a second laptop in front of you, then slides his notes across the table without so much as a glance your way. “you type, i analyze.” it’s not a request—it’s an order. you cross your arms, unimpressed, but tilt your head anyway, lips curving into a pout. “you don’t want me to think?”

satoru barely gives you a glance, adjusting his glasses with a single flick of his fingers. “i don’t want you to delete all my hard work out of spite.” his voice is flat, but there’s the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s expecting you to argue. you click your tongue, feigning deep offense as you place a hand over your heart. “i’d never.” but the second your fingers graze the keyboard, you realize something far more tragic—you actually hate this. your eyes skim the numbers, the figures, the graphs, and already, your patience begins to thin. numbers are boring. so boring.

your fingers slow, trailing lazily over the keys, and then you sigh, pushing your chair back just enough to stretch. “you know, satoru,” you purr, letting your voice dip just enough to be interesting, “i focus better with some positive reinforcement.” your arms press together as you lean forward, showing just the right amount of skin, a slow, practiced motion. your lips curve at the edges, testing, teasing. his response? a hum, low and absentminded, as he continues scanning his notes. “you want a sticker?” he muses. “gold star?”

you roll your eyes, shifting in your seat, letting the movement be slow, deliberate. the silky strap of your dress slips down the curve of your shoulder, barely-there fabric gliding against your skin, baring just enough to invite a second glance. the dim lighting of the room does you favors—casting warm shadows against your collarbone, catching the glint of your earrings as you tilt your head, exposing the delicate line of your throat. your lashes lower, gaze lidded, lips parting just slightly as you murmur, voice dipped in something softer, something sweeter. “maybe something more… personal?” it’s a challenge, subtle but clear, one that lingers in the air between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

and satoru, for the first time tonight, actually looks.

not a passing glance, not an absentminded flicker of his gaze—he looks. lifts his head, eyes tracing the lines of you, assessing, lingering just long enough for your skin to prickle under the weight of it. there’s no shift, no subtle hitch in his breath, no betraying sign of discomfort. instead, there’s only scrutiny, razor-sharp and deeply amused, like he’s already five steps ahead of you. his lips twitch at the edges, an almost-smirk, his head tilting just slightly. “oh, so this is your strategy.”

you lean in, slow, predatory, the air between you thinning, charged with something unspoken. your smile is practiced, effortless, dipping into something dangerously close to a smirk. “is it working?” your voice is silk and smoke, laced with honey, designed to pull—to draw him in, to tip the scales in your favor. your fingers toy with the hem of your dress absentmindedly, your posture relaxed, calculated. and for just a moment—a fleeting second—you swear you see something shift behind his eyes, something thoughtful, something unreadable—

but then, effortlessly, like it’s nothing, he reaches out.

his fingers are light, the briefest brush of warmth against your skin as he catches the fallen strap between two fingers, lifting it with infuriating ease. he doesn’t let it linger, doesn’t let the moment stretch—just sets it back into place with the casual indifference of someone fixing a crooked picture frame. your breath catches despite yourself, but he’s already leaning back, settling into his chair with all the ease in the world.

you blink.

he smirks. relaxed, arrogant, unbothered, as if the entire thing had been boring, as if you hadn’t been trying to test him, as if he hadn’t just won without breaking a sweat. “try actually doing your job.”

you huff, shifting in your seat, fingers stilling on the keyboard just long enough to glare at him. “you’re the worst kind of man,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear, just pointed enough to make sure he knows you mean it. but despite your grumbling, you actually start typing, the steady rhythm of keystrokes filling the space between you. every few minutes, you let out a dramatic sigh, just to remind him of your suffering, stretching your arms above your head like some long-suffering martyr. satoru doesn’t react, at least not visibly, but his eyes flicker to you on occasion, tracking the shift in your posture. the slow slump of your shoulders, the way your blinks drag longer than they should, the increasing frequency of your typos.

he says nothing at first, just watches, turning another page in his notes. but when your fingers finally still, hovering uselessly over the keyboard, he exhales, tapping his knuckles against the table to get your attention. “you can take a nap if you want.” his voice is casual, almost dismissive, like he’s not actually offering you a kindness. immediate whiplash. you snap upright, scoffing, eyes sharp despite the heavy weight of exhaustion settling behind them. “oh, now you’re concerned?” you bite, arms crossing over your chest. “this wouldn’t even be happening if you hadn’t dragged me here like some kind of corporate kidnapper.”

satoru, ever unbothered, merely turns another page. “right. so sleep.”

you narrow your eyes, stubborn. “i can do this.”

he hums, noncommittal, but doesn’t argue. he doesn’t have to. you last exactly ten more minutes before your head drops onto the table, your head barely missing the laptop, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling you under. satoru exhales, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stares at you, completely knocked out, mouth slightly parted, cheek smushed against the table. he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks, and then, inevitably, enters problem-solving mode.

probability analysis: optimal course of action for relocating a girl who hates your guts.

satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looks at you—sprawled over the table like a dead battery, completely motionless except for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders. honestly, he should just leave you here. it would be the logical thing to do. but then he notices the slight shiver in your exposed skin, the way your fingers twitch minutely in your sleep, and—ugh. now he has to do something about it.

but what’s the most efficient course of action?

option 1: leaving you here

probability of you catching a cold due to exposure to air conditioning (21°C)? 38.7%. not immediately life-threatening, but given your already questionable eating and sleeping habits as per his own observation, it wouldn’t take much to push your immune system over the edge.

probability of you waking up with a stiff neck and blaming him for it? 97.2%. unacceptable.

probability of you waking up at all within the next few hours? 11.5%. this is dangerous. you sleep too deeply. concerning.

additional factor: you’re drooling. on his notes.

verdict: completely out of the question.

option 2: waking you up

probability of you responding like a rational human being? 0.0000001%. nearly nonexistent.

probability of grumbling, whining, or attempting physical violence? 94.6%.

probability of you launching a verbal attack about how this is somehow his fault? 88.3%.

probability of you remembering any of this in the morning and making it a dramatic ordeal? 101%. impressive.

additional factor: the potential of you waking up, seeing him, and immediately assuming the worst? concerningly high.

verdict: more trouble than it’s worth.

option 3: moving you to the couch

effort required: minimal (6-7 seconds).

probability of successfully transporting you without waking you up? 60%.

probability of you waking up and accusing him of god knows what? 35.8%.

probability of you flipping out upon finding yourself on the couch? 85.2%.

additional factor: couch is leather. you would whine about it being cold. and knowing you, you’d twist yourself into a pretzel in your sleep and fall off.

verdict: not worth the headache.

option 4: carrying you to the guest room

effort required: practically none. you weigh nothing. ridiculous, really. concerning.

estimated time of execution: 10-12 seconds.

probability of you waking up mid-transport: 22.4%.

probability of you immediately falling back asleep if woken up: 73.9%.

probability of you waking up in the guest room, realizing what happened, and dramatically accusing him of being unable to resist your charm? 91.5%. but at least he could deny everything with hard evidence.

additional factor: easier to tuck you in here than risk you rolling off the couch.

verdict: most optimal choice.

option 5: covering you with a blanket and leaving you here

effort required: none.

probability of you waking up cold and making it his problem? 75%.

probability of you stealing his jacket and getting makeup all over it? 89.6%.

probability of this leading to a future argument? 100%.

additional factor: you have a habit of curling into yourself when cold. if he leaves you here, you’d probably wake up in the fetal position, limbs stiff, and find a way to blame him for it.

verdict: not happening.

final calculation: the weighted decision matrix indicates the optimal course of action is… carrying you to the guest room.

execution begins.

satoru sighs, shaking his head as he moves closer to you. “why am i like this?” he mutters, already knowing the answer. bending down, he hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you with zero difficulty. you barely weigh more than the blankets he’s about to tuck you into. he knew your eating habits were terrible, but this is absurd.

as long as you stay asleep, this will go smoothly.

…your arm immediately flops around his neck.

his entire body tenses, lips pressing into a thin line as your fingers curl weakly into his shirt. the warmth of your breath against his collarbone is deeply alarming.

“tch. recalculating.”

too late. mission must continue.

with the efficiency of a man who has spent way too much time overanalyzing a simple task, he makes his way to the guest room. carefully—so carefully—he lowers you onto the bed, tucking the blanket around you with precise, measured movements. then, stepping back, he exhales in satisfaction.

problem solved.

morning comes. you wake up warm. comfortable. rested. suspiciously well-rested. the sheets beneath you are soft, undeniably high-quality, the kind that probably costs more than your entire monthly expenses. the air smells faintly of something expensive—clean linen, hints of cologne, a lingering trace of him. your body sinks into the mattress just right, and that’s when your brain finally catches up.

your eyes snap open. the ceiling above you is unfamiliar—modern, sleek, and definitely not your bedroom. realization creeps in like a slow-moving storm, your lips curling before you can stop yourself. oh? oh??? ohhhhhhhh. your gaze flickers to the mirror across the room, catching the reflection of a disheveled but well-rested woman wrapped in high-thread-count blankets.

slowly, dramatically, you sit up, clutching the fabric to your chest. “oh, he couldn’t resist me after all,” you murmur, eyes twinkling with mischief. because really, why else would you be in a bed? satoru—stoic, impossible, insufferable satoru—must have finally caved. your five-year-old self, the one who was once slighted by a certain white-haired menace and his damned carrot, would be avenged. an evil little giggle bubbles up, uncontainable, utterly victorious.

