#They make his face even more soft and expressive

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

You sit beside Xavier on the bench in the park, watching people pass by as golden afternoon light filters through the leaves. The air smells of fresh-cut grass and distant food carts. A stylish couple walks past, the woman’s laughter musical, her confidence evident in every step.

“I wish I was pretty like her,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, your fingers absently tracing patterns on the wooden bench.

Xavier turns to you, his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. His brows furrow deeply, eyes widening just a fraction.

“What... did you say?” he asks, his tone remaining even despite the clear puzzlement in his eyes. He shifts his body toward you, giving you his full attention.

“Nothing, just...” you gesture vaguely toward the retreating couple. “Sometimes I don’t feel very attractive. Especially around people like that.”

Xavier stares at you for a long moment, looking genuinely bewildered. The silence stretches between you, broken only by distant children’s laughter and birdsong.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says.

You start to explain, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his unwavering gaze, but he gently places his hand over yours, the warmth of his palm surprising against your skin.

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “I mean I don’t understand why you would think that. It doesn’t make sense.” His thumb traces a small circle on the back of your hand. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he states matter-of-factly. “I’ve always thought so.”

Coming from Xavier, the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“You don’t have to say that,” you protest weakly, looking down at where his hand covers yours.

Xavier shakes his head, leaning closer. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I don’t...” he pauses, carefully selecting his words, “understand how you can’t see what I see.”

His fingers tighten around yours, the pressure gentle but grounding. “Every time I look at you, I...” He struggles with the words, clearly moving outside his comfort zone. A faint color touches his usually pale cheeks. “From a purely objective standpoint, the way you look—” He stops, frustrated with himself, and takes a deep breath.

“That’s not what I meant to say.” He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there’s a rare vulnerability there. “What I mean is that you’re beautiful. In every way that matters. Your smile when you’re excited about something. The way your eyes light up when you talk about things you care about. How your whole face changes when you’re lost in thought.”

He reaches up with his free hand, hesitating just shy of touching your face. “I’ve remembered every expression you make. I’ve studied them all.” He looks away, embarrassed by his own earnestness. “You’re beautiful. Please, don’t think otherwise.”

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, as if relieved to have expressed something he’s held inside for too long. He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the afternoon.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

You’re helping Zayne organize his medical journals in his office as late afternoon shadows stretch across the polished floors. The pristine space feels both clinical and comforting—much like the man himself.

As you reach up to place a heavy volume on the top shelf, you catch your reflection in the large window overlooking the city. The bright lighting does you no favors.

“Ugh,” you mutter, tugging self-consciously at your clothes. “I look awful today.”

Zayne glances up from his desk where he’s been meticulously updating patient files. He sets down his pen, the soft click audible in the sudden silence. His eyes, usually so focused on his work, now study you with that penetrating gaze that seems to see beneath surfaces.

“What brought this on?” he asks, his voice filling the room.

“Nothing specific,” you say, turning away from your reflection. “Just... some days I don’t feel pretty, that’s all.”

Zayne stands. He gestures to the leather chair beside his own. “Sit.”

You comply, watching as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest. The setting sun through the windows casts half his face in shadow, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.

“Are you overthinking again?” he asks directly, but there’s no judgment in his tone. “Or did someone say something to you today?”

“Just overthinking, I guess,” you admit, fidgeting under his steady gaze.

He nods once, as if confirming a diagnosis. “I see.” He’s silent for a moment.

“Beauty is subjective,” he begins. “But if you’re asking for my opinion...” The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. “You’re more than perfect. Inside and out.”

When you start to protest, he raises a hand to stop you.

“I don’t make observations lightly. You know that.” His eyes hold yours. “I’ve studied human anatomy for years. I’ve seen thousands of faces.” He leans forward slightly. “None of them affect me the way yours does.”

The admission seems to surprise even him, a rare moment of vulnerability from someone so carefully composed.

Suddenly, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a small chocolate wrapped in gold foil. It’s from the exclusive chocolatier across town—the one he pretends not to favor.

He places it in your palm, his fingers lingering against yours longer than necessary. “Here,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Sweet for the sweet.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and places a kiss on your forehead. The momentary closeness allows you to catch the subtle scent of his aftershave mingled with antiseptic.

“Now,” he says, straightening himself, “wait for me to finish organizing these journals so we can go home. I’m thinking of dinner at that place you like on Fifth Street.” He turns back to his desk, but not before adding, “And no more nonsense about not being pretty. I won’t have the person I care for most questioning their worth.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

You’re sitting on the private beach adjoining Rafayel’s seaside studio, watching him add final touches to a vibrant seascape painting. The ocean stretches endlessly before you, waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. The air tastes of salt and fresh breeze. Seagulls circle overhead, their calls mingling with the gentle lapping of water against sand.

Rafayel stands before his painting, completely absorbed in his work. Paint splatters decorate his rolled-up sleeves and there’s a smudge of blue across his cheekbone. The wind tousles his already disheveled hair as he captures the dance of light on water.

A group of beautiful people laugh further down the beach, their perfect silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. You glance down at yourself, then back at them, feeling suddenly out of place in this picturesque setting.

“I don’t think I’m pretty enough for this place,” you whisper, the breeze carrying your words away—or so you think.

Rafayel’s hand freezes. He turns to you slowly, paint-speckled fingers stilling on the canvas, his expression transforming from focus to complete disbelief.

“What did you just say?” His usually playful voice has an edge to it now, sharp as broken glass.

“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” you reply, regretting having spoken at all.

“No, no, no,” he sets his palette down with a clatter on the small table beside him. “You don’t get to say things like that and dismiss them as ’nothing.’” In an instant, he takes a seat on your side. “Did someone say something to you?” he demands, looking around the empty beach as if searching for culprits. “Which human do I need to have a word with?”

“No one said anything, Rafayel. It’s just how I feel sometimes,” you admit.

“That’s even worse! Your own mind betraying you like this?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “This is an emergency. A catastrophe of the highest order!”

He grabs your shoulders. “You are an absolute masterpiece. Do you understand? A masterpiece. I know art. I create art. I live and breathe beauty in all its forms. And you—” he pokes your cheek lightly, leaving a tiny dot of turquoise paint, “—are the finest creation I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

When you try to look away, embarrassed by his intensity, he gently tilts your chin back. The setting sun reflects in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold. “The ocean is jealous of your depths. The stars envy your brilliance.” His voice softens, becoming almost reverent. “And I would swim across every sea before I let you believe you’re anything less than stunning.”

He wraps his arms around you suddenly, clinging like a child. “Now don’t say such ridiculous things again. It offends my artistic sensibilities.”

He then stands, pulling you up with him. “Come on. We’re going to watch the sunset together. I’ll show you how I see you.” He places a brush in your hand, his fingers lingering. “And maybe then you’ll understand why I can’t look away.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

You stand before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows in Sylus’s penthouse suite, overlooking the sprawling N109 Zone from stories up. The city stretches below like a circuit board of neon and shadow, vehicles and people reduced to tiny moving points of light. The luxurious room behind you is bathed in the soft glow of artfully placed lamps illuminating his collection of rarities—collections plucked from across time and space.

Catching your reflection in the darkened glass, superimposed over the glittering cityscape, you murmur without thinking, “I don’t know why you keep me around. I’m not even pretty.”

The room falls silent. You hear Sylus set down whatever gem he was examining, the soft clink of crystal against metal followed by his steady steps as he approaches.

“What an odd thing to say,” he remarks, his voice silky yet sharp as a blade, “because you’re entirely incorrect.”

You turn to find him watching you, head slightly tilted.

“Did I hear you questioning your beauty?” A smirk plays on his lips, but his eyes remain serious, almost stern. “After all this time with me, you should know very well that I have exceptional taste.”

He closes the distance between you. He places his hands on your waist, positioning you both so your reflections are visible in the window. His gaze in the reflection holds nothing but admiration.

“Do you think I surround myself with anything less than perfection?” He gestures to the rare treasures adorning his collection shelf—items worth more than most people earn in a lifetime. “Do you imagine I would waste my time on someone who didn’t captivate me entirely?”

His fingers trace your jawline, feather-light. “Hundreds of rare gems, ancient artifacts, priceless paintings—I collect only the extraordinary, the unique.” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “And yet, not one of these treasures compares to your presence and beauty.”

When you start to protest, he places a finger gently against your lips. “I don’t tolerate self-deprecation from the one person in this universe I genuinely cherish.”

He turns you to face him fully now, both hands cupping your face with surprising tenderness from someone so powerful, so used to taking what he wants. Your disbelief must show on your face because he chuckles softly.

“Your beauty is not up for debate, not even by you. Challenge me on anything else if you wish, demand whatever your heart desires—but on this matter, I will not yield.”

He steps back after brushing a kiss against your forehead, apparently considering the matter settled. “Now come here and tell me what you want instead of what you think you lack. That’s much more productive, don’t you agree?”

He gestures to the plush sofa. “Sit down and tell me about your day today. I haven’t heard you talking about it.” His expression softens further. “Let’s talk about that instead.”

As you join him, he casually drapes an arm around you, pulling you closer. “And tomorrow,” he murmurs against your hair, “I’ll show you exactly how beautiful you are to me. I have something special planned—something worthy of you.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

You’re absently scrolling through your phone as you accompany Caleb while he sorts through Fleet reports in his home office. The space reflects his dual nature—military precision in the organized shelves and structured workspace, but touches of warmth in the photographs and mementos from his DAA days. The soft glow of multiple screens illuminates the room as rain patters against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere.

Caleb sits at his desk, brow furrowed in concentration as he reviews security protocols. His uniform jacket hangs on the back of his chair, sleeves of his standard-issue shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms. Despite the late hour, his posture remains perfect—the Colonel, always on duty.

Glancing up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflective surface of a dormant monitor. The unflattering blue light highlights every perceived imperfection.

“Ugh,” you mutter under your breath, running a self-conscious hand through your hair. “I look terrible today.”

Caleb’s head snaps up from his work. “What did you just say?” There’s a sudden alertness in his posture, as if responding to a threat.

“Just that I’m not looking my best,” you shrug, trying to downplay it, surprised by his intense reaction. 

Caleb stands, his chair rolling backward. His eyes narrow as he scans the room like he’s searching for enemies in a combat zone. “Who put that idea in your head?”

The protective edge in his voice takes you by surprise.

“No one, Caleb. It’s just how I feel sometimes.” You set down your phone, touched by his concern even as you try to ease it.

His expression darkens for a moment before he walks towards you. “Hey,” he says, crouching beside where you’re seated and taking your hands in his. “Look at me.”

When you meet his eyes, they’re filled with the same warmth they held when you were both kids, before the Fleet, before the incident—before everything changed.

“I’ve watched you grow more beautiful every single day since we were kids,” he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The calluses on his palms catch slightly against your skin. “Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to be with you.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering. Rain continues to drum against the windows, creating a private world just for the two of you.

“You’ve always been the prettiest person in any room to me. Always will be. Nothing compares to coming home to you.”

His smile returns. “And trust me, I’ve had plenty of people try to catch my eye over the years. None of them even came close. It’s just not possible when my mind can only think of you.”

He presses a soft kiss onto your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. “So no more of this ‘not pretty’ talk, okay? Or I’ll have to issue an official declaration about how gorgeous you are, and that would be really embarrassing for everyone involved.”

Based on this request.

[ggukivrse]

just this once | jjk

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)

word count: 5.1k

warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33

ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.

“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”

“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”

You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.

A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.

It’s always been like this.

He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.

“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.

You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”

“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”

“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”

He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”

You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.

“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.

“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.

You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”

He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”

You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.

He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.

“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.

Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”

He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”

You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious.

You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”

Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”

“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.

That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.

"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.

He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."

“With my standards?”

“With the streak.”

You snort. “What, you offering?”

“Maybe.”

You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”

It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.

His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.

“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.

You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

“Only if we let it be.”

You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.

And then his expression shifts.

His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.

“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”

He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.

You move first.

You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.

You kiss him.

It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.

At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.

His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.

You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”

He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”

“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”

You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.

“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”

“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

“Like what?”

You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”

That shuts him up real quick.

He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.

He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”

“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”

You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.

His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.

“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.

“You gonna stop me if I say no?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”

He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.

You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”

He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”

His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”

You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.

He pulls back just enough to speak.

“Let me take care of you.”

You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.

“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”

“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”

You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.

“God, you’re cocky.”

He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”

You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.

He stills.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”

“Shut up.”

He smiles cockily.

You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.

He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.

His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.

“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.

“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”

You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.

“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”

“I hate you.”

“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”

You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.

“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”

“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”

You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.

“Say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”

He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.

You whine. Actually whine.

“That’s not what I asked for.”

“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.

He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”

You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.

"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."

He doesn’t.

He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.

When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

You do.

Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.

He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.

He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.

Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, low and steady.

You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”

He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.

“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”

You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.

You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.

“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”

He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.

You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.

“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”

He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”

You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”

You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”

You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.

You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.

You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.

He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”

The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.

His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.

You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.

He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.

“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”

He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.

“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”

You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”

You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.

“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”

You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.

“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”

You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.

“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."

He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.

Fuck.

He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.

And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.

Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”

You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.

He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.

You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.

You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.

“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”

You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.

But not enough.

You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.

You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.

He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”

You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.

He notices.

Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.

“Let me help you, yeah?”

You nod. “Please.”

He starts thrusting up into you.

You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.

The new angle is obscene. Filthy.

“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”

He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”

Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.

Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”

His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.

“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”

You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.

“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”

You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.

“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

That’s all it takes.

You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.

He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.

You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.

His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”

You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”

"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.

He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.

His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”

You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.

He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”

“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”

His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.

“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”

You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.

He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.

And fuck, you are.

“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”

His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.

You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.

“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”

He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.

When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.

Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.

“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.

You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”

He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.

His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.

He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.

"I— you're perfect."

You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."

But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.

His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”

You blink. “A bath?”

He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”

You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”

He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”

“Mm, you definitely do.”

He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”

You shut up. But you’re smiling.

He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.

When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel�� normal.

Even now.

You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.

Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.

And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.

You guys were still best friends.

Right?

→ read part two here (coming soon — join the taglist for ‘just this… twice?’ to be notified when part two releases)

taglist | click here to join: @thegreatdepressionme @golden-loona @kissyfacekoo @cookysstuff @whoa-jo @minghaosimp

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ PT.2 fluff

PT. 1 link HERE

[you and jason have a kid together, making bruce a grandpa]

[ 8.5k word count ]

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

february sneaks in with cold mornings and quiet afternoons. your apartment smells like cinnamon from the candle jason insisted on lighting last night, and the windows are fogged from the heat of the shower you just stepped out of.

you’re still in your robe, fingers curled around a mug of tea you haven’t sipped yet. your other hand rests over your stomach—not dramatically, not in a movie-scene way. just… gently. like your body already knows something your brain’s still trying to process.

you hadn’t been trying.

not really.

not yet.

but lately your body’s felt just a little off—tired in a different way. hungrier at odd hours. your favorite coffee suddenly smelled like motor oil. and this morning, after staring at the little box on the bathroom counter long enough to forget how to breathe… the second line appeared.

positive. — and now everything is still.

you hear the front door open, the familiar shuffle of boots, the soft creak of your floors as jason walks in from his morning run.

“babe?” he calls. “i brought you that muffin you like—blueberry. they only had one left, so i fought a grandma for it.”

you laugh quietly, setting the mug down and stepping into the hallway just as he kicks his shoes off.

he looks up at you and instantly pauses. something in your face must give it away—something soft and shining and a little breathless.

he tilts his head, concerned. “hey… everything okay?”

you nod slowly, taking a step closer. “i… yeah. i think everything’s about to be.”

he sets the bag down. “what dose that mean?”

you reach into your robe pocket and pull out the test, holding it in your palm like it’s made of glass. — jason stares… and stares.

and then blinks. “is that—?” his voice catches. “are you—?”

you nod.

his whole expression crumbles. the kind of shift that only happens when something hits too hard and too beautifully to be fully understood in the moment. his mouth opens, like he wants to say something clever or brave or perfect—

but what comes out is small. raw. “you’re pregnant?”

you smile, a little teary now. “we’re gonna have a baby.”

jason stumbles forward and wraps his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. one hand cradles the back of your head, the other trembling slightly as it presses to your lower stomach.

“holy shit,” he breathes into your hair. “we’re having a baby.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and wet, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks like he’s scared you’ll fade.

“are you okay? like—really okay? you feel alright?” he asks quickly, too quickly. “is anything hurting? should we call someone?”

“i’m fine,” you promise, laughing a little through your tears. “i’m okay, jase. really.”

he nods, but you can see the way his thoughts are spiraling—half joy, half panic, all love.

“you’re gonna grow a whole baby,” he whispers, voice full of awe. “you’re… incredible.”

you cup his face with both hands. “we are.”

he leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re sure you’re not scared?”

“i am,” you admit. “but it’s the good kind. the kind that means this is real.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. “i’m gonna take care of you. both of you. whatever you need—i’ll do it.”

“i know.”

“i’m not gonna be perfect,” he says quietly. “but i swear, i’m gonna love this baby more than anything in the world. and i’m gonna love you even more for giving them to me.”

your heart swells so full it aches. “we’re really doing this,” he whispers.

you nod, blinking away tears. “yeah. we are.”

and then he kisses you, soft and slow, like he’s memorizing the beginning of a brand-new chapter. his hands cradle your sides like he’s holding something sacred.

because he is. — because now, there’s three heartbeats in this little apartment. and jason’s daydream? it just started coming true.

“we need to make a doctor’s appointment,” jason said his head over filling with questions, incredibly nervous to mess up.

“i’ll make one for next week.” smiling down at his hands, holding you steady in place.

and you did, you made an appointment later on for next week. they got you in fairly quickly. the waiting room is too bright.

soft jazz plays from a corner speaker like it’s trying too hard to be soothing. the walls are covered in pastel posters and diagrams of smiling cartoon babies that don’t make any sense unless you’re already half asleep.

you’re sitting in a stiff plastic chair with jason next to you, his hand laced through yours. he’s been silent for the last five minutes—too focused, too still. but it’s not nerves. it’s something else. a quiet intensity, like the kind he gets before patrol, when every thought is narrowed to one single moment.

except this time, that moment is here— and it’s you.

you nudge his leg with your knee. “you good?”

he turns to look at you and softens instantly. “better than good. just trying to stay calm.”

you smile. “you’re squeezing my hand like you’re about to disarm a bomb.”

he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “sorry. can’t help it. you’re… you’re in there growing an actual person. i still haven’t wrapped my head around that.”

before you can reply, a nurse pokes her head through the door and calls your name. “ (y/n)—“ jason stands with you, helping you out of the chair like you’re made of glass, his hand on your lower back the entire walk down the hall.

the exam room is colder than expected, and the paper on the bed crinkles under you as you lie back.

the nurse is kind. she asks a series of routine questions—when was your last period, are you taking prenatal vitamins, any morning sickness? jason answers half of them for you, the kind of eager that would normally make you laugh if it weren’t so endearing.

when the gel is squeezed onto your belly, his hand finds yours again. he strokes your hair back behind your ear without even thinking about it. he keeps watching your face instead of the monitor like he’s searching for any sign that you’re okay.

and then— a soft fluttering sound fills the room. your heartbeat stills.

the nurse turns the screen toward you both and points. “there’s baby,” she says gently. “and that—” she increases the volume slightly, “is the heartbeat.”

jason stiffens like someone just knocked the air from his lungs.

his grip on your hand tightens. and then he’s crying. quietly, but undeniably.

his free hand covers his mouth, shoulders shaking with the kind of silent, overwhelmed happiness that only comes once in a lifetime. his eyes stay fixed on the tiny flickering image on the monitor—unbelieving, awestruck.

“that’s our kid,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, a prayer, a dream coming to life in front of him.

you can barely see through your own tears, but all you can do is nod and squeeze his hand back.

he turns to you, eyes red, face glowing in a way you’ve never seen before. “you’re amazing,” he says. “you’re so amazing. you’re doing this. you’re making life. i’m just—i don’t know how i got this lucky, im so so proud of you sweetheart.”

you laugh through a sob, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to your damp cheeks.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair back again.

“i am now,” you whisper.

jason just stares at you a little longer, like he’s committing this moment to memory. because he is.

because this feeling? this overwhelming, impossible joy?

he never wants it to end. and in his arms, with you beside him and the sound of your baby’s heartbeat echoing in the air— he knows he’s never been happier.

“so who’s gonna be the one to tell your fami— nose goes!” you shout quickly bringing your finger to your nose laughing with tears still in the corner of your eyes carelessly dangling.

“nos—damnit!” jason sighed “i hate that game.”

the sun is still high when you and jason pull up to wayne manor.

the engine cuts off with a low purr, but neither of you move right away. your hands stay folded in your lap, heart thudding in your chest. jason glances at you from the driver’s seat—eyes soft, mouth twitching with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“you ready?” he asks, voice quiet.

you turn to him and nod. “are you?

he huffs a laugh, fingers reaching across the console to gently take yours. “nope. absolutely not.”

but he squeezes your hand anyway, and the look on his face says everything. he’s ready in the way that counts. terrified, maybe—but glowing with it.

the front door opens before either of you knock. dick waves from the threshold, wearing a smile and an apron dusted with flour. “you guys are late. dinner’s almost ready.”

“we were, uh, taking our time,” jason says, helping you out of the car like you’re suddenly fragile china, even though you’re not even showing yet.

dick raises an eyebrow. “is that code for something?”

“we’ll explain inside,” you say, smiling softly as you head up the steps.

inside the manor — the smell of garlic bread and roasted vegetables wafts through the massive foyer. you can hear tim and damian bickering in the distance, steph’s laugh cutting through the noise. alfred passes through the hallway with a wine glass in one hand and a towel draped over his shoulder, nodding to you both with a kind smile.

“you’re just in time,” he says. “i’ve made enough for ten. though, knowing master grayson, that may only cover seconds.”

“appreciate you, alfred,” jason says, patting his shoulder.

you walk through the manor side by side, surrounded by the easy chaos of family. and the longer it takes to get to the dining room, the more the nerves grow. it isn’t fear, exactly. just… weight. the kind that comes with sharing something real. permanent. world-changing.

jason’s thumb brushes yours. “we’ll do it after dinner. once everyone’s in one place.”

you nod again, your stomach fluttering for reasons that have nothing to do with morning sickness.

at the dinner table — by the time the entire family is seated—bruce at the head, alfred near the kitchen doors, and the rest of the siblings scattered down both sides—it’s noisy, messy, and full of laughter.

dick tells a story about stephanie beating him in a sparring match, and she doesn’t even try to deny it. damian rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smirk creeping across his face. tim’s already halfway through his second helping, duke close behind. cass and barbara are on either side of him, teasing them between bites.

you’re tucked beside jason, his arm brushing yours every so often. and the moment feels golden.

but jason hasn’t stopped glancing your way, and you haven’t stopped feeling the secret burn beneath your ribs.

“we should tell them,” you whisper to him between bites of garlic bread. “before dessert.”

“yeah,” he whispers back, eyes flicking toward bruce. “before someone starts guessing.” — as if on cue, bruce glances your way, then jason’s, with that subtle, unreadable batman stare.

“you two are unusually quiet,” he says mildly.

“just thinking,” jason replies smoothly. “about how to say something important.”

the table quiets just a little—not fully, but enough for the tension to thicken.

you press your hand lightly against jason’s knee beneath the table.

he clears his throat. “so. uh. we’ve got news.” — cass is the first to go still, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

tim glances up from his plate. “what kind of news?”

you look around at the people who have become family in more ways than one—people who have fought beside each other, bled together, laughed together.

and now, you were about to hand them something fragile. something that meant everything.

“we’re having a baby,” you say softly, voice shaking just enough.

silence. full, pin-drop silence. then—

“NO WAY,” dick shouts, practically launching out of his chair.

“holy crap,” steph yells right after, hands flying to her mouth. “are you serious?”

barb’s eyes go wide. “you’re pregnant?”

jason grins like he can’t hold it back anymore. “yeah. we are.”

chaos breaks loose. tim drops his fork onto his plate and just stares at you both, jaw slack. damian blinks once, then twice, trying to process it. barbara claps her hands together in pure excitement. and dick? dick practically vaults over the table to hug jason, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water in the process.

“DUDE,” he says, squeezing him tight. “you’re gonna be a dad?!”

jason laughs, hugging him back. “apparently.”

“i’m gonna be an uncle!” he yells, turning to you with wide eyes. “you’re gonna be a mom?!”

you laugh, covering your face with your hands as he pulls you into the hug next. “yes! i am!”

steph runs around the table to tackle you both next. “your glowing!” — cass gently nudges steph aside to wrap her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder.

tim finally finds his voice. “wow. just—wow. congratulations. seriously.”

and damian—stoic, sharp damian—leans back in his chair and stares at you both for a long, unreadable moment. then, with a quiet nod: “i suppose this means the next generation of vigilantes is on the way.”

everyone groans. “not even born yet and you’re already recruiting them?” tim mutters.

“shut up, drake,” damian replies, though there’s no real heat in it.

at the head of the table, bruce hasn’t spoken yet. but when you look at him, his eyes are wet.

not enough to spill. just enough to shine.

“you’re really going to be parents,” he says, voice low.

“yeah,” jason says again, a little quieter now. “we are.”

bruce nods slowly. “i’m happy for you. for both of you.”

then—so softly it nearly gets lost in the noise— “i hope i’ll be a good grandfather.”

the table falls quiet again. jason’s breath catches.

and in a rare moment, one almost no one would believe unless they saw it with their own eyes—

jason rounds the table, hugs bruce, and holds on for a full five seconds.

just five. but it’s enough. it says everything.

after dinner but before the dessert is cut, you and jason slip away from the dining room. not for long—after the laughter and the hugs and the congratulations, the manor slowly starts to breathe again. jason squeezes your hand and leans close to your ear, his voice quiet beneath the hum of voices around the dining room.

“come with me?” he murmurs. “want to talk to alfred, just us.”

you nod, heart full. he doesn’t flinch when you enter. doesn’t turn around with surprise. he just speaks in that warm, knowing voice: “i wondered when the two of you would find me.”

you smile gently and walk up beside him, standing close enough for the soft scent of bergamot to curl around you. jason steps behind you and rests his hand on the small of your back.

“we didn’t want to tell you in front of everyone else,” you say softly. “you deserved something quieter.”

alfred finishes pouring the hot water, then finally turns to face you both. his eyes are kind, his hands still, waiting. “we’re having a baby,” jason says. simple. honest.

and that’s all it takes. — alfred’s face shifts in that slow, subtle way only he can manage. not dramatic. not surprised. just… reverent. like the words have landed somewhere deep in his chest and are still echoing there.

“i thought as much,” he murmurs, voice velvet and pride. “but to hear it confirmed… what a gift.” he reaches for your hand first, holding it between both of his, fingers gentle and steady.

“you will be a remarkable mother,” he says. “i can already see it in the way you carry yourself. with warmth. with care.”

your throat tightens. then he looks to jason, and the silence between them stretches—not heavy, just full. thick with unspoken history and all the moments that led to this one. “and you,” alfred says quietly. “i have never been more proud of you than i am right now.”

jason blinks. his jaw tightens, like he’s trying to hold something back. “you mean that?”

“with every fiber of my being.” alfred moves forward and rests a hand against jason’s cheek—something he hasn’t done since jason was much younger. “you will be a kind, strong, devoted father. the sort of man you once feared you could never be.”

jason’s eyes shine, and he nods once. “i’m scared,” he admits.

“good,” alfred replies with a small smile. “that means you care deeply.”

he pulls them both into a hug. tight, long, grounding. — you think maybe it’s the best moment of the night.

but you haven’t seen what’s coming in the living room yet.

the couch cushions are sunken with the weight of so many bodies. duke has claimed the arm of the chair like it’s a throne. steph and tim are tangled up in a blanket on the floor. barbara perches near the fire, her eyes full of light. cass sits quietly on a cushion with a faint smile on her face, watching the room with quiet happiness.

you’re curled up next to jason on the couch, your knees tucked under you, his arm loose around your shoulders.

and that’s when you hear the soft thud of paws. — titus enters the room slowly, sniffing once, then twice, before making a direct line to you. his tail wags just slightly.

“hey, baby,” you say softly, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

he steps closer, then gently rests his heavy head right on your stomach. jason freezes beside you, watching like he’s afraid to breathe. you smile, petting titus gently, your fingers threading through his fur. “he knows.”

titus lets out a deep sigh, then pushes himself a little higher—climbing halfway onto the couch before resting one massive paw across your thigh and his head against both you and jason.

“hey—” damian’s voice cuts in, sharp. “titus. get down.” titus ignores him entirely, clearly thrilled with himself.

“he’s being protective,” barbara says with a laugh. “he loves them.”

“he loves me,” damian says, visibly scowling. “he was trained to respond to my commands—”

“he’s got priorities now,” duke says with a grin. “he’s got a baby to watch over.”

“he’ll still love you, d,” steph teases. “you’re still the firstborn in his heart.”

damian doesn’t dignify that with a response, but the tips of his ears are pink. you laugh gently as titus shifts again, now practically in your lap, his chest pressed to your belly and nose nudging under jason’s arm. “he’s not going anywhere,” you murmur, hand still stroking his fur.

“good,” jason says softly, kissing your temple. “i want the baby to know him.” there’s a pause as the fire crackles softly.

then— “wait,” tim says, suddenly sitting up straighter. “does anyone remember the bet?”

steph gasps. “the baby bet from the barbecue!”

duke whistles low. “oh, yeah. we all threw in guesses for when they’d announce.”

barbara points a finger in the air. “i said christmas.”

“i said summer,” duke adds.

“thanksgiving,” tim mutters.

steph holds up her hand like she’s in court. “i said mother’s day!”

all heads turn toward bruce, who sits quietly in the corner armchair with a glass of something dark in his hand. he doesn’t smirk. doesn’t gloat. just lifts his brow like he already knows what’s coming. “new year’s,” dick says, groaning. “he said new year’s is when you’d announce, so technically he’s the closest”

“so… bruce wins?” steph says, groaning.

bruce sips his drink. doesn’t say a word. “ugh,” tim groans, flopping backward onto the rug. “of course the batman wins the baby bet.”