“...the hell are you doing?”

your head snaps toward the voice, and there he is. satoru, standing by the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in blatant suspicion. his hair is still slightly messy from sleep, glasses missing, and yet he still has the audacity to look so effortlessly put together. his stare is unreadable, the perfect mix of exasperation and amusement, like he already knows you’re about to say something stupid. you spin toward him, heart lurching, but your face remains composed, schooled into an easy, practiced smirk.

he tilts his head slightly. “...you good?”

clearing your throat, you smooth down the sheets with an air of nonchalance, fingers gliding over the fabric as if you belong here—because, obviously, you do. with a slow, practiced ease, you lean back against the headboard, stretching just enough to let the blankets pool around your waist, the picture of careless indulgence. then, resting your chin in your palm, you let your lips curl, eyes lidded with amusement as you fix satoru with a look that speaks volumes. “so…” you drawl, voice honeyed and teasing, “...was i good?” the weight of the words hangs between you, deliberate, pointed. calculated mischief flickers in your gaze, waiting for the inevitable crack in his composure.

satoru squints, utterly unamused. he blinks once. then twice. his mouth parts slightly before closing again, as if your words are too absurd to immediately process. “huh?” his brows pinch together, confusion clear, but not in a flustered way—more in the what is she talking about now kind of way, which is not nearly as satisfying as you’d hoped.

undeterred, you gesture lazily at the bed, raising a slow, deliberate eyebrow. “you know,” you murmur, voice dipping into something almost sultry. “last night?”

he stares at you for an extra beat, expression unreadable, his silence stretching just long enough for anticipation to coil in your stomach. then, finally, in the most deadpan tone imaginable, he states: “you passed out on my table.”

your smirk falters.

satoru, the insufferable bastard, doesn’t stop there. if anything, his lips twitch with the barest hint of smugness as he continues, “i had to carry you here because you drooled on my notes.”

absolute. silence.

your entire body locks up, spine going rigid as heat floods your face, mortification creeping up your neck like a noose tightening with every second that passes. no. no, no. this—this cannot be your reality. in no version of this universe, real or theoretical, does he get to have the upper hand in your moment of triumph. not when you had so carefully set the scene, not when you were so close to making him flustered, not when—oh god, did he say drool?

panic surges, tangled with outrage, and before you can stop yourself—

you launch a pillow directly at his stupid head.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x female reader #cross posted on ao3 #nerd gojo #gojo fluff #nerdjo #reader insert

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aventurineswife · 3 months ago

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So I got myself sucked to lost media rabbit hole, especially lostwave. So imagine, reader once make music but stopped because they either busy or just want to take a break from making music. And one day the character somehow get a clip of their music video but only for 20 second of it, but that 20 second definitely hit the spot. And so the hunt of lost media begun. It would be even more perfect when reader make these music at 2010-2014, the song is pretty old but that doesn't mean they would give in like that.

Sorry for yapping, just had this idea crossed my mind out of the blue. Lost media fascinate me since there's soo many good content but it lost :(

HELP?! WHY DO PEOPLE LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH?! 😭🙏 LIKE IK ITS GOOD AND ALL BUT OMG-

It begins as a whisper.

The first time one of the characters hears the faintest trace of your music—an old track they never knew existed—something unsettles them.

March 7th finds an ancient clip while casually browsing through some files she stumbled upon. It's barely 20 seconds long, fuzzy and grainy, almost like it's been hidden away on the internet for years, untouched by time. The footage is barely enough to recognize, but the music? The song? It hits different.

The sound is distinctly your style, laced with melancholy and nostalgia, but it’s from a different time, a time they didn't know you existed in.

Welt is intrigued by the song’s complexity. He immediately starts analyzing the structure, the style, the instruments. “This feels like something from the early 2010s, but with such… an unusual vibe.”

Himeko is more emotional. “There’s something haunting about this. Like it’s pulling at a part of us that we didn’t even know was there.”

They both agree: the song has to be part of your lost history. You, their mysterious Creator, must have made it before becoming so busy or stepping back from the world.

Blade is silent for an uncomfortably long time after hearing the song. It seems to evoke something deep within him—something personal.

Dan Heng watches him, sensing Blade’s sudden vulnerability. He, too, finds himself drawn into the music. The melancholy and rawness of the sound tug at something deep inside him, though he can’t place it.

They decide that the 20 seconds of your music isn’t enough. They want more. They need more.

Aventurine immediately gets obsessed. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of our Creator’s soul, calling out from the past. We must find it!”

Sunday takes a different approach. He starts delving into ancient records, combing through anything he can find about you, trying to understand what this music means. To him, this is no longer a song—it’s a divine relic. "This is a sign! We must reclaim our Creator’s lost art!"

Both of them begin searching everywhere for any trace of the missing music, becoming obsessed with the idea of uncovering your lost creations.

Kafka smirks at the sound, recognizing the haunting undertones. "This is definitely a piece of your past, isn’t it?"

Black Swan agrees. “There’s an unmistakable sadness to it. They’ve hidden it for a reason. But why? What made them stop?”

They both turn inward, wondering what you went through to stop creating, to step back from making music. But they can’t ignore that the music is still a part of you—they want to find the rest of it, to reconnect with the “artist” behind the music.

Luocha listens quietly, feeling the melancholy in every note. "It’s almost like a dream, fading away with time."

Jing Yuan, always curious, notes, “This song… it’s old. But the way it feels—almost as if it were made just for us.”