“he wins everything,” duke says, pointing at him.

“wait you guys made a bet on when we’d get pregnant?” you say, sitting up for a second grinning at the family while jason fake gasped, not entirely surprised by the family’s decision, more surprised someone didn’t offer him to help them out on the bet to get you pregnant sooner.

“well.. duh. did you see the way jason had that baby craving at the barbecue? we all knew someday soon it was gonna happen.” tim poked a joke and some half humming in agreement, others laughing.

“baby craving and barbecue don’t sound right together, i just can’t believe bruce won though! ” you laughed laying back down on jason,

jason grins, eyes flicking toward you. “he’s probably been planning his grandpa debut since the barbecue.”

“i can neither confirm nor deny,” bruce says, finally letting the corners of his mouth tilt up.

then barbara leans forward, eyes shining. “so… when are you due?” you glance at jason, who’s already smiling. “october thirty-first,” you say softly.

there’s a beat of silence. then— “halloween?!” dick laughs. “you’re having a baby bat on halloween?!”

“that’s the most gotham thing i’ve ever heard,” tim says.

“no capes for the baby,” steph says. “not until they’re at least walking.”

“i’m designing the first onesie,” barb adds. “it’ll have a tiny utility belt on it.”

damian glares at the room. “you’re all ridiculous.”

you sigh against jason, heart full, his hand resting over your stomach again—right where titus still snoozes contentedly. laughter and warmth fill the air like golden smoke. and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter.

just this. your family. your baby bat. and all the love waiting to meet them. the days pass like a soft breeze—gentle, slow, golden.

you blink and it’s august.

you stretch and it’s september.

you exhale and suddenly october is whispering around the corners of your apartment.

the light is different now. golden and low. afternoons spill through the windows like honey, and the air tastes like cinnamon and cool breeze. leaves have started to fall outside, painting the sidewalks in deep reds and soft golds.

your belly has grown, round and lovely, full of life. your skin glows with it. your body moves differently, gently, carefully, but your laughter still comes easily when jason is near. he doesn’t let you carry anything anymore. not a grocery bag, not a folded blanket, not even a mug of tea.

“you’re carrying a baby,” he says, brushing your hair back one night as he tucks a pillow behind your back on the couch. “let me carry everything else.”

he’s serious about it. borderline obsessive, even. but you let him fuss. mostly because it makes him happy. and maybe a little because you like seeing the way his eyes go all soft and focused when he’s looking at you. — especially now.

jason wakes up early—earlier than he needs to on a weekend—but he moves quietly, careful not to wake you. the second he hears you stir, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “breakfast?” he asks, rubbing your shoulder gently.

you nod, still sleepy, and that’s when he leaves to meet alfred at the manor.

you found out from bruce that jason started asking for cooking lessons. just a few things here and there. mostly your favorite comfort foods. especially the ones that still don’t trigger nausea. “gotta keep her happy,” jason told alfred, scratching the back of his neck. “baby too.”

they make a list. soups. light pasta dishes. herby potatoes. the exact way you like your toast. how to time it so you don’t smell it cooking too much, just in case the scent turns your stomach.

he writes it all down. bruce catches him once, leaning over the stove with a furrowed brow, stirring something with absolute focus. “you’re taking this very seriously,” bruce had said.

jason just shrugged, a towel slung over his shoulder. “it’s for her. and the baby.” and then quietly, under his breath: “i don’t want to mess this up.”

your family comes into town for the weekend, the baby shower just a few days away. your little niece—is bigger now, walking stronger, speaking more words. and the second she sees jason again, her face lights up like a sunbeam. “jayjay!” she squeals, arms flung wide as she waddles toward him.

jason is toast. he crouches instantly, catching her mid-run and lifting her high into the air, spinning her gently with a laugh.

“there she is,” he grins, kissing her cheek. “my favorite partner in crime.”

she babbles something incomprehensible, then grabs his face in her little hands and squishes his cheeks. he lets her. he just laughs, holding her like she’s the best gift in the world.

you watch them from the doorway with your hand on your belly, your heart aching in the best way. you and jason don’t want anything over the top. so it’s simple. a mix of both families. your parents help set up in the backyard of the manor. your aunt brings homemade pies and little favors. cass helps hang streamers. steph handles the playlist. dick handles the jokes.

your niece follows jason around like a little duckling. she insists he sit next to her during cake. insists he play with her in the leaves scattered across the yard. she even tries to share her juice box with him, which he pretends to sip from with a grin. “you’re gonna be such a good dad,” you hear barbara whisper to him when she catches them sitting on the lawn together, the toddler’s tiny hand in his.

he doesn’t say anything at first. but his smile grows—quiet, proud, a little overwhelmed. “i really hope so,” he murmurs. “i really want to be.”

the manor gets quieter, cozier. sunday dinners become a routine again—alfred always insists you sit with your feet up, and bruce somehow always ends up next to you, asking quiet questions about how you’re feeling.

cass sits close, brushing a protective hand over your shoulder now and then. damian keeps sliding books about parenting across the table to jason like he’s passing secret files. and every week, someone brings something for the baby—booties, blankets, soft clothes in soft colors. — you swear even titus has started lying a little closer to you than normal.

you and jason spend your nights curled up on the couch, watching old movies, his hand always on your belly. sometimes feeling for movement. sometimes just needing to touch you, to remind himself that this is real.

that this dream is alive and growing. “how’s our little bat today?” he whispers, kissing your bump one evening.

you smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “kicking me all day. strong little thing.”

he smiles. then kisses again. then rests his cheek there, eyes fluttering shut. “can’t wait to meet them,” he murmurs.

“me too,” you whisper back. — you’re almost there.

that’s what everyone keeps saying.

“you’re so close.”

“any day now.”

“you’ve got that glow.”

you smile when they say it. or at least, you try to.

but god—if they only knew.

if they knew how your feet throb just from standing. how you haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks. how tying your shoes is officially impossible without assistance.

you’re not glowing—you’re sweating. you’re swollen. you’re exhausted.

and worst of all…

you’re hungry. all the time.

but everything makes you nauseous again.

your favorite meals? suddenly your stomach’s worst enemy.

things you craved just last month? now send you running for the bathroom.

you cry about it once at two in the morning, sitting on the kitchen floor in one of jason’s hoodies, staring at a piece of toast like it’s betrayed you.

he finds you there, bare feet cold on the tile, eyes wet and tired. he doesn’t ask what happened. he just sits next to you, pulls your legs over his lap, and wraps his arms around your middle.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, wiping your face. “i know i’m being dramatic.”

“you’re growing a human,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “you can be as dramatic as you want.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking until his hand starts rubbing slow circles into your back. your forehead leans against his neck and you just… breathe.

jason.

he’s the only thing making this bearable, the only thing not making you nauseous or upset. only makes him you cry because of how understanding he’s become.

years ago a different version of jason would be incredibly impatient, and tried all the time. but growing with you for so long and filling in all the gaps of his personality has made him a better person for you, and your baby. gratitude on both sides of the story. 

your body hated everything but him

he helps you out of bed in the mornings, kneeling at your side before you even ask. your ankles ache. your back hurts. there’s pressure—so much pressure—deep in your hips, and some days your belly feels too heavy to even carry. “you’re doing so good,” he says, easing your weight into his arms.

“i feel like a elephant,” you mumble.

“a very cute elephant,” he grins. you swat at him halfheartedly.

he helps you into the shower. sits on the closed toilet lid while you rinse off, just in case you feel dizzy. he wraps you in the biggest towel you own, kisses the crown of your head, tells you how strong you are. tells you how beautiful you are. tells you he’s proud of you.

you cry again one night when you try to roll over in bed and can’t.

you’re stuck.

actually stuck.

you groan in frustration, tears prickling at your lashes from how uncomfortable you are. your legs feel like lead, your belly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and your pillows are all wrong. “babe?” jason mumbles, half-asleep.

“i can’t move,” you whisper, feeling defeated.

his eyes snap open. “okay—hang on, i got you.”

he’s gentle. careful. strong in the ways you need him to be. his arms slide under your back and legs, easing you with such softness that it makes your chest ache. once you’re shifted, he cups your face.

“better?”

“a little,” you breathe.

he grabs an extra pillow, fits it behind you just right, and kisses your temple. “you need anything else?”

you shake your head. and your voice cracks when you say, “just stay close.” his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining. — “always.”

you hit thirty-nine weeks on a thursday

the doctor says everything looks good. baby’s strong. heartbeat steady. but you? you’re ready. so ready.

“how are you feeling?” your OB asks kindly.

“like my ribs are being karate-chopped from the inside,” you deadpan. she laughs, and jason does too—but his hand never leaves your back. his thumb strokes your spine. his other hand is braced on your thigh like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

you feel so worn thin. so… done. but when you look at him—messy hair, tired eyes, t-shirt wrinkled from worry—you feel a little less overwhelmed. after the appointment, you don’t feel like going home. you sit in the car in the clinic parking lot, both of you quiet.

then jason reaches across the console and gently places your hand on your belly. “you know what i think?”

“hmm?”

“i think they’re gonna be kind. like you.” his voice is soft. so, so soft. “i think they’re gonna have your eyes.” — he kisses your palm. “and i think i’m the luckiest bastard in the world.”

you turn your head, lean into his shoulder, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you don’t feel so tired. just full.

full of love. full of something so big and gentle it makes you forget about the pain for a little while.

the final week creeps by

jason starts working from home more, just in case. he puts together the bassinet with dick. tim installs the car seat. duke helps you organize baby clothes. cass leaves post-it notes with hearts and smiley faces in every drawer. damian makes sure titus is trained to stay gentle and close.

and bruce? bruce quietly offers to be on-call for anything.

“day or night,” he tells you both. “whatever you need. just say the word, there’s enough room for you to stay at the mansion too.. don’t be afraid to ask.” silently hoping you’d take him on the offer.

alfred checks in with food daily. he starts prepping snacks you can stomach again—things he knows won’t trigger nausea. small containers left in your fridge. teas that soothe your heartburn.

“you’re almost there,” he says kindly, helping you into a chair one night at dinner. “and you’ve done wonderfully.” you glance at jason—already sitting beside you, already moving to rub your aching back—and you smile softly.

“we’ve done it,” you whisper.

it’s quiet. too quiet, almost. but not in a bad way.

the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath. like time has slowed just for the two of you. outside the windows, the sky is painted in gentle blues and sleepy grays. the wind rustles the early fall leaves, and there’s a softness in the air that only comes in the stillness of the night.

jason’s hand is warm in yours as you walk down the hallway helping you after dinner, just the two of you. no family tonight, no phones buzzing, no background noise. it’s just him. you. the soft rhythm of your hearts.

you stop in front of the nursery. — the door is open just a crack. golden light spills out from the small lamp inside. the room smells like fresh cotton and baby soap. faint hints of wood polish and lavender from the drawer sachets alfred insisted on tucking into the dresser.

you take a slow breath. and then you step inside together.

the nursery feels like a dream it’s not overly fancy. not too perfect. but it’s yours.

there’s a soft, plush rug under your toes. calming colors on the wall. a bookshelf already half full with bedtime stories and soft-spined fairytales. a rocking chair in the corner that dick and barbara had fixed up themselves. and right there in the center of the room—the crib. the crib jason built with bruce, over a weekend in early september, hands calloused but careful, sanding the edges to perfection.

you both stand in the doorway for a long moment. not saying anything. just looking. “we did good,” you finally whisper.

jason lets out a breathy laugh. “we did great.”

you turn to look at him—his face lit gently by the warm lamp light, his expression soft and full of something so open and vulnerable it makes your heart squeeze. “come here,” you say gently.

he follows without hesitation, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand settling right where your belly curves. your baby kicks once—just a soft flutter—but it makes both of you smile.

“they like your voice,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.

“they like you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “they’ve got good taste.” — you stand there a while, just holding each other

then jason leans down, hands on your belly, voice barely above a whisper. “hey, little bat,” he says. “we’re ready for you. whenever you’re ready to come meet us.”

you feel your throat tighten. your chest swell. there’s so much love in this room it feels impossible to hold all at once. and when jason stands again, you reach for him. cup his face between your hands. trace your thumbs over his cheekbones. and he just—melts under your touch.

your voice is quiet but steady. “jason peter todd, i love you.”

his eyes soften instantly. “i love you too.”

you shake your head a little, laughing through the tears starting to prick your lashes. “no—i mean i really love you. like… i didn’t even know a love like this existed until you. you’ve been everything i’ve ever needed without me even knowing i needed it.”

you take a shaky breath, thumb brushing under his eye. “you take care of me like it’s second nature. you protect me without ever making me feel small. you make me laugh even when i feel like crying. and you’ve made this—this whole thing—feel like the most beautiful adventure, even when it’s been hard.”

his jaw tightens. eyes glassy. “you’ve made me feel safe in my body when it’s been the most uncomfortable it’s ever been,” you continue, voice thick with emotion. “and not just that—you’ve made me feel beautiful. powerful. like i can do this. because you believe in me so deeply that sometimes i forget to be afraid.”

you pause. smile, small and teary. “you’ve always been my home, jason. and now… we’re about to build one. with our baby. and i couldn’t be more grateful that it’s with you.”

you don’t expect the tear that spills down his cheek—but when it does, you’re there. kissing it. holding him like he’s held you through every ache, every sleepless night, every emotional spiral. he pulls you into his arms, careful of your belly, careful of your everything, and just breathes you in.

“you’re my safe place, my homeland,” he whispers into your hair. “you’ve bewitched me, and im so honored to make you feel these ways” he leans in to deeply kiss you “i will love you permanently….endlessly…until we’re both dead in the dirt, and even then, i will find you in the next life…i will find my way home to you.”

the two of you stay there until the moon’s high

rocking slowly in the chair. your hand in his. the soft light of the nursery casting shadows that dance gently on the walls. the room is quiet. safe. sacred. you don’t know it yet, but you’ll go into labor in the morning.

but tonight? — tonight is soft. and warm. and full of everything that matters.

you and jason.

in the nursery.

wrapped in each other’s arms. waiting for your next adventure to begin.

you wake up to sunlight— it slips through the curtains in long, soft beams—painting gold across the floor, the blankets, jason’s cheek. you lie still for a moment, soaking it in.

the apartment is quiet. still. warm. and jason is right beside you, deep in sleep.

he’s on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other hand still curled loosely in yours. his chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm, and there’s a softness to his face you rarely get to see outside moments like this. no tension. no shadows. just peace.

it’s rare—so rare—that he sleeps this deeply. without jerking awake from a nightmare. without the haunted edge to his breath. without flinching from invisible memories. and it makes you feel warm inside. honored. protective.

he deserves mornings like this. he deserves every good thing. so you try not to wake him.

you shift slowly, carefully easing his hand from yours. your belly is heavy—so heavy—and the ache in your back reminds you you’re nearly at the finish line. the baby is still. calm. and for a moment, so are you.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet breath. your slippers are just a few steps away. you’ll just get up, stretch, maybe make some tea. let him sleep a little longer.

you press your hands to the mattress, count to three in your head, and push yourself up— and then you freeze. the first thing you feel is the pop—a subtle, strange sensation deep in your lower abdomen.

and then comes the warmth. sudden. unmistakable. soaking down your legs and onto the floor in seconds. your breath catches. you stare down, stunned. “noway…”

you whisper it under your breath like saying it softer might make it untrue. but it’s true. you know it is. your water just broke.

you freeze for a second—then panic sets in “oh my god—oh god—” you reach behind you blindly, grabbing the edge of the bed for support.

jason stirs at the sudden shift in movement. you try to stay quiet—try to breathe, to stay calm—but your hand’s already shaking when you reach out and whisper his name. “jay…?”

he hums, half-asleep. “mm?”

“jay—baby—i think it’s time…”

his eyes snap open. and the moment he sees your face—wide-eyed, tearful, panicked—he’s up in a heartbeat. “what—what’s wrong? what happened?”

you swallow thickly, gesturing to the growing wet spot on the rug. “my water broke.” — he stares. blinks. processes. then moves.

the switch in him is immediate. he helps you back onto the bed with practiced, gentle hands, brushing damp hair from your face. his voice stays calm—steady—but you can see the storm in his eyes. “okay. okay. we’re good. i’ve got you,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “i’m calling the doctor. don’t move. breathe.”

you nod. trying to. your heart is racing. your hands are clammy. it’s too early. it’s real. it’s happening.

you blink away the nerves, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of sensation rolls through your belly. not quite pain. not yet. but pressure. the kind that makes you feel like everything is beginning to shift.

jason’s voice is low as he talks to the OB’s office, repeating things back with mechanical calm. “yes. yeah—contractions haven’t started yet. water broke just now. no blood, no pain yet. we’ll head in right away.”

he hangs up and turns to you, dropping to one knee at your side.bhis hands are on your thighs, grounding you. “we’re okay. you’re okay.”

you stare at him. wide-eyed. overwhelmed. “you were sleeping so soundly,” you whisper, guilt creeping in despite everything, a tear wanting to form.

“baby—i don’t give a shit about sleep right now.” he smiles through the nerves, voice thick with love. “you’re about to have our baby. of course you wake me up.”

your laugh is watery. tired. real. brushing his sleepy hair with your nails through his scalp. “you’re not scared?”

he looks at you for a long moment. and his eyes are gentle when he says— “i’m terrified. but i’ve never wanted anything more.”

everything becomes a blur after that. you change into the softest clothes you can manage. he lays towels on the car seat. grabs the hospital bag. calls alfred. calls bruce. tries to keep from pacing holes into the carpet when your first contraction hits in the hallway.

it’s mild. more pressure than pain. but it stops you in your tracks—and jason is right there, supporting you with both arms. “breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. just breathe.”

he keeps whispering to you the whole car ride. rubbing circles into your hand. kissing the back of it at red lights. promising you that everything is going to be okay. and somehow—you believe him.

by the time the hospital comes into view, the sky is a perfect watercolor soft pinks. sleepy oranges. the kind of morning light that makes everything look a little sacred.

you close your eyes against the sun filtering in through the windshield, resting your hand over your belly. jason glances over and sees it. he doesn’t say anything—just reaches for your hand and links your fingers together. he lifts them to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. then your wrist. then the ring on your finger. you meet his eyes. and he smiles, teary-eyed and full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“we’re gonna meet them soon,” he whispers. you nod.

“we’re gonna be parents.”

the hospital room is quiet. soft beeping. the sound of nurses moving gently behind the curtain. the monitor beside you blinking in slow, steady rhythm.

your hand rests over your stomach, and jason hasn’t let go of your other one since they settled you in. he sits in the chair pulled close to the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

but there’s a knock at the door. gentle. polite.

and when it opens, bruce steps in first, tall and still in his long dark coat, followed by alfred—warm-eyed and careful, holding a small thermos in his hands. “sorry,” bruce says softly, his voice lower than usual. “we didn’t want to intrude.”

you sit up a little, smiling tiredly. “you’re not, please, come in.”

jason straightens beside you, glancing over. there’s that flicker in his expression—still not used to this side of things. to being cared for by the people who used to only see him bleeding or bruised.

but they’re here now. and that means everything.

bruce steps closer, settling near the edge of the window. his eyes flicker from the monitor to your stomach, then to jason.

you expect him to look stoic. but instead, he looks… proud.

“i know your parents are on their way,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, “but if anything happens before then—i want you to know you’re not alone.”

you blink slowly, heart tight. “thank you,” you whisper. “they’re trying their best. flight leaves in a few hours but… they’re pretty upset they can’t be here for this part.”

“we’ll take care of you,” alfred says softly, stepping forward and setting the thermos down on the little side table. “your mother asked me to tell you she packed extra socks in your go-bag. and your father wanted me to remind you not to forget your phone charger.”

you smile at that, feeling your throat tighten. “they really did try to plan for everything,” you laugh, teary-eyed. “they’re so nervous.”

“as they should be,” alfred says gently. “it’s no small thing, after all. your world is about to change.”

you nod slowly, swallowing hard. bruce steps forward now, one hand resting on the rail of your hospital bed. “i’ll be right down the hall,” he says. “if you need anything. if jason needs anything. just press the button and i’ll be here.”

you glance at jason—and he’s just staring at bruce like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time. “thanks, bruce,” he murmurs.

bruce nods. then does something unexpected.

he reaches out and clasps jason’s shoulder. a firm grip. full of meaning. “you’re going to be a great father.” — jason swallows. hard.

his jaw flexes like he’s trying not to fall apart from just those words alone. bruce lets go. steps back. gives you both a final, warm look before slipping quietly out of the room to give you space.

alfred stays behind for a moment he sits carefully at the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, eyes soft.

“may i?” he asks. you nod. and he gently takes your free hand between his. his palms are warm and familiar, worn from years of care. “when jason was little,” he says slowly, “and he first came to live with us… he used to ask me to read him bedtime stories. not every night. not at first. but once he felt safe enough. once he knew i wouldn’t leave.”

jason shifts beside you, blinking hard. “his favorites were the ones with found families,” alfred continues. “ones where broken boys were loved anyway. where someone stayed. where someone always came back.” you feel your eyes sting.

“and now,” alfred smiles, eyes shining, “he gets to give that story to someone else.” you reach out with your other hand and squeeze jason’s knee. — he squeezes back, too overwhelmed to speak. “you’ll do beautifully,” alfred says, looking between you both. “i know it.” you nod, voice thick with tears.

“thank you for everything, alfred.” he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. the same one he’s given a hundred times to the boys who grew up under his care. “always,” he whispers.

then he stands and quietly excuses himself—leaving you and jason alone once more. — you sit in the silence for a while

your head tilted against the pillow. jason leaning closer, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“they love us,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “they really do, they love you so much… you brought us together again.. ”

and for a while, that’s all you need. your family is on their way.

the family you chose is right here.

and the one you’re building?

is just about ready to meet you.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

:3 yayay!!! im not gonna leave you on a cliffhanger, i hate them so much so im currently writing pt.3 rn!! lmk what you’d like to see more of in it!!

also what do u think the gender will be :o

THANK U SM FOR READING MWAAHH right on the forehead <3 also i see the comments, u guys are so sweet ☹️ lemme just smother you with hugs, or give you a solid high five that echos yk! haha

have a good day / night wherever you are!! 🫂

[yukioos]

hello! So far you have made really good post, and it made me think, what if you made one about bakugou x y/n, they JUST started making out and started this thing where after class and even the cafeteria hours they would go to the roof top and make out, and then come back to class and act like nothing ever happened. Also somtimes he would throw a paper and secretly desk her under the desk where they would meet up. 😍

when katsuki wants to make out during class

something soft hit your back, causing some giggles to be heard from around you. you raised your eyebrow, and when mister aizawa faced the chalkboard, you turned around to see nothing. a hand waved in front of your face, kaminari’s hand, to be exact, and his finger then pointed at the ground.

a crumpled-up ball of paper lay on the ground, so you bent over to grab it, opening the paper under your desk. maybe it had something in it. on on page, nothing was there, so you turned it to see the words ‘ask to fill up your water bottle’ with a little explosion drawing at the end, which is how you figured out it was katsuki who wrote the note.

you grinned and raised your hand, throwing the paper into your backpack.

mister aizawa finally turned back to you and asked, “yes?”

“can i please fill up my water bottle?” you held it up and shook it, and when no sloshing around was heard, he nodded.

you picked it up and walked outside the classroom, katsuki soon followed behind after he asked to go to the bathroom. he stomped after you, placing your water bottle next to the fountain before giving you a sly smile and gripping your hip. he shoved his lips onto yours and softly groaned, kissing you repeatedly, strings of saliva still connecting your lips after parting for a short period.

he lifted up your thigh, pressing it against his hip as he continued to kiss you. words haven’t even been spoken yet, but it was clear what the two of you needed.

even after that, he continued to ask you to leave during class or lunch to spend time with you. he didn’t just love you for your body, he didn’t just want pleasure, he wanted you as a person. katsuki knew he wasn’t good at expressing his emotions or love for people in a healthy way, but this was the only way he felt he could do it. it would always leave the two of you breathless, red, and even more in love.

to him, this was one of the most intimate acts someone could do, and he loved you with his whole soul. he never regretted skipping class to make out with you, besides when you heard a loud yell and chuckle from someone across the hall.

an annoyingly familiar voice rang in your ears, “hey, class 1-a! did you know two of your students, bakugo and l/n skip class just to make out in the halls?” monoma loudly chuckled, “class 1-b would never—“

he would always be smacked in the head by kendo, who would apologize and ‘leave the two of you be.’

that was one of the only times katsuki had felt embarrassed after making out with you.

hope you enjoyed this! i’m so happy you love my writing, your compliments mean the world to me. also, i gained around seven asks in one night so im trying to catch up, i apologize that i am not posting as often

[thirteenheavens]

can i request inexperienced reader with really experienced scoups🥺?

Relax for me baby|| Choi Seungcheol

Notes: damn even I wrote this and I thought it was hot

You lie on the bed, your heart racing as Seungcheol hovers over you. He can sense your nervousness and smiles reassuringly. "Relax," he says softly, running his hands up and down your arms. "I'll take care of you, baby." He starts with gentle kisses, exploring your body with his lips and hands. He takes his time, mapping out every curve and dip, finding out what makes you gasp and moan.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, his fingers trailing down to your thighs. "And so responsive." He notices how you tense up when he gets closer to your pussy, and he stops to look at you. "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice full of concern. "We can stop if you're not comfortable." You shake your head, taking a deep breath. "I want this," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "I just... I've never done this before."

Seungcheol's eyes soften, and he kisses you deeply. "That's okay," he says, his hands stroking your hair. "I'll show you how it feels." He gently spreads your legs apart, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow circles around it, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

"Does that feel good?" he asks, his touch light and teasing. You nod, feeling a heat building in your core.

"Good girl," he praises, moving his fingers lower to your entrance. "I'm going to make you feel so good." You tentatively reach up to thread your fingers through Seungcheol's hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers. He smiles at your touch, leaning into your hand.

"That's it," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "Just relax and follow my lead." He slides a finger inside you, watching your reaction carefully. "You're so tight," he groans, his cock twitching at the feeling of your walls around his finger. "And so wet for me." He adds a second finger, stretching you out slowly. You gasp at the slight burn, but he kisses you to distract you from the discomfort.

"Just breathe," he murmurs against your lips, his thumb rubbing your clit again. "I promise it'll feel amazing soon." You bite your lip, your breathing ragged as Seungcheol continues to work his fingers inside you. "It feels... weird," you say, your voice shaky. He chuckles softly, curling his fingers to hit a sensitive spot. "Good weird or bad weird?" he asks, his thumb pressing harder on your clit.

You let out a moan as pleasure starts to replace the discomfort. "Good," you gasp, arching your back. "So good." Seungcheol smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction. "That's my girl," he says, adding a third finger and stretching you even further. "You're taking me so well, baby."

Seungcheol notices you trying to hold back your moans and shakes his head. "Don't do that," he says, his fingers moving faster inside you. "I want to hear every sound you make." He leans down to whisper in your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "I want to hear how good I make you feel."

As if on cue, he hits a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help but let out a loud moan. "Seungcheol!" you cry out, your hands gripping the sheets. He grins at your reaction, his fingers thrusting in and out of you faster now. "That's it," he encourages, his thumb rubbing your clit in quick circles. "Let go for me."

You look up at Seungcheol, your eyes wide and a little scared. "I don't know if I can," you say, your voice trembling. "What if I... what if I make a mess?" Seungcheol's expression softens as he continues to work his fingers inside you. "Baby, that's the point," he says gently. "I want you to feel good enough to lose control."

He leans down to kiss your forehead. "Trust me," he murmurs. "I'll take care of you, no matter what happens." He redoubles his efforts, his fingers curling and thrusting with more intensity. "Let go," he repeats, his voice firm but gentle. "I want to see you fall apart for me."

You close your eyes, surrendering to the sensations coursing through your body. Seungcheol's fingers are relentless, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Your moans grow louder and more desperate, your hips moving in time with his thrusts. "Seungcheol, I'm... I'm gonna..." you gasp, feeling a tightening in your core.

He knows you're close, and he pushes you over the edge with a few more expert strokes. "Cum for me," he commands, his voice husky with desire. "Cum on my fingers, baby." Your body convulses as you finally let go, waves of pleasure washing over you as you reach your peak. You cry out his name, your nails digging into his shoulders as you ride out your orgasm.

Seungcheol works you through it, slowing his movements as you come down from your high. "That's my good girl," he praises, kissing your neck softly. "You did so well." Seungcheol looks down at the wetness between your legs, his eyes dark with desire. "Look at you," he says, his fingers tracing the mess he's made. "You're so beautiful when you're like this."

He wipes his fingers on the sheets and leans down to kiss you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth hungrily. "I can't wait to be inside you one day," he murmurs against your lips.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Ding dong

You hugged the rabbit in your lap tighter as you blinked. You were soaked from the rain, but you held back so as not to show anyone that you were crying. As you stood in front of the door, the sound of the car driving away behind you continued to echo in your ears.

The person who left you left without even stopping to check if the door was open.

You held the folder tighter in your hand. It said "To Bruce Wayne - Personal" in capital letters.

The door opened.

"God…" said the old man in a gentle voice. He bent down and came down to your eye level.

"Little lady, what are you doing here?"

You couldn't say anything. You couldn't speak. You just handed over the folder. Your lips trembled, but your tears held back. You pulled your rabbit up a little more. It made you feel safe.

That evening

You were under a soft blanket in the living room. Accompanied by the crackling of the fire, there were people around you that you didn't know but somehow felt warm.

A cheerful person who makes you hot chocolate.

A tough-looking but sweet person who smiles at you without you noticing.

A girl who sits silently and watches you.

And another one who straightens his rabbit, tough but gentle.

They were all looking at you from afar. And in one corner of the room... there was the man reading the folder. His black hair, thoughtful facial expression, and that strange warmth in his eyes when he looks at you.

He left the folder on the table. He took a deep breath. Then he approached you. He sat next to her.

You made eye contact. Something inside him made him feel different.

"I… I'm your father."

When he heard these words, everything inside him became complicated. You tried to understand.

Then you just shook your head. “Okay…” you said in a whisper.

You held your rabbit tightly. He gently caressed her hair.

"You're home now."