The two of them decide that the song might hold clues about your past, and with that, they set off on a personal quest to recover the lost music. They search for anything that might lead them to more pieces.

Characters begin digging deep into old files, secret music vaults, archives, and obscure corners of the universe. The hunt for the lost music intensifies.

Every lead seems to go nowhere, but every time they find something—whether it’s an old video link or a half-deleted file—it’s like a spark of hope ignites. They keep digging, convinced that you—the enigmatic Creator—are still out there, waiting for them to rediscover your music.

And then it happens. They find a full video, a full song. Or maybe just another short clip. It’s old, but it’s yours.

The world falls silent. The moment they hear it, they know. This is you. This is the music you created.

But now the real question emerges: Why did you stop? Why did you hide it?

They now obsess over every note in the song, the subtle melodies, the emotions that drip from each lyric.

Blade & Dan Heng? They are absolutely smitten with this lost piece of your soul, so much so that they start debating what it means to your identity.

Aventurine & Sunday? They go as far as to frame the clip, treating it like a sacred relic, while constantly talking about how “they knew you had this hidden talent.”

Kafka & Black Swan? They can’t stop wondering if this song holds more than just music. Could this be a message? Something you wanted to share with them, even though you never fully revealed yourself?

Eventually, the search for the rest of your lostwave music becomes a personal journey for each character.

Some believe the rest is out there, waiting to be found. Others begin to accept the mystery, considering that the music might remain lost forever. But deep down, they know that one day—if you ever decide to return to the world of music—you'll reveal yourself again. And they'll be ready.

Sigh, 😞 how tf...

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whatlurksbean · 29 days ago

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Hello! I’ve been reading WLB from some time now, and I am still absolutely loving this comic every time.(on my 4th reread lol) WLB has inspired me greatly along with WC content and (also great!)creations by other creators to the point that I am almost about to script my own comic, with a few scenes that WLB had a huge influence on. Though, I can’t help but be a little overwhelmed when I actually think of creating one, mostly because of the fact I lack the skills to draw comics. Believe me, I am shit at panelling lol. But also l‘m a bit scared because even if I actually end up making my own series it absolutely could end up flopping and that would probably make me lose enthusiasm. I don’t necessarily want to make money out of my comics but rather show others my stories and characters that I love, but I have a history of making and posting oc art just for nobody to watch and kinda giving up.(even though I’m aware of the fact that this happens to practically everyone all the time, it still hurts) The (real)question is if there is some advice you can give to beginner/wanna-be comic artists, and how did you feel when you first posted The Recruit if that’s your first comic. I’m sorry if this sounds like a vent, and feel free to pass this if you want-just know you’re a great inspiration for many people. Stay safe, remember that YOUR well being is number one, and Love from Korea♥♥

Hello! I'm very glad you've enjoyed WLB!

A webcomic can for sure be a daunting and overwhelming thing. Most artists are a one man show, and knowing how to do Every Aspect Perfectly is an impossible task. I think it's important to remember everyone starts somewhere, and it is hard to get better unless you Start.

I mean, the first comic pages I drew digitally looked like this.

The comic lasted 6 pages before I got tired of it, and then I started The Recruit.

(which was over 430 pages long and started and had quite a style/writing change throughout the 7 years I worked on it)

You learn so much by just doing. There are a lot of helpful free resources online now a days to make the learning faster! There are tutorials on how to panel! And I think just reading comics in general is a great source of learning. Pay attention to the things you like (paneling, simplification process, color palettes ) and implement them in your work!

I think it's really important to figure out the level of detail you want the comic to be. I don't think it's wise or sustainable to put 100% effort into every aspect of it. It will burn you out. It's good to consider what level of shading (if any) you'll be willing to do for hundreds of panels, what level of background detail, how many colors the characters should have, and figure out what your focus is.

I've met a lot of comic artists over the years, EVERYONE has a different method or different focus. Creating is not a universal experience!

As for having your work be seen, it is honestly a lot of luck. Back in the day for TR I would just submit to all of the deviantart warrior cat groups and people would find it that way. deviantart groups are pretty dead now so I am unsure if that is any good now.

I personally really think ComicFury is a wonderful place for new artists. It's default page always shows the latest comic, so everyone always has an equal chance to be seen. You can be on the front page every 12 hours (i think, it might be 24..) and with a striking icon and consistent posting, you WILL find people.

It's not the largest site, but it is my favorite for comics.

I do not like the mindset of a comic "flopping." I think it takes time to build an audience. It is very unlikely for people to find your comic overnight, it will very likely take at least a few months of consistent posting to find a few engaged readers. I know it sucks to feel like no one is seeing your work, but it's just something that takes time.

Cat comics do tend to find readers faster though, so if that is your goal, I do hope you find success!

You could also post your updates in comic/art related places, like discords or post panels on bluesky or instagram. really any site or app that posts an image.

I also think consistent uploading is a strong key to building an audience. And to do this, it really helps to have a backlog. Meaning you draw like the first 10-20 pages of you comic (or however many) and upload one or two pages a week. The more your comic is seen popping up on their feed, the more likely people will be to finally click it. I usually do not click on comics I see once or twice, it usually takes a few weeks of me seeing it pop up before i decide to check it out. (talking about on Comicfury to be clear)

Once you've established you are dedicated to your comic, people do not mind if you take breaks. (and if they do, fuck em)

Also, having a community of friends or creators is a huge motivator. Show your work to friends! Share in a community of comic creators! Some things my friends have said to me about my comics has lifted my creative spirit more than anything.

This is turning into some 3am ramblings but to summarize my points:

•Find a style that will work for you to sustain a comic. (do not make 100% effort art pieces)

•Upload on comicfury (great comic site, equal opportunity for new comics) (I would also cross post to other platforms and link back to CF as a primary comic site)

•Work on some pages in private, so you can upload consistently once you begin your comic! (I would update daily for maybe a week and then switch to weekly pages, just to get the best chance of being seen + consistent posting. so that would be good to have at least 10 pages of backlogs. 7 for the first week, plus 3 weeks of backlog at that rate)

and the point most dear to my heart;

•Don't be scared of change.

I know a lot of folk wait and wait to make their comic until they are perfect artists or writers, but like, you'll never make anything if you wait for that. Change is so natural and normal in webcomics, in all art really. I think if you shade for 10 pages and decide you hate it, it's okay to change how you shade or drop it entirely. Change your art style. Change how you panel pages. Change how you do backgrounds. Change anything and everything you want. Enjoy the process and tell the story you want to tell.

Best of luck on your comicing journey, I hope you really enjoy it.

#answers #comic advice #im not the advice king and I can only say what I know #if you have any other specific question feel free to ask!#this is pretty rambly. im sorry.

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auset66 · 1 month ago

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I don't think it will reach many people but I want you guys to be proud of yourself. Sometimes the things we achieved along the lines can feel not very significant but you still did.

Your own original ideas you started from scratch. Sometimes we need more than just believing in ourselves. We need to appreciate too sometimes of how much we actually achieved.

Even if in the five years you see your progress in just one area and it only progressed level one still babe it's perfect. Not everyone is granted everything on silver spoon you didn't you did all that yourself. Learning unlearning and still going.

If you were your own child what would you do? How would you feel for this progress? Not that good? You know it should have been more cause you can do it? Don't beat yourself over it. Look at the other areas that you progressed. Your energy and mind were not focused on just one area of betterment it was for your whole.

Look at yourself and around other and not just this one specific area of your life which you think you didn't progress even when you had the resources and everything. You are not lazy, universe don't hate you, and you are not going backwards.

You are just progressing even if you can't see but every area of your life in the areas which you can't even see. So be gentle with yourself and take a moment to be proud of how much you actually grow up.

If you do drawing of some sort I feel your art is very fun not just healing it is fun you know like colour yellow. Different cool and sunshine? I see one secret admirer of your art. And I don't think or see this person will ever like come out or talk I feel very introverted energy but yes. Your art is something good. Even if it feels almost absurd. Your art is fun and childlike not just to you but to those you admire your art. Though again do it for yourself and not for the likes and fame.

I love your energy and I feel a lot of progress slow but yours authentic. I see you glowing from within the areas of your life on spiritual and on material level too which though you cant see progressed. God bless you, keep growing, keep going. And be proud of yourself. You are not stuck just doing the work on every level.

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gdinthehouseee · 3 months ago

Text

Killshot: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: ji-yong's been a fan of you, a famous model and designer, for a while now, so naturally he's ecstatic when he finally gets the chance to meet you in person. who knew you could make him so flustered?

word count: 3645

tags: fluff; flirting and teasing

ao3 link

Electric elegance and excitement filled the venue—the kind of anticipation that only a Chanel fashion show could conjure. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the grand space, illuminating rows of impeccably dressed guests—celebrities, designers, editors, and the elite of the fashion world. The rhythmic click of cameras never ceased, flashes reflecting off polished marble floors and the towering floral arrangements that framed the runway.

Ji-yong sat comfortably in the front row, his sharp gaze flicking between the models gliding down the catwalk and the intricate details of the new collection. He appreciated the craftsmanship, the way each piece moved like art in motion. But tonight, his mind wasn’t entirely on the designs. There was an undercurrent of anticipation in his chest, a quiet thrill he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He knew you were walking this show.

Then, the lights shifted. The music swelled into something dramatic, elegant. A sign of the show’s crescendo. And then—there you were. The moment you stepped onto the runway, he felt his breath hitch. Of course, he’s seen you on countless posters, magazines, even billboards. But, being so close to you in the same room and watching you work was something else entirely.

Beauty is subjective—something that couldn’t truly be defined, only felt. But in that moment, as you moved down the runway with effortless grace, he realized just how wrong he was. You were breathtaking, in a way that wasn’t just about flawless features or the way the couture hugged your figure. It was the quiet confidence in your stride, the way the lights seemed to chase after you, the soft yet commanding intensity in your eyes. Every movement was deliberate, every glance a silent declaration that you belonged here, at the pinnacle of the fashion world. Ji-yong wasn’t easily starstruck, but something about you—about the way you carried yourself like art brought to life—had him completely mesmerized.