Next Days

Life slowly began to take shape around you in the mansion.

Patrul times were now after you fell asleep. Weapons, costumes—all kept out of sight.

You lived in a world of just hot breakfasts, cartoons, coloring books and lots of laughter.

When night came, someone was always with you.

Someone was telling a fairy tale,

Someone was braiding her hair,

Someone was sitting quietly with you, painting.

And every night, a whisper reached his ear:

“Sweet dreams, my little star.”

Every night, while you were in deep sleep, they were out to protect the city. They were wearing costumes, wearing masks, blending into the shadows of Gotham.

But when they returned in the morning, one of them always stopped by your room. They were looking at you with pieces of armor still on them, tiredness in their eyes, but love in their hearts.

And when morning comes…

You just woke up with a new breakfast, a new sketchbook, and lots of hugs.

Because to protect you from the darkness, you had not one but five heroes.

And for you… it was all normal.

Because you were their most precious secret.

It had been about two weeks since you arrived at the Wayne Manor.

Every morning at breakfast, a different face greeted you. Sometimes, it was the smiling boy — the one with slightly messy hair, who always managed to make you laugh. Other times, it was the quiet one, always sitting next to you with black hair. Sometimes, it was the one who would come into the kitchen and ask, "What do you want to eat, little one?" — the one with a slightly furrowed brow, but secretly caring for you a lot.

But they all had one thing in common: They cared about you.

And you had started to get used to them. You were forming bonds with each of them, individually. But it was hard to remember their names, so you had come up with your own nicknames for them in your head:

Funny brother (Dick)

Serious but sweet brother (Damian)

The one who falls asleep but brings chocolate (Tim)

The one who gets angry but secretly makes you laugh (Jason)

That morning, everyone was in the kitchen. The sun had rarely risen over Gotham. As you wrapped yourself in a blanket and climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs, you looked up and glanced around.

"Good morning, everyone," you said shyly.

Dick turned to you: "Good morning, little lady! I’m taking you to school today, are you ready?"

You smiled. "Okay... Funny brother."

Everyone paused for a moment. Tim almost dropped his cup. Damian raised an eyebrow. Jason chuckled.

"Did she just say 'brother'?" Jason said, grinning.

You blushed and lowered your head. But as Bruce walked in through the kitchen door, your eyes locked on him.

He was the quieter, more serious one. But he never missed checking on you at night. And every morning, he would face you with a tired but peaceful expression.

Today, you felt a bit braver.

When he leaned down towards you, you reached out and tried to climb into his lap, blanket and all. He easily lifted you up and wrapped his arms around you.

And you rested your head on his shoulder and whispered:

“Dad…”

There was a silence. It was as if the air in the room had stopped.

In that moment, Bruce’s eyes softened a little more. His embrace tightened a little more.

And he responded with just one word:

“My love…”

Dick wiped his eyes, pretending, as if saying, “I’m not crying, you are!”

Tim was staring at his coffee, though his nose was red.

Jason turned his back, but his shoulders were shaking.

Damian, however, kept looking at you without averting his eyes. For the first time, it seemed like he was proud.

In that moment, maybe for the first time, you truly felt "belonging."

A father.

And four brothers.

You were no longer alone.

[kathaelipwse]

Soft Drinks & Sharp Tongues | Y. Jeonghan

Pairing: Troublemaker!Yoon Jeonghan × Student Council President!Reader

Word Count: 7,974 words : Reading time: 29-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to lovers | Secret softie × Overworked achiever | Protective bad boy | Poor girl x rich school

Warnings: Bullying, classism, mild violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability, mentions of loss (death of a parent), angst with comfort, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: She was the school’s strict student council president with no time for nonsense—or feelings. He was the academy’s golden boy troublemaker who got under her skin like no one else. But when a cruel comment sparks a brutal fight and her secret life is exposed, she realizes that the boy who always pushed her buttons… was also the only one who ever truly saw her. In a world that judged her for being different, Jeonghan stood between her and the world—and maybe even her own walls.

-

The crisp autumn air of senior year did little to soothe the persistent thrumming behind your temples. "Another day, another disaster waiting to happen," you sighed, the weight of the student council head badge feeling less like an honor and more like a lead weight dragging you down. Just as you managed to organize the stack of permission slips threatening to topple off your desk, a familiar, infuriatingly casual voice echoed from the doorway.

"Well, well, if it isn't the iron-willed Prez in her natural habitat," Jeonghan drawled, leaning against the doorframe with an effortless swagger that somehow never failed to irritate you and make you lose your mind at the name 'prez' altogether. He pushed off the frame, sauntering into your small office with the confident air of someone who paid the university's exorbitant tuition fees ten times over, despite the crumpled pink detention slip dangling from his fingertips.

"Lost again, Han?" you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, the exhaustion from last night's late shift at the café still clinging to you like a persistent shadow.

He chuckled, a light, airy sound that grated on your nerves. "Lost? Never, my dear Prez. Merely… exploring the less-traveled paths of disciplinary action." He flicked the detention slip onto your meticulously arranged desk, the corner bent and smudged. "Though, I must confess, your sanctuary of rules and regulations does possess a certain… stark appeal this morning." His eyes flickered around the small space, lingering for a moment on the wilting potted plant in the corner.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the familiar headache intensifying. "Han, for the last time, gluing Mr. Kim's prized toupee to the rotating blades of the science lab's ceiling fan is not an act of artistic expression. It's disruptive, disrespectful, and frankly, the third time this month. Do you have a personal vendetta against follicularly challenged educators?"

He feigned an expression of wounded innocence, his usually sharp eyes widening in mock surprise. "A vendetta? My dear Prez, I'm wounded by the accusation! Perhaps the toupee simply yearned for a more… dynamic existence? A chance to experience the thrill of flight?"

"The thrill of flight that resulted in Mr. Kim nearly having a coronary," you countered dryly, already reaching for the detention log. "That earns you a solid hour of supervised detention. With me." The thought of spending an entire hour in forced proximity to him was hardly your idea of a productive afternoon, but rules were rules, even for the infuriatingly charming Jeonghan.

"Ah, but that's where the real intrigue lies, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned closer, resting his hands on the edge of your desk, a disarming smile spreading across his handsome face, a smile that you knew had melted the resolve of many a teacher. "Spending quality time in the hallowed halls of disciplinary action, under the watchful gaze of the student council head? A rare and undoubtedly enlightening experience."

You simply leveled him with a withering stare, the kind you'd perfected over countless student council meetings and rule infractions. "Don't even try, Han. This isn't a negotiation."

-

Later that afternoon, just as you were finally catching up on paperwork, your phone rang. It was a flustered Mrs. Lee, her voice bordering on panic. "He… he's gone, (Y/N)! He's just… vanished!"

You sighed, running a weary hand through your hair. "Let me guess. He charmed his way out of detention again?"

"He… he complimented my new scarf," Mrs. Lee stammered, a strange, almost dreamy quality entering her voice. "And then he offered to help me carry a rather heavy stack of textbooks to the library… I only turned my back for a moment…"

"Of course, he did," you muttered under your breath, hanging up the phone with a frustrated click. It was always the same infuriating pattern. His effortless charm, that disarming smile, the casual flirtation – it was a weapon he wielded with infuriating effectiveness.

What the perfectly coiffed and privileged student body, with their designer clothes and trust funds, remained blissfully unaware of was the quiet battle you fought every single day. The silence in your small, rented apartment after your mother left for her second job echoed the gaping absence left by your father's passing.

"Just trying to make ends meet, sweetheart," your mother would say, her shoulders slumped with a weariness that mirrored your own. To ease her burden, you pulled double shifts at a small, out-of-the-way café, the clatter of cheap cutlery and the pervasive smell of stale coffee a stark and unwelcome contrast to the hushed, hallowed halls of your elite university.

"Another lukewarm latte, another step closer to paying the electricity bill," you'd often think, the meager tips barely making a dent in the ever-growing pile of overdue notices.

Your no-nonsense approach as student council head had already earned you the thinly veiled disdain of those who considered rules mere suggestions. "She thinks she's so high and mighty just because she got in on a scholarship," you'd overheard a group of impeccably dressed girls whisper in the hallway, their eyes flicking over your slightly worn uniform.

"No mercy for anyone. Probably has something to prove." They saw you as rigid, unyielding, someone who had forgotten her place. Little did they know the constant tightrope walk you performed daily, the relentless pressure to maintain your perfect GPA and your scholarship, the gnawing anxiety that one wrong step could send your carefully constructed world crashing down.

Yet, amidst the predictable chaos that Han routinely unleashed upon the school, there were these… strange anomalies. One particularly draining Monday, after a particularly grueling weekend of juggling assignments and café shifts, you arrived at your desk to find a single can of your favorite soda, the obscure brand you rarely indulged in, sitting there as if it had materialized out of thin air.

No note, no explanation, just the cool, familiar weight of the aluminum in your hand. And then there were the days when the familiar, agonizing cramps of your period would leave you pale and trembling. On those mornings, a small, neatly wrapped bar of dark chocolate – the expensive, imported kind you usually only dreamed of – would be placed discreetly beside your planner, as if someone knew exactly what silent battle you were fighting.

One particularly frustrating afternoon, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion and a nagging sense of unease, you finally decided to confront the enigma that was Jeonghan. He was leaning against a sun-drenched wall in the courtyard, effortlessly surrounded by a gaggle of giggling students, his usual magnetic charm in full effect. "Han," you called out, your voice cutting through the laughter, the authority of your position instinctively taking over.

He turned, that familiar, infuriatingly handsome smirk returning to his lips. "To what do I owe this unexpected honor, Prez?" he drawled, the title laced with a playful mockery that usually sent your temper flaring.

You gestured vaguely towards your office. "Those… things. The soda. The chocolate. Why?"

He simply shrugged, that characteristic air of nonchalance returning, his eyes flicking away as if the topic bored him. "Had extras." The casual dismissal was infuriatingly convincing, leaving you with a swirling mix of confusion and a strange, unsettling warmth that you couldn't quite decipher.

--

The fragile peace of the university courtyard, usually a backdrop for idle chatter, hurried footsteps, and the occasional strumming of a guitar, shattered with a sudden, brutal sound. A sharp crack, like bone meeting bone, ripped through the lunchtime murmur, silencing the surrounding conversations as abruptly as a slammed door. You, mid-sentence with the perpetually flustered treasurer, Sooyoung, about the logistics of the upcoming charity bake sale and the alarming rate at which the student body consumed red velvet cupcakes, whipped your head around, your meticulously organized clipboard scattering a flurry of sign-up sheets onto the paved ground. The scene that unfolded before you sent a shockwave of cold disbelief, followed by a surge of adrenaline, coursing through your veins.

Jeonghan, the ever-teasing, perpetually laid-back Han, the master of witty remarks and harmless pranks that somehow always skirted the edge of outright rule-breaking, was locked in a vicious, unrestrained fistfight. His usual playful expression, the one that could charm even the most jaded professors, was gone, replaced by a mask of raw, untamed fury that contorted his handsome features into something almost unrecognizable. His knuckles, already reddening, were white against the other student's increasingly bloodied face, his movements jerky and fueled by a rage you had never witnessed in him before. This wasn't the Han of stolen exam answers and strategically placed whoopee cushions; this was something primal, something dangerous, a side of him completely hidden beneath the layers of charm and nonchalance.

Instinct took over, overriding the shock that had momentarily rooted you to the spot. The student council head within you, the one who had to maintain order and uphold the university's (admittedly often ignored) code of conduct, kicked in.

You found yourself pushing through the stunned onlookers, a knot of fear tightening in your stomach, your voice surprisingly sharp and authoritative as you barked orders. "Break it up! Now! What in God's name do you think you're doing? Jeonghan! Stop!" It took the combined efforts of several bewildered students, their initial shock slowly giving way to a hesitant urgency, to finally separate the two combatants.

Han’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his usually bright eyes now dark with a simmering anger, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. The other student, a usually boisterous jock named Minho, captain of the university's baseball team, was a mess of split lips, a rapidly swelling eye already turning a sickly shade of purple, and a trickle of blood snaking down his chin.

Later, the sterile air in your small, often overlooked student council office crackled with an unfamiliar tension. Minho, sporting an impressive ice pack that did little to soothe his bruised ego, had been escorted to the university infirmary by a concerned coach. Han sat opposite you, slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chair, unusually silent. His usual playful demeanor, the easy smile that could disarm even your sternest lectures, was completely absent, replaced by a brooding intensity. The knuckles of his right hand were already starting to swell, a stark and unsettling testament to the brutal violence you had just witnessed. You sat behind your desk, the scattered bake sale sign-up sheets a forgotten mess, your mind still reeling from the unexpected eruption of fury.

"Han," you began, your voice tight with a mixture of disbelief, lingering shock, and a growing sense of unease. "What… what was that? I have never, ever seen you… like that." Your words hung in the air, the silence amplifying the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.

He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his injured hand, turning it over as if it belonged to someone else. Finally, he looked up, his eyes dark and troubled, a stark contrast to their usual mischievous sparkle. "He deserved it," was all he said, his voice low and rough, devoid of its usual playful lilt.

"Deserved what?" you pressed, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the cluttered surface of your desk. "A brutal beating in the middle of the courtyard? What in God's name could possibly have happened to provoke something like that?"

He hesitated, his jaw clenching and unclenching, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He seemed to be wrestling with himself, his usual easygoing nature battling with the raw anger that still emanated from him. "It's nothing you need to worry about," he finally mumbled, his gaze flicking away from yours.

"Nothing I need to worry about?" you repeated, incredulously, your voice rising slightly. "Han, you just engaged in a full-blown fistfight! This is serious. There will be consequences. And frankly, I need to understand what happened. For the official report, if nothing else."

He finally met your gaze again, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something beyond his usual teasing or indifference. It was a raw protectiveness, a simmering anger that still seemed to vibrate beneath his skin, a fierce loyalty that surprised you. "He said some… things," he mumbled, his voice still rough, the words seemingly dragged from him.

"What kind of things, Han?" you persisted, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You had a bad feeling about this, a sense that whatever Minho had said had struck a nerve, a deep and volatile one.

He turned away again, his gaze fixed on the peeling paint of the opposite wall, as if the answers were hidden within its imperfections. "Just… garbage. The kind of crap guys like him spout all the time. It's not important."

But the university grapevine, as always, was relentless and remarkably efficient. The whispers started circulating almost immediately, fueled by the stunned witnesses and the sheer unexpectedness of Han's violent outburst. It wasn't long before the unsavory details, twisted and embellished with each retelling, began to reach you. However, the core of the incident remained consistent.

Apparently, Minho, emboldened by his usual entourage of jock friends and a misplaced sense of entitlement that seemed to cling to him like expensive cologne, had cornered you near the library earlier that day. His words, repeated with a sickening accuracy by those who had overheard and were still reeling from the audacity, echoed in your mind, sending a shiver of disgust and a prickle of humiliation down your spine:

"Hey, scholarship princess. Heard you're scrubbing floors at some dive to pay mommy's bills. With a body like yours, you could probably make way more than minimum wage if you actually tried. Maybe drop the goody-two-shoes act and use what you've got, huh?"