Which is why he almost forgot how to breathe when your eyes met his.

For the rest of the show, he couldn’t seem to get that visual out of his mind. Not that he wanted to. He was trying to remain reasonable with his inner monologue, how that moment was most likely nothing more than a coincidence and how you could have easily made eye contact with anybody; it just happened to be him. Yet, he wanted to pretend as if that shared glance was all for him.

Before he knew it, the show was over. He didn’t completely realise until he noticed whoever that previously sat next to him were now long gone, likely making their way to the exclusive post-show party. A party he was invited to. A party he normally would have declined, but he just couldn’t pass up this opportunity to finally talk to you. He found himself weaving through the sea of designers, celebrities, and fashion insiders. The atmosphere was different now—still glamorous, but more relaxed, buzzing with post-show energy. Champagne glasses clinked, laughter bubbled from plush seating areas, and flashes of couture shimmered under the dim, moody lighting. Conversations blurred into one another, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was scanning the room, searching for you.

As if the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment, he spotted you.

Standing near the bar, effortlessly stunning in a sleek post-show outfit, you were laughing at something someone had said, your head tilting slightly as your lips curled into a smirk. The sight made something warm stir in his chest—because somehow, despite the grandeur of it all, you still stood out the most.

This was it. His chance.

Ji-yong exhaled, rolling his shoulders back, trying to shake the ridiculous nervous energy he felt creeping in. He was G-Dragon. He was the idol of idols, the king of K-pop. And yet, when it came to you, he suddenly wasn’t so sure what to do with himself. Should he introduce himself properly? What is he going to do with his hands? What about his expression? Where should he look? God forbid, you make eye contact and suddenly his mouth stops working.

Before he could decide on his approach, you turned. And your eyes met his. His heart threatened to jump out of his chest when he watched you excuse yourself from whoever you were talking to and started heading directly towards him. Holy shit.

The truth was you had felt his gaze before you even turned to look. There was something unmistakable about it—intense yet curious, lingering but not intrusive. And when you finally met his eyes, you couldn’t help but smile.

Kwon Ji-yong. The G-Dragon. The icon. The artist who had painted himself into your heart without even realising The man you had admired from afar, just as he had admired you. He was standing just a few feet away, looking far too cool in his tailored black suit, silver rings glinting under the low lighting. But there was something else too, something almost boyish in the way his fingers toyed with said rings, as if he were debating whether to come over. You decided to make it easy for him.

“If you’re going to stare, you might as well say hello.”

Ji-yong blinked, caught off guard for half a second before his lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. He stepped closer, effortlessly slipping into your space like he belonged there. “In my defense, it’s kind of hard not to stare when the most stunning person in the room is standing right in front of me.”

You huffed a laugh, amused at how smoothly he recovered. “Flatterer.”

“Just honest.” His eyes gleamed with mischief, and you swore you saw the faintest hint of pink dust his ears, though he covered it well.

You took a slow sip of your drink, feigning contemplation. “You know, it’s funny… I always figured if we met, you’d be the cool one.”

He raised a brow. “And?”

“And yet here you are, acting like a total fanboy.” You grinned, watching his reaction.

Once more, he was caught off guard, and for a split second, you saw it—the faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck, the way his fingers instinctively tightened around the glass in his hand. His usual effortless confidence faltered, just for a moment, and it was honestly adorable.

His gaze flickered away, then back to you, like he was trying to recover. “I—” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, wow.”

“Oh my god,” you teased, grinning wide now. “You’re actually flustered.”

“I am not flustered.” He cleared his throat, shifting his stance, but that just made it worse.

You gasped, placing a hand over your heart dramatically. “Wait. Have you been waiting for this moment? Oh no—Ji-yong, do you have a little crush?”

The moment your lips formed his name—soft, effortless, like you’d said it a thousand times before—Ji-yong swore his brain short-circuited. It wasn’t just the way you said it, but the way it settled in the air between you, like it belonged there. His name had been spoken by millions—fans, interviewers, friends—but somehow, coming from you, it sounded entirely new. Warmer. Sweeter. And damn, even your voice was beautiful. Smooth, rich, laced with amusement, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. For the first time in a long time, the man who always had the perfect words—a born lyricist—found himself momentarily speechless.

“Did I just make G-Dragon speechless?”

“No,” he denied, but his voice came out just a fraction slower than usual. How did you already know him so well in this short span of time?

You tilted your head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Because you looked a little—how do I put this?—overwhelmed there for a second.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he swirled the drink in his glass, clearly trying to think of what to say next. He was plotting an immediate revenge, but you simply couldn’t resist pushing a little more. “I mean, I get it. If I were you, I’d be overwhelmed too. Meeting me must be a pretty big deal.”

“Wow. Modest, aren’t you?”

“I like to think I’m just self-aware.”

Ji-yong clicked his tongue, leaning in slightly as he rested his elbow against the bar. “Fine, I’ll admit it—I was excited to meet you. Maybe even a little nervous.”

“Nervous?” You echoed.

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

You beamed, reveling in the moment. “Ji-yong, are you telling me you had a little pre-game pep talk before coming over here?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face before leveling you with a halfhearted glare. “You really don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when I’m having this much fun.”

He sighed dramatically, setting his drink down before crossing his arms. “Okay, since you’re enjoying yourself so much, tell me—how would you have imagined this going?”

You pretended to think for a moment. “Hmm… I figured you’d walk in here all cool and effortless, maybe hit me with a ‘Nice to finally meet you,’ like it was no big deal.”

“And now?”

“Now?” You grinned. “I think I might be your biggest weakness.”

He stared at you for a moment, then scoffed, shaking his head as a slow smile spread across his lips. “Alright, you win this round.”

You clinked your glass against his, eyes twinkling. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been winning since you first laid eyes on me.”

He chuckled, desperately ignoring the way his heart fluttered at the pet name, finally regaining some of his usual confidence. “See, now you’re just showing off.”

You shrugged playfully. “Like I said. Self-aware.”

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head in amusement before leaning in just a fraction closer, his voice lowering. “In that case… how about we make this interesting?”

“Oh?”

An unfortunately charming smile tugged at his lips. “You’ve had your fun teasing me. Now let’s see if you can handle it when I start playing back.”

Challenge accepted.

You narrowed your eyes at him, studying the way his smirk deepened, how his confidence settled back into place like he had just remembered who he was. Global icon, master of charm. And apparently, a man who had just decided to turn the game around on you. Interesting.

“You think you can fluster me?” You challenged.

“I don’t think.” He set his glass down carefully, voice dropping just slightly. “I know.”

A spark of anticipation ran through you, but you refused to show it. “Big words, sweetheart. You sure you can back them up?”

His gaze flickered down to your lips—quick, subtle, almost imperceptible. But you caught it. Oh, he was dangerous.

Ji-yong hummed thoughtfully. “You’re right. Maybe I should start small.” He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you could catch the faintest hint of his cologne—warm, woody, intoxicating. “Like pointing out how, for all your teasing, you haven’t taken your eyes off me once.”

Your fingers tightened around your glass instinctively. Damn it. He had noticed.

His smirk widened. “Or how you keep leaning in every time I do.”

You blinked, realizing that—yeah. Maybe you were mirroring him just a little. You fought the urge to step back, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you tilted your chin up, giving him an unimpressed look. “Please. You’re not that charming.”

“Then why are you holding your breath right now?”

Damn him. Your jaw tightened. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it until he pointed it out.

He chuckled under his breath, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re cute when you’re pretending not to be affected.”

You hated to admit it, but damn—he was good. Too good. The shift in his demeanor had been seamless, like a tide turning before you even realized the waves had changed direction. One moment, he was the flustered one, pink-eared and sheepish under your teasing, and now? Now he was looking at you like he had you all figured out, like he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what effect it had on you. And the worst part? He did know. The way his voice dipped just enough to make your breath catch, the way his eyes never wavered from yours, holding you there as if daring you to look away first. Kwon Ji-yong was dangerously charming, effortlessly magnetic—and, as much as you wanted to keep the upper hand, you had to admit… you really didn’t mind losing this round.

You scoffed, finally breaking eye contact as you took a sip of your champagne. “Alright, I’ll admit it—you’re better at this than I expected.”

He leaned back slightly, victorious. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head with a smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled, then glanced around the room before looking back at you, his expression shifting from playful to genuinely intrigued. “So, tell me…what does someone like you do for fun at these things? Aside from making grown men nervous, of course.”

As the conversation continued, the playful teasing began to fade into the background, replaced by an undeniable sense of ease between the two of you. He no longer seemed as intent on winning the playful battle. Instead, there was a shift—a subtle softening in his eyes when he looked at you.

After a quiet moment, Ji-yong shifted on his stool, leaning in just a bit closer. "You know," he started, his voice more thoughtful than before, "I never really get nervous. I mean, it's been a while since I’ve felt… out of my element." He looked away for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, but you could see the faint tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before. "But tonight? Meeting you? It’s different."

You tilted your head, surprised by the shift in tone. The confident, playful version of him was still there, but now you saw something else—something quieter. "Different how?"

He paused, eyes flickering back to yours, searching for the right words. "I don't know… I guess, I’ve admired you for a while now. Your work, the way you carry yourself, the way you’ve built something so incredible from the ground up. I don’t know if you realize how rare that is. And then to meet you like this, in person…" He let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. "Honestly, it feels surreal."

You blinked, a little taken aback. The man who usually exuded unshakable confidence was now standing before you, vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten. It was real, raw—and it only made him that much more captivating. Unfortunately for you, it only made him more attractive.