The blatant objectification, the crude insinuation about your body and your desperate financial situation, the sheer disrespect in his tone, made your blood run cold. It was a violation, a disgusting intrusion that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, the carefully constructed walls around your private life crumbling under the weight of his vulgar assumptions.

--

Later that week, the memory of Minho's words still a bitter taste in your mouth, you found yourself alone with Han near the humming vending machines, the awkward silence between you thick and uncomfortable. You hesitated for a moment, the question weighing heavily on your tongue, then decided to broach the subject again. "Han," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper, the humiliation still raw. "I… I heard what Minho said. About… about my body… and… everything." The words felt foreign and shameful, a stark reminder of the vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal.

He flinched, his eyes, which had been idly scanning the snack selection, snapped to yours, hardening into a dangerous glint. "Who told you?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

"It doesn't matter," you said quietly, meeting his intense gaze. "What matters is… why? Why did you…"

He cut you off, his voice surprisingly harsh, the raw protectiveness evident despite his dismissive words. "Why do you wanna know? He spouts shit, and you aren't all that… you know." He trailed off, his usual eloquence failing him, the memory of Minho's disgusting appraisal clearly still fueling his anger, a possessive fury that both surprised and slightly unnerved you.

You stared at him, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. Hurt at his dismissive tone, a flicker of something akin to gratitude for his defense, but also a strange, unsettling warmth blooming in your chest at the fierce, albeit violent, loyalty he had displayed.

The image of his enraged face, the sheer, uncharacteristic fury in his eyes, lingered in your mind, a stark contrast to his usual playful demeanor. It was then, amidst the lingering shock, the uncomfortable tension, and the unsettling protectiveness in his gaze, that the buried feelings you’d tried so diligently to ignore since your first year began to stir, their roots running deeper than you’d ever dared to acknowledge.

The line between irritation and something far more complex was beginning to blur, and the unexpected violence, ignited by those vile words about your body and your circumstances, had somehow shaken it all awake, leaving you questioning everything you thought you knew about Jeonghan.

The relentless rhythm of university life continued, a predictable cycle of lectures, assignments, and the ever-present weight of your responsibilities as student council head.

But beneath this familiar surface, a new layer of anxiety had begun to fester. The memory of Minho's crude words, coupled with the unsettling protectiveness in Han's violent reaction, lingered like a persistent shadow. Adding to this growing unease was the constant, gnawing fear of your carefully guarded secret being exposed.

The chipped mugs and the weary smiles of your colleagues at the café had always been a world apart from the polished veneer of your university. It was a life you kept fiercely compartmentalized, a necessity born of your family's circumstances that you shielded with a quiet desperation from the judgmental eyes of your privileged classmates. The fear of that wall crumbling had always been there, a low hum of anxiety beneath the surface of your daily life.

Then, the inevitable happened. It started with a fleeting notification on your phone, a screenshot shared within a class group chat you rarely engaged with. A grainy, unflattering image flashed across the screen – undeniably you, in your slightly faded café uniform, a tray laden with steaming cups clutched in your hand, your hair pulled back haphazardly beneath a slightly stained hairnet. The caption, crude and mocking, stung more than you cared to admit: "Our esteemed S.C Head slumming it? Guess those scholarships don't cover everything." It had been taken during one of your late-night shifts, capturing a moment of weary concentration that was twisted into something pathetic and demeaning.

In a world where designer labels were practically a birthright and weekend discussions revolved around ski trips and yacht parties, the image was a stark, unwelcome intrusion. It ripped away the carefully constructed facade of the diligent, no-nonsense student council head, revealing the stark reality of your existence: the scholarship student working a dead-end job to keep her family afloat. The digital whispers began almost immediately, a low hum of curiosity quickly escalating into a deafening chorus of judgment and ridicule.

The fact that you had earned your place at this prestigious institution through sheer hard work and unwavering dedication, a testament to your intelligence and resilience, was conveniently ignored.

The narrative swiftly morphed. You, the seemingly unyielding and strict student council head, were now exposed, vulnerable, a target for the casual cruelty of those who had always resented your authority.

The air of respect your position once commanded seemed to evaporate, replaced by a palpable shift in the way people looked at you – a mixture of pity, disdain, and a smug sense of superiority.

Anonymous messages flooded your student council email. One particularly nasty one read: "So, S.C Head, when are you going to start serving coffee during student council meetings? Maybe you can earn some extra tips."

Graffiti, scrawled in hurried marker, appeared on the bathroom stalls. Underneath a crude drawing of someone vaguely resembling you holding a tray, someone had written: "From Council Head to Coffee Maid." The whispers followed you like a persistent shadow, echoing in the hallways. As you walked past a group of impeccably dressed girls, you heard one murmur, just loud enough for you to catch, "Well, look who it is. Fancy seeing her outside of a uniform." Another snickered in response.

You tried to ignore them, to keep your head down, to lose yourself in your studies, but the constant scrutiny, the thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of your peers, began to erode your carefully constructed composure. Even during lectures, you could feel their gazes on you, a silent, collective judgment that made your skin crawl.

One particularly cruel message, slipped into your locker, detailed fabricated stories about the supposed squalor of your "humble abode." "Heard the rats pay more rent than her family," it sneered, the implication clear that you were somehow an imposter, undeserving of being among them. The words, dripping with a disdain for a life you had no choice but to live, hit you with the force of a physical blow. A wave of shame, a feeling you had fought so hard to suppress, washed over you, leaving you feeling exposed and utterly humiliated.

You started avoiding eye contact, your shoulders hunching defensively as you navigated the crowded hallways. The snickers and muttered comments, though often just out of earshot, still stung, each one a tiny pinprick of cruelty chipping away at your carefully maintained stoicism.

The weight of your secret, once a private burden, was now a public spectacle, and the judgment felt suffocating, threatening to crush the very foundations of your hard-won place at the university. The unveiling of your other life had not brought understanding or empathy; it had brought only a fresh, stinging wave of disdain and isolation. You began to dread walking through the campus, the once familiar halls now feeling like a gauntlet of silent condemnation.

The cafeteria, once a bustling hub of student life, had transformed into a minefield for you. The clatter of trays and the boisterous chatter, once mundane background noise, now seemed to carry a sinister undercurrent, each laugh and whispered word potentially directed at you.

You had become a ghost in your own school, navigating the crowded tables with your gaze fixed firmly on the scuffed linoleum floor, a silent plea etched on your face to be rendered invisible. Lunchtime, once a brief respite, had become a daily exercise in forced solitude and silent endurance, each bite of your carefully packed lunch feeling like a leaden weight in your already burdened stomach.

Han’s usual raucous laughter and the easy, often insensitive, banter of his privileged entourage echoed across the vast space, a familiar sound that now struck a jarringly discordant note against the backdrop of your isolation. They seemed untouched by the subtle yet pervasive cruelty that clung to you like a persistent cloud, their world of inherited wealth and effortless comfort continuing its smooth, untroubled trajectory.

Yet, you had observed subtle shifts in Han’s demeanor in recent days. The ever-present smirk, his trademark expression, seemed to flicker less frequently, often replaced by a deep furrow in his brow, a restless energy in his movements, his gaze sweeping across the crowded tables with a searching, almost worried quality.

One particularly difficult afternoon, as you carefully maneuvered through the throng of students, clutching your worn lunch bag and desperately seeking the sanctuary of an unoccupied corner, you couldn't help but overhear fragments of their conversation. Jaehyu, Han’s loud and often tactless friend, was holding court, his voice booming with a cruel, self-satisfied edge.

"Did you see the comments under that photo? 'S.C Head serving the masses!' Hilarious! Looks like our perfect little scholarship student isn't so high and mighty now, wiping down sticky tables for a living." His cronies erupted in a chorus of boisterous laughter, the sound echoing through the cafeteria like a series of sharp, deliberate jabs. You flinched, your grip tightening on the brown paper bag, your cheeks flushing with a potent mix of shame and a simmering, impotent anger. You kept your gaze resolutely down, willing yourself to become one with the peeling paint on the nearby wall.

Finally, your eyes landed on a small, unoccupied table tucked away in a dimly lit corner near the overflowing recycling bins. It wasn't ideal, but it offered a semblance of privacy.

You hurried towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the whispered judgments feeling like physical shoves. You just wanted to eat your simple sandwich in quiet solitude, to find a brief, precious moment of escape from the suffocating weight of their disdain. But before you could even lower yourself onto the hard plastic chair, Jaehyu’s voice, laced with deliberate malice and amplified by a sudden lull in the surrounding noise, cut through the remaining lunchtime hum like a jagged shard of glass.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his eyes locking onto yours with a smug, cruel satisfaction that made your stomach clench and a wave of nausea rise in your throat. "Look who it is. The queen of rule enforcement, the one who docked points from our club for being five minutes late. Maybe you should focus on clocking in on time at your real job, huh? Wouldn't want to get fired from your oh-so-glamorous career."

A fresh, brutal wave of cruel laughter rippled through his small group, the sound hitting you with the force of a physical shove, each guffaw a fresh wave of humiliation. Your breath hitched, and you instinctively lowered your head further, the familiar sting of tears pricking fiercely at the back of your eyes. You squeezed them shut, fiercely blinking them back. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing you break, of witnessing your pain. You had learned long ago to swallow the hurt, to build an invisible wall against their relentless cruelty.

But before you could retreat completely into your self-imposed invisibility, a sudden, sharp, and undeniably violent sound ripped through the remaining laughter, silencing the entire cafeteria as if an invisible hand had clamped down on the noise. A sickening thud, followed by a collective gasp and a sharp intake of breath from the stunned onlookers.

You looked up in stunned disbelief, your eyes widening in shock. Han stood over Jaehyu, his usually playful face contorted into a mask of thunderous, incandescent fury. Jaehyu lay sprawled on the sticky linoleum floor, clutching his jaw with a look of utter shock and dawning, agonizing pain contorting his features. The entire cafeteria fell into an eerie, absolute silence, the only sounds the scraping of overturned chairs and the hushed, disbelieving whispers rippling through the stunned crowd. A few brave (or perhaps foolishly curious) souls fumbled for their phones, their screens illuminating the unfolding drama with a cold, digital glow, capturing the unbelievable scene.

"Apologize to her," Han’s voice was low, dangerous, each syllable laced with a cold, hard steel you had never heard before, a stark contrast to his usual lighthearted tone. His eyes, blazing with a fierce, protective rage that seemed to emanate from his very core, were fixed on Jaehyu, who was slowly pushing himself up, his face a grotesque tableau of pain and utter bewilderment.

Jaehyu, clearly disoriented and not quite comprehending the sudden, brutal assault, stammered, "W-what? Why the hell would I apologize to her? She's the one who needs to apologize for being such a stuck-up-"

Han’s glare intensified, a silent, lethal threat that brooked no argument. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely suppressed violence. "Apologize. To. Her. Instantly, Jaehyu." His voice was a low growl, promising swift and unpleasant consequences for disobedience.

Jaehyu, despite his confusion and the throbbing agony in his jaw, seemed to recognize the raw, unadulterated fury in Han’s eyes, a primal anger that promised further pain if he dared to defy it. He mumbled a grudging, barely audible, "S-sorry," in your general direction, his gaze darting nervously between your stunned face and Han's menacing glare, his usual bravado completely evaporated, replaced by a palpable fear.

Confusion rippled through Han’s small group of friends. Seokhyun, usually the most jovial and easygoing of the bunch, stared at Han in utter disbelief, his mouth agape. "Yah, Jeonghan! What the actual hell was that? Why would you hit him? He was just joking! She needs to lighten up! She’s always acting like she’s better than everyone, lording her student council position over us."

Han’s head snapped towards Seokhyun, his eyes flashing with a raw, untamed rage that made Seokhyun visibly flinch, taking an involuntary step back, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. "Shut your damn mouth, Kim Seokhyun," Han spat, his voice dangerously low, each word dripping with contempt. "Making fun of someone for working hard to support their family isn't a 'joke.' It's pathetic, cruel, and reveals more about your rotten character than hers. Unlike some of us who waltzed in here on daddy's platinum card, she earned her place with a hundred percent scholarship. She's smarter, more hardworking, and possesses more integrity in her little finger than all of you entitled brats combined. And you want to tear her down for helping her mother? You want to make her feel ashamed of her strength and sacrifice? You'll have to go through me first, you understand?"

He turned abruptly, his gaze, still burning with a fierce protectiveness, locking onto yours across the stunned silence of the cafeteria. Without a word, he strode towards your table, his movements rough yet strangely determined, his eyes conveying a silent message of solidarity and unwavering support. He reached you, his hand closing around your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the lingering tension radiating from him. He didn't say a word as he pulled you up from your chair, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, and began to lead you out of the stunned cafeteria, leaving behind a sea of bewildered faces, dropped trays, and the lingering echo of his unexpected, fierce, and utterly bewildering defense. As he guided you through the stunned crowd, you could hear whispers following in your wake, a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, perhaps grudging, respect.

Han’s grip on your arm, though firm enough to guide you through the stunned and whispering crowd, possessed a surprising gentleness, a stark contrast to the raw fury he had displayed moments before. The whispers followed in your wake, a low, persistent hum of confusion, speculation, and perhaps even a grudging respect, but you barely registered them. Your mind was a whirlwind of disbelief, the unexpected outburst replaying in a loop, the fierce, almost possessive protectiveness Han had exhibited a stark and bewildering contrast to the carefree, infuriating troublemaker you thought you knew.

He didn’t speak as he steered you out of the bustling, judgmental atmosphere of the cafeteria and into the relative quiet and anonymity of a deserted hallway, the echoing silence amplifying the frantic beating of your own heart. The tension between you was thick, a palpable weight of unspoken questions, lingering shock, and a strange, burgeoning sense of… something you couldn't quite name. He finally stopped near a row of cold metal lockers, turning to face you, his hands still resting lightly but possessively on your arms, his touch sending a confusing mix of warmth and unease through you. His usual playful eyes, so often crinkled in amusement or mischief, were now dark, troubled, and filled with an uncharacteristic intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Why?" he finally asked, his voice rough, the earlier, incandescent anger still simmering beneath the surface, a low growl in his tone. "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you just… stand there and take it? Why are you so… ashamed?" The question hung in the air between you, a direct accusation that pierced through the carefully constructed layers of your stoicism.

The dam you had so carefully, so painstakingly constructed over the past few weeks, the fragile barrier you had erected against the constant barrage of judgment, finally cracked. The carefully constructed walls you’d built around your deepest insecurities, your most vulnerable truths, crumbled under the unexpected weight of his fierce defense and his direct, probing question. The words tumbled out of you, a torrent of raw emotion you hadn’t even realized you were holding back, a desperate outpouring of the pain and exhaustion you had carried in silence for so long.

"Because…" your voice trembled, catching in your throat, thick with the unshed tears that had been threatening to spill over for weeks. "Because it's true, isn't it? They're right. I am the scholarship kid working a dead-end job. I do come from nothing. And every single day, I walk through these halls feeling like I don't belong, like I'm an imposter in a world that wasn't built for me. I work my ass off at the café after classes, come home late, help my mom with bills, with rent… I’m tired, Han. So incredibly tired of trying to pretend that I’m just like them, that their cruel words don't cut me to the bone, that their disdain doesn't leave me feeling hollowed out."