"I didn’t know you were a fan of mine," you murmured, your voice softer than usual. "I guess I always thought of you as someone so… out of reach."

"Maybe that's why I was so nervous, even though I didn't want to admit it." He ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to shake off the moment. "But now that I’ve actually met you… I think I’m just really glad I did."

His words hung between you, like a quiet confession, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade. There was no media, no flashing cameras, just two people standing in a crowded room but somehow feeling like they were the only ones there. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the party faded into the background, leaving only the two of you, standing close yet separated by a quiet tension. His gaze, usually guarded and sharp, softened as he looked at you. This wasn’t the public figure Ji-yong, the performer or the brand. This was him—raw and unfiltered. His eyes held something different now, not the usual charisma or charm, but something deeper, more genuine. And you felt it too.

There was a certain vulnerability between you now, a shared understanding that neither of you needed to perform for the other. You could see the way he studied you, not as the world expected him to, but as a man who saw you for who you truly were—no makeup, no lights, no cameras. Just you. And for the first time, you realized you were doing the same thing. Not the musical genius, not the trendsetter—just him.

The way his eyes lingered, the slight curve of his lips as he absorbed every little detail of you, told you that the real you—the one without the glitz, the glam, and the fame—was more intriguing to him than anything else. In that silence, you realized that the Ji-yong standing before you wasn’t just intrigued by your beauty in a public sense. He was captivated by the authenticity of the person you were when no one was watching. And for the first time, it dawned on you that maybe, just maybe, this was the most genuine connection either of you had ever had.

The moment lingered, but only for a beat, before you both seemed to snap back into the playful rhythm of things. Ji-yong’s lips quirked up again, that signature smirk returning as if the vulnerability from before hadn’t even happened. You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling the playful spark flicker back to life between you.

“You’re lucky I’m still giving you the time of day,” you teased, tilting your head as you met his gaze. “After all that heart-to-heart, I could’ve easily walked away with all the points.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Points? Don’t get ahead of yourself, jagiya. I’m just getting started.”

You were about to tease him back, but before you could, Ji-yong took your hand in his with surprising tenderness. He brought it up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your hand. The gesture was gentle, but the heat that followed it was undeniable. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt a wave of warmth rush to your cheeks.

His eyes locked on yours as he pulled away, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. “Well, I’d say that worked better than I expected,” he said, his voice low, almost as if he was savoring the effect his kiss had on you.

You froze, completely flustered, your mind struggling to catch up with the intensity of the moment. Your face was on fire, and you could feel yourself falling into a flustered silence.

He grinned, obviously relishing in the effect he had on you. “Something wrong?”

You took a breath, the playful spark flaring back in your chest. You couldn’t let him win so easily, not after all his teasing. So, in a moment of boldness, you leaned forward and placed a quick, teasing kiss to his jawline. The kiss was light, playful—but the effect was instant. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked utterly stunned, blinking at you as if he hadn’t quite expected that.

“Well, well,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the rush of warmth flooding your face. “I guess I can make you blush too.”

His hand instinctively went to the spot you’d kissed, his fingers lingering there, a small grin forming on his lips. He looked at you, half-shocked, half-amused. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” he said, his tone a mix of disbelief and admiration.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a sense of triumph. “I don’t play by the rules, Ji-yong. You should know that by now.”

The glimmer of surprise in his eyes mixed with a hint of something darker. The blush on his cheeks only made it all the more satisfying. You let your gaze linger on his face for a moment, letting the silence stretch as you leaned in just a little, the space between you feeling charged with anticipation.

“You’re gonna have to keep up, though,” you murmured, your voice low and almost teasing. “I don’t always play nice.”

His eyes darkened slightly, the playful edge in his expression sharpening as he took a slow breath. “Is that so?” he said, voice thick with something between amusement and challenge. “Because I think I could handle anything you throw my way... Aein.”

You stepped a little closer, just enough that you could feel the heat between you two rise. “Is that a promise, Ji-yong?” you asked, lips curving into a sly smile. “You sure you can handle me? I can be... a lot more than you think.”

The words hung in the air, and you could see him catch his breath, just for a second, before his lips parted. “I never back down from a challenge, especially not one like you,” he said, his voice dropping lower, an almost dangerous undertone. “But you’re gonna have to make it worth my while.”

You leaned in closer, so close that your lips brushed his ear as you spoke, your voice dripping with playful seduction. “Oh, trust me,” you whispered, voice just barely above a breath. “I’ll make it more than worth it. But you’re gonna have to prove you can keep up with me first.”

He inhaled sharply, a faint tremor in his breath as you pulled back slightly, watching his expression twist with a mix of surprise and something darker—a flicker of desire now evident in his eyes.

“Well,” he said, voice husky, “I think you’ve underestimated me, aein. I’ll make sure you’re the one struggling to keep up.”

A slow, teasing smile tugged at your lips, and you felt a thrill rush through you, the unspoken game between you two now fully ignited. “We’ll see about that, Ji-yong,” you said softly, the tension in the air thick and undeniable.

“We’ll see who’s really in charge.”

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