Your voice broke completely, the carefully held back tears finally breaching the surface, hot and stinging against your pale cheeks. You hated crying in front of anyone, the ingrained habit of appearing strong, self-sufficient, and in control too deeply ingrained in your very being. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms, trying desperately to regain some semblance of composure, but the floodgates had opened, and the vulnerability was already out in the open, raw and exposed for him to see.

Without a word, Han’s expression underwent a profound shift. The lingering anger in his eyes softened, the hard edges melting away, replaced by a look of something akin to deep understanding, a surprising tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat and your heart clench with a confusing mix of emotions. He gently released your arms, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment, and with a hesitant, almost reverent movement, reached out and cupped your face in his surprisingly warm hands. His touch was a small, unexpected comfort in the overwhelming storm of your emotions, a silent acknowledgment of your pain.

He didn't say anything, just looked at you, his gaze searching, empathetic, as if he were trying to absorb the depth of your hurt. Then, in a move that completely took you by surprise, a gesture both unexpected and strangely comforting, he gently scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing, his strong arms a surprising anchor in your turbulent sea of emotions. You gasped, a startled sound escaping your lips, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support, your face buried in the soft fabric of his expensive-smelling shirt, the familiar scent oddly grounding.

He carried you out of the university building, the surprised and curious glances of the few students you passed in the hallway fading into a blurry, irrelevant background. He didn't say a word, just held you close, his steps steady and sure, his presence a silent promise of safety and understanding. He carefully settled you into the plush leather of the passenger seat of his sleek, impeccably maintained car, his eyes filled with a quiet concern and a depth of emotion you had never associated with the playful, often infuriating, Jeonghan.

"Let it out," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, his hand resting gently but firmly on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin in a small, comforting gesture. "Don't hold back. I won't turn around unless you tell me to." He was about to close the door, giving you the privacy you so desperately needed, when you reached out, your hand gripping his arm tightly, a silent plea for connection. You pulled him towards you, burying your face in his chest again, the sobs you had been fighting back for so long finally wracking your body, each one a release of pent-up pain and humiliation. The tears streamed down your face, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the soft fabric of his shirt, a physical manifestation of the emotional dam finally breaking. And the whole time, he just held you close, his arms a safe and unexpected harbor in the storm of your emotions, his presence a silent, unwavering promise of comfort, understanding, and something that felt suspiciously like… care.

The rhythmic sound of your sobs gradually subsided, each hiccuping breath leaving behind a raw ache in your chest and a damp, slightly embarrassing patch on the front of Han’s expensive-looking shirt. You finally pulled back, your face flushed and tear-streaked, your eyes swollen and red, reflecting the tumultuous emotions that had just poured forth. You felt utterly exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to be in years. The fact that it was Han, the very person who usually exasperated you with his antics and tested your patience to its limits, who had witnessed your complete emotional unraveling felt strangely disorienting, yet also… oddly comforting.

He didn’t say anything, just offered you a small, surprisingly gentle smile, a stark contrast to his usual mischievous grin, and a clean, subtly scented handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. You took it with a shaky hand, dabbing at your wet cheeks and swollen eyelids, avoiding his direct gaze, a wave of self-consciousness washing over you. The silence in the car was thick, no longer charged with the earlier tension and unspoken shock, but with a fragile, almost sacred intimacy, a quiet understanding that had unexpectedly blossomed between you.

After a few moments of awkward but not entirely uncomfortable silence, you finally found your voice, still thick with the remnants of your sobs. "Thank you," you mumbled, your gaze fixed on your hands, which were clasped tightly in your lap, the knuckles white. "For… for everything. For today… and…" you trailed off, unsure how to articulate the confusing mix of gratitude and burgeoning realization swirling within you.

He just nodded slowly, his eyes still filled with that unfamiliar, tender concern that made your heart flutter in a way it never had before. "Are you… okay now?" he asked softly, his voice laced with a genuine worry that surprised you.

You took a deep breath, a shaky exhale that still hitched slightly. "I will be," you said, the words carrying a newfound lightness, as if releasing the pent-up tears had also released some of the immense weight you had been carrying for so long. You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question, a hesitant curiosity, forming in your eyes. "Han… why did you do all that? Back in the cafeteria. And… all those times before? The drinks… the chocolate… you always act like you can’t stand me, like I’m just a constant source of irritation."

Han shifted uncomfortably in his plush leather seat, finally breaking eye contact and staring intently out the front windshield, as if the answers to your questions were etched on the glass. A faint blush, starting at his ears, crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his rare discomfort. "I… well, that's not exactly true," he mumbled, his fingers fiddling nervously with the car keys dangling from the ignition.

"What isn't true?" you pressed gently, a hopeful tendril reaching out within you, a hesitant anticipation of something unexpected.

He finally turned back to you, his gaze earnest, almost vulnerable, the usual playful mask completely gone. "I never hated you, (Y/N). Not even a little bit. Annoyed? Maybe sometimes," he admitted with a small, sheepish grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hesitated, then took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for a plunge into unknown waters. "Actually… it's kind of the opposite."

Your eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, your carefully guarded composure momentarily forgotten. "The opposite?" you echoed, a bewildered laugh escaping your lips.

He nodded, his cheeks now flushed a deeper shade of pink, his gaze darting between your eyes and his fidgeting hands. "Yeah. I… I liked being around you. Even when you were scolding me for some ridiculous prank. Your frown… it was kind of cute, actually," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of his usual teasing creeping back in, but tinged with a newfound sincerity. He avoided your gaze again, a nervous energy radiating from him. "And… well, I noticed things. You always looked so tired, those dark circles under your eyes… and I remembered you mentioning once, ages ago, how much you loved that specific brand of overly sweet soda. The chocolate… well, I just… I know how bad period cramps can be. My younger sister… she goes through it too."

Your heart skipped a surprised beat. He noticed? All this time, amidst his chaotic pranks and infuriating teasing, he had actually been paying attention to the small, insignificant details of your life?

"You knew… about my period cramps?" you asked, a surprised, slightly disbelieving laugh bubbling up despite the lingering sadness.

He nodded sheepishly, a small, endearing smile finally gracing his lips. "Yeah, well… you always seemed to reach for dark chocolate those days. It wasn't exactly rocket science, Sherlock." He finally met your eyes again, his gaze surprisingly direct and unwavering. "And I knew about your scholarship, about your family… from the very beginning. You have this quiet strength about you, (Y/N). It's hard not to notice."

Your breath hitched in your throat. He knew? All this time, he had known about your struggles, your carefully guarded secrets, and instead of judging you, he had… he had been leaving you small, anonymous tokens of comfort?

"You always seemed so… together," Han continued, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, the playful teasing completely gone. "So strong, carrying all that responsibility on your own, never asking for help. But I could see it sometimes, the weight you carried, the exhaustion in your eyes. I just… I wanted to do something. Anything small, just to… to let you know someone saw it. So you wouldn't have to carry it all alone." He looked away again, his ears now a delicate shade of pink. "I… I think… I’ve liked you… a lot… since first year." The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and unexpected.

He backed off slightly, a nervous energy radiating from him, his expression a mixture of hope and trepidation, unsure of your reaction, his long-held secret finally laid bare. To his utter surprise, you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they tangled in the soft strands of his dark hair. You gently tugged him closer, your eyes searching the depths of his earnest gaze. And then, without thinking, without analyzing, without allowing the years of exasperation and perceived animosity to cloud your judgment, you leaned in and kissed him. It was a tentative kiss at first, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected depth of his feelings, a soft exploration that spoke volumes. But it quickly deepened, a rush of long-suppressed emotions – gratitude, relief, and a powerful, undeniable affection – flooding through you, washing away the years of carefully constructed barriers. Your hands tightened in his hair as he instinctively pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, a silent, comforting embrace that spoke of a connection you had never dared to imagine.

He mumbled a soft, heartfelt, "I love you," against your lips, the words echoing the long-held secret that had finally found its voice within your own heart. "I love you too, Han," you whispered back, the confession a sweet, liberating release, a fragile beginning to something entirely new.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and luminous, reflecting the shock and the burgeoning, almost incandescent joy that had bloomed in his chest. "You… you really do?" he murmured, his voice thick with a raw emotion that mirrored your own, a hopeful tremor running through him like a live wire. The nervous energy that had been radiating off him just moments before seemed to dissipate entirely, replaced by an almost childlike wonder, a sense of disbelief that mingled beautifully with his happiness.

You nodded, a genuine, heartfelt smile finally breaking through the remnants of your tears, a radiant expression that mirrored the pure joy now illuminating his handsome face. The heavy, suffocating weight that had been pressing down on your chest for so long, the burden of your secrets and your struggles, seemed to have miraculously lifted, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t experienced in what felt like an eternity. In the small, intimate sanctuary of his luxurious car, tucked away from the judgmental eyes and cruel whispers of the university, the harsh realities and societal pressures of the world outside seemed to recede into a hazy background, the only tangible reality the unexpected, profound connection you had forged in the crucible of vulnerability and unexpected affection.

Han reached out, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a feather-light, almost reverent touch. "So," he said, his voice soft, a tender whisper that resonated deep within you, a hint of his usual playful tone finally returning, but now imbued with a newfound depth of sincerity. "What… what exactly happens now, Head Girl?"

You leaned into his warm touch, a profound sense of peace settling over you, a feeling of finally being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time. The weight of your carefully constructed facade had finally been lifted, replaced by the liberating vulnerability of being completely yourself with someone who not only saw you but cherished you, flaws and all. "Now," you whispered, your eyes locking with his, a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a quiet strength blossoming within you. "Now, we start over. Together." The word resonated with a profound sense of rightness, a solid promise of shared burdens, mutual support, and a future you no longer had to face alone.

A wide, unrestrained grin, the genuine, heart-melting kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his entire face, spread across his features, chasing away the last vestiges of nervousness and uncertainty. A familiar spark of mischief flickered back into his eyes, a hint of the playful troublemaker you knew, but this time, it was different. It was a shared secret, a conspiratorial glint that hinted at future adventures, a promise of unwavering support, shared laughter, and a deep, abiding affection that transcended the superficial barriers of your different worlds. He leaned in for another kiss, a slow, tender exploration that sealed your unexpected beginning, a silent vow to face whatever challenges lay ahead, hand in hand, heart to heart. The road ahead wouldn't be easy; the ingrained prejudices of your classmates wouldn't vanish overnight, and the stark realities of your different socioeconomic backgrounds still loomed. But for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like you had to shoulder the weight of the world on your own. You had Han, your infuriating, surprisingly perceptive, fiercely protective, and now, undeniably loving Han, by your side. And somehow, in that precious moment, that realization made all the difference in the world, painting a hopeful hue over a future that had previously seemed so daunting. The persistent headache that had been your constant companion throughout the tumultuous senior year seemed to finally recede, replaced by a quiet, burgeoning warmth that spread through your chest, a tangible promise of brighter, shared days to come.

The End

[formulaonecrumbs]

can we get oscar older sister au? pleaseeee

little big moments

Oscar Piastri x older sister!reader

summary: oscar’s favourite person is his older sister.

warnings: hospitals, broken leg, implied dance injury.

A/N: projecting myself into reader cuz i’ve always wanted to be a ballerina :p enjoy my lovvvveeeee 🫶🫶🫶

⚘ ⚘ ⚘ ⚘

8 & 13

the monsters don’t wait for the closet door to creak open or the thunder to roll in.

they crawl out from behind his eyelids—sharp-toothed and angry—chasing him down a hallway that doesn’t end, his legs heavy and too slow. his voice doesn’t work. he’s trying to scream but it’s like all the air in the world is gone.

then suddenly, he’s awake.

his chest is tight. his throat hurts. he’s not sure if he screamed or if it only happened in the dream. the shadows in his room don’t look right, even though he knows they’re just his race car poster and the chair with his hoodie on it. still, his heart’s thudding and his eyes are hot and—

he climbs out of bed.

his feet are cold on the wooden floor, but he tiptoes anyway. carefully. quietly. his door creaks when he opens it, and he pauses, breath caught. no one stirs.

reader’s room is at the end of the hall. he knows the number of steps by heart. twelve small ones. he doesn’t knock—he never knocks—and instead just presses the door open a crack and peeks in.

she’s still awake. the warm, soft yellow of her lamp is still on, and she’s lying on her stomach, writing in the little purple notebook she always keeps beside her bed. her hair’s up in a bun, messy and half-falling apart.

he hesitates in the doorway, and she looks up like she already knew he was coming.

“nightmare?” she asks, voice low and gentle.

he nods.

she doesn’t say anything else. just shifts over and lifts the blanket.

he scrambles up onto her bed, dragging his pillow with him. he lies on his side, facing the wall, and she presses her chest against his back. her arm comes around his middle, warm and steady.

for a while, it’s just the quiet hum of her lamp and the soft rhythm of her breathing.

“what happened this time?” she asks, fingers brushing his hair.

he shrugs. “dunno. running. screaming. couldn’t move.”

“was i there?”

“no.”

“should i have been?”

he nods.

she hugs him tighter, her hand finding his and squeezing it once.

“next time,” she whispers, “i’ll be there.”

it’s the kind of promise he’ll remember forever. not because she says it like it’s big, but because she says it like it’s already true. like she would’ve fought every monster with her bare hands if she’d known he needed her.

he breathes in slowly, and everything starts to settle. the shadows look softer now. smaller. quieter.

and eventually, with her heartbeat behind him and her arm wrapped around his middle, he falls back asleep.

10 & 15

oscar hates hospitals.

he hates the beeping, the weird smell, the dull grey walls that make it feel like everyone’s holding their breath. he especially hates the food—the tray they gave her yesterday had some green mush on it that looked like it belonged in a science lab, not a lunch.

but he hates seeing her here even more.

she’s in a private room, one with big windows and soft blankets their mum brought from home, but it still feels cold. she’s lying back against her pillows, leg in a cast and propped up, her eyes half-glazed from the pain meds.

she doesn’t smile much these days.

so he comes armed.

he knocks once before coming in, even though she tells him every time that he doesn’t have to. her head turns slowly when he enters, and he sees that flicker in her expression—the one that means she’s trying to look okay even when she’s not.

“hey,” she says softly, voice a little hoarse.

he doesn’t say anything back. just climbs up into the chair next to her bed, backpack thumping onto the floor. he unzips it carefully, glancing toward the hallway like he’s expecting a nurse to barge in and arrest him.

“you didn’t,” she murmurs, already smiling.

he grins and pulls out a crinkly packet of oreos. “of course i did.”

she lets out the tiniest laugh. “you’re gonna get in so much trouble.”

“worth it,” he says, and then pulls out the second thing—a tiny ziplock bag of gummy bears, the good ones, not the off-brand kind.

her eyes go soft. it’s the most he’s seen her smile all week.

“gourmet,” she teases, reaching out with both hands like it’s the most sacred offering.

“only the best,” he says, but his voice drops a little at the end.

she eats slowly, more from the exhaustion than anything else, but he stays quiet while she chews, kicking his heels against the chair legs. he keeps glancing at her cast. it’s so big. it looks heavy. and even though she hasn’t said it out loud, he knows—knows she’s scared. knows something’s different this time.

she finishes her oreo and leans her head back, turning to look at him. “thanks, oz.”

he shrugs, suddenly shy. “s’not a big deal.”

“it is to me.”

her voice wobbles just slightly at the end, and that’s what breaks him.

he scoots the chair closer and leans his head gently on the edge of her bed, near her hand. she brushes her fingers through his hair, soft and rhythmic, and he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask why her eyes are glassy or why her hand trembled when she reached for the snack.

he just stays there.

because she’s always been the strong one—the dancer, the graceful one, the calm in his chaos. and now she needs someone to be that for her.

so he’s going to be. even if it just means sneaking in gummy bears and sitting beside her until she falls asleep again.

when he leaves later, he hides the empty wrappers at the bottom of the bin, like a secret only the two of them will ever know.

THE END :>

[quandledlngle69]

TW; self–choking, mentions of child abuse, false allegations, hurt with comfort, angst at the end.

part I. part II.

kaiser thinks you're weird.

he thinks it's weird how you allow him to go in your fridge anytime he wants. you didn't even reprimand him when you caught him ravaging the fridge in the early morning, when the sun had hardly peeked over the horizon. he had woke you up with all that noise, plus he was scoffing down your food.

yet you didn't yell, you didn't hit him.

you asked in that soft voice of yours, if he was hungry. you gently took the half-eaten ingredient's from his hands and began making him a meal.

it took him a while to bathe. he didn't know how to, but you showed him. he silently sat in the bubble bath as you scrubbed his unruly blonde hair with your vanilla shampoo. he likes the way it smells, he thinks.

you don't kick him away when he has a nightmare and seeks you out.

he wakes up whimpering in the dark, sneaking down the long hall. he sees your form laying in the bed. a huge, slow breathing lump concealed under the covers. he's full of fear that you'll be mad, yet he still quietly climbs in the bed anyway, flinching when you roll over. you don't say anything, lifting up the blanket, and in a miming gesture, encouraging him to come closer. you don't embrace him, he's thankful, instead stiffly curling up around your arm, his cheek pressed to your bicep.

for the first time, he falls asleep without fear.

you got him a new ball, way better then the old dirty one he had, that had been stolen by those older boys. you played with him on the small field behind your apartment complex. he likes it when its just you and him. he thinks your bad at kicking the ball, but he doesn't mind. he doesn't want you to stop passing him the ball. ever.

he learns he really can't tolerate the expression you make when he chokes himself, so he stops. he doesn't know why, but his stomach twists at the distressed look you give every time his hands harshly squeezed his jugular.

he learned to be soft. in two months, you had opened his once hardened shell.

he discovers he enjoys watching action movies on the couch with you, tucked under the crook of your arm; bundled in the chunky wooly blankets you had, eyes droopy, barley awake. he finds he's fond of you reading to him before bed, even if he only understands some of the words you've taught him. he likes how you don't crowd him when he's overwhelmed, instead just sitting in silence with him, letting him know your presence is a safe space. even though you were well aware he was a early teenager, you treated him like the child he never got to be. the adult he was once forced to be long forgotten.

you don't correct him when he lets the word "mom'" unconsciously slip past his lips, calling for you to help him with something.

and he doesn't correct himself either.

but kaiser knows personally, if anything, that misfortune follows people like him where ever they go. that it pounces when you least expect it. it digs into your flesh, latching on tightly, never letting go.

he's being arrested for a crime he didn't commit.

he stands behind you, almost like a child hiding behind their mothers skirt. theres vacant look on his face, completely silent, even as you attempt to proclaim his innocence to the police officers. but honestly, its all just blurred into background noise. he's accepted it already, why can't you? he shouldn't have gotten so close to you, so comfortable–because he loathes this sudden hollowness blooming in his chest at the thought of leaving.

the sounds of handcuffs clicking into place are deafening in the tense silence. its almost casual how he thanks you with the manners you taught him, for letting him stay. he turns his back to you on purpose, as to not witness the tears pricking your eyes, and the building quiver of your bottom lip.

he grits his teeth as you were let off with a warning, told that if they found any more "stray dogs" in your care, you’d be in much, much bigger trouble.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

tag list; @randomhumans-blog

[sknyuz]

garden fairy | y.j.h.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

synopsis ─ a variety show trip to a tiny village school turns unexpectedly sweet when the kids start calling jeonghan a butterfly prince—and you his fairy.

pairing ─ yoon jeonghan x gn!idol!reader

genre ─ fluff. slice of life. secret relationship. idolverse

wc ─ ~700

note: you and jeonghan have been secretly dating for 6 months. also, i tried a cute new format !! lmk what u guys think <3 this is a request from anon. taglist at end.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨˚₊‧꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

you hadn’t been expecting to see him on today’s call sheet.

especially not next to your name in bold letters under the words:

“episode 5 - healing days: idol village edition

garden team – school visit – jeonghan + y/n”

“you two have good chemistry,” the pd had said brightly, way too brightly.

jeonghan had only tilted his head at you, all wide-eyed innocence. “what a coincidence,” he said, already smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

now, two hours later, you’re knee-deep in a school garden that’s somehow both adorable and wildly chaotic, trying to actually do your assigned task—while jeonghan has become the unofficial lettuce whisperer to a group of second graders.

he’s supposed to be weeding. instead, he’s squatting in front of a lettuce patch, holding up leaves like sacred scrolls. “this one looks like a dragon’s wing,” he tells a wide-eyed kid. “see that curve? totally a dragon.”

“what about this one?” another child asks, holding up a rounder one.

jeonghan squints. “hmm… that one’s a turtle shell. or maybe a sleeping cap.” you glance over from the carrot beds, deadpan. “jeonghan.”

“yes, farmer y/n?” he grins, batting his lashes.

“the lettuce won’t harvest itself.”

“neither will my fanbase,” he says, gesturing to the kids now giggling around him. “i’m sowing the seeds of friendship.”

you chuckle despite yourself. it’s impossible not to, even you weren’t safe from his charm. one of the kids suddenly turns to him and blurts, “jeonghan-oppa, you’re so pretty!”

jeonghan gasps like he’s just won an award. “really? thank you!” another girl pipes up. “you look like a butterfly prince!” at this, his hand flies to his chest, gently bowing his head. “i’ll accept this royal title.”

but then the princely man turns to you, mock-offended. “wait—what about our y/n-ssi? don’t you think they’re pretty too?”

the kids peer at you seriously, as if debating a very very serious topic within their little minds.

you smile, brushing dirt off your cheek, but before you can say anything, one girl clasps her hands like she’s made a discovery. “they’re not just pretty—they look like a garden fairy!” the other kids cheer and agree, echoing her words.

jeonghan blinks. “...a fairy?! that’s even better than prince!”

you snort, cheeks warming. “you’re the one comparing lettuce to dragons.”

“fairy magic,” he says solemnly, “is clearly more powerful.”

off to the side, one of the staff members walks by and mutters—just loud enough—“butterfly prince and garden fairy… sounds like a solid we got married pitch.” you and jeonghan both freeze.

then, almost in sync, you slowly turn to look at each other.

he raises a brow, dangerously amused. “should we start calling each other yeobo for authenticity?”

“don’t even joke.”

“too late. it’s canon now.”

you groan, turning back to the carrots, only for a little boy to tug at your sleeve.

“excuse me,” he asks seriously, “are you really married to jeonghan-hyung?”

jeonghan doesn’t even hesitate, eyes lighting up as he humored the little. “what do you think?”

the boy tilts his head. “...yes.”

jeonghan beams, absolutely delighted. “see? even the kids know we’re meant to be.”

you bury your face in your gloves.

and yet…

you glance up a few moments later, just in time to catch jeonghan gently squishing a little girl’s cheeks with both hands, his expression soft and playful as he tells her she’d make a perfect space princess one day.

and something about the image sticks—him crouching in the dirt, the light catching in his hair, kids gathered around him like flower petals. your chest aches a little in that quiet, dangerous way.

you imagine a little girl, smaller than these ones, her hands curled around the fabric of his hoodie, her laugh echoing in a cozy kitchen. jeonghan crouched in front of her to tie her shoes, telling her to protect you while he’s out for schedules. brushing her hair behind her ears and calling her his princess even if she’s got jam on her face.

your future.

your family.

your jeonghan.

you blink the thought away, heart skipping like a pebble across water.

jeonghan glances over. “you good?”

“fine,” you mumble. “just wondering how much lettuce we’d get if you actually worked.”

he snickers, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you—longer than before.

like maybe he’s wondering about the same what if.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu

join here!

[whore4mattsturniolo]

Right My Wrongs - A Dealer!Chris Mini-Series

He thought he was past it. past her. But one glance and everything split open. The anger, the ache, the part of him that still waited for her to explain why she left. And worse, the part of him that would forgive her if she did.

The air of the house was thick and hot, saturated in weed, perfume, and sweat. Music bumped the walls loud enough to go deaf, everything shaking and vibration with the beat. Chris stood at the edge of the room, a drink in his hand, eyes scanning the crowd. He tried to focus. Focus on himself, focus on making his money. The party was loud and suffocating. He took another drink, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb him. 

And then he saw her.

She was standing in the corner of the room, laughing with a group of people, her familiar face like a ghost from his past. She still struts around like the world belongs to her, all gold hoops and red nails and that same smile. His stomach tightened, and for a moment, everything else faded. The laughter, the music, the stifling heat of the room, all of it disappeared. It’s just her and him. Memories flood his head, suffocating and painful, memories that made his throat dry and his chest tight. He didn’t even want to look at her, but his eyes betrayed him. She caught his gaze and, for a brief second, something flicked in her expression. She gave him a soft smile, trying to say something without speaking.

Chris immediately looked away, slamming the rest of his drink back. He turned his back to her, trying to ignore the way his pulse quickens, how his chest grew tight like the weight of all those old memories is crushing him. But it doesn’t stop her.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. He just stares. The world around him goes quiet, the music distorts, faces blur into nothing.

He’s back in his old room, sixteen, still living with his parents. The room is dimly lit, a quiet draft coming through his window. The walls are paper-thin and the air stinks of smoke and the perfume she wore too much of.

She’s on his lap, whispering something in his ear. Something about how he’s too soft, too good, how that’s why she loves him. Her fingers trail down his chest, but her eyes are sharp, almost like she’s searching for weakness. And he ignores it. He looks at her like she’s the only thing that matters to him. Like she’s the love of his life, the only one who understands him.

“You and me,” she mumbles. “Always.” She kisses him before he can get a full word out. She swallows his anxiety, his nervousness, until all he can think of is her.

He never saw her after that. Not when he was getting searched by campus security. Not when he was dragged off campus in handcuffs. She acted like she never even knew him. Like the sweet moments they shared were nothing more than a faded dream. 

Later in the night, as the party died down, she found him again. Alone this time. She walks up to him, hesitant, twiddling her thumbs in anxiety, but clearly determined, as she stumbles over to his corner of the room.

“Chris,” she says softly, and just hearing her voice makes his insides twist. “I…didn’t think you’d be here.”

He doesn’t speak, just lifts his cup to his lips, only to realize it’s empty. He takes a long breath, his grip tightening on the cup in his hand. He could walk away any time he wanted. He could leave, go find another spot, anywhere that she isn’t, but he stays. He’s not sure why.

“You look good,” she murmurs, fiddling with the sleeve of her jacket. “I’ve…been meaning to talk to you.”

“No.” His voice is cold, sharper than it needs to be. He doesn’t want to be around her. He doesn’t want to feel anything when she’s near him. She stands there for a moment, waiting for him to say something more, but he just glares at the floor, his shoulders stiff. The silence stretches, and you can almost see the tension radiating off him. “Don’t lie.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, covering her nervousness at the harshness of his words. He was nothing like the Chris she knew in high school. “I’m not—I’m not lying, Chris.” His name on her tongue is like venom, her voice poisoning him. 

He lets out a bitter, sharp breath that might’ve started as a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It’s jagged, cruel. He’s not some scared, shaky kid anymore, too scared to even smoke a joint. He’s not the kid that stared at her like she walked on water. “Fuck are you even doin’ down here?,” he asks, his tone flat.

“Does it matter?” She says, running her fingers through her silky hair. “I know things between us ended…kinda bad but…I really have been meaning to talk—”

He cuts her off, voice barely containing the anger seeping into his words. “You coulda talked to me when I was getting searched. You coulda talked to me when I was in juvi for a year. You coulda talked to me any time in the past five fucking years.” She flinches at the heat of his words, growing louder with each breath, before he calms himself down. He’s shaking, vulnerability leaking through the tough exterior he’s been keeping up for years now.

She sighs, stepping closer to him, almost in defeat. “I was scared, Chris,” she says, her voice soft. “I didn’t…I didn’t know what was gonna happen.” Chris’ eyes lock on hers, his stare more aggressive than anything he could do to her. 

“No,” he says flatly. “You don’t get to do that. You knew what happened. You watched.” The words spill out before he can stop them. Everything he’s been holding in for years, the anger, the abandonment, the pain. It comes flooding to the surface. His breath quickens. He wants to scream, to run away from everything. But he doesn’t. Instead, he swallows hard and takes another step back.

“I tried—”

“You didn’t try shit.” His voice cracks on the last word. Not from weakness, just the effort it’s taking to hold it together. “When shit got hard, you ran.” Her face crumples for half a second before she catches herself. She takes a step toward him, hand halfway out like she might touch him, and he flinches, recoiling like she was a hot flame grazing his skin.

“I was a kid, Chris. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know how to fix it. None of us did—”

“You didn’t wanna fix it.” His response is immediate, sharp. “I was a kid too.” He swallows hard, his throat tight, constricting his heavy breaths. 

“I—I'm clean now.” She closes the distance, trying again, gently. “I’ve changed,” she whispers. Her face falls slightly, but she presses on, like she’s trying to find the right words, trying to get through to him.

Chris shakes his head, jaw clenched so hard it aches. “You getting clean doesn’t undo what you did.” His expression is unreadable, too still, too empty. The kind of calm that only exists right before something explodes.

“Don’t come near me again. Do what you’ve been doing the past five years…and stay the fuck away from me.”

Her lips part, like she wants to protest. Like she has something left to say, something that’ll convince him to forgive her, forget the past, and come back to her. She looks at him, her face a mixture of guilt and confusion. But Chris doesn’t wait for her response. He turns his back on her and walks away, weaving through the crowd, his heart racing, every step feeling like a weight on his chest. But as he walks, it’s clear that he’s the one who’s not letting go. It’s not about her anymore. It’s about him. About the way she shattered him, and how he’s been trying to put himself back together ever since.

Chris couldn’t get her out of his head. The sound of her voice, the way her eyes softened when she saw him. He was pissed. But above all, he was hurting. He had every right to be. The anger was starting to slip away, the swelling and aching of his heart taking its place. The pain that had been buried for years. The hurt that came from being discarded, being the one everyone turned their back on. Even when he fought for them. It was too much. It always was. Too much, and somehow not enough.

He’d buried the feeling deep down inside him. The rejection, the abandonment. And here it was again. Here she was again. The girl who’d broken him. The girl who made him who he is. He was supposed to be better than this. He was supposed to be tougher. He’d numbed every part of himself with drugs, with sex, with everything. 

He couldn’t let himself break.

The night after was worse. The walls Chris had spent years building were cracking, and it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down. He’d spent hours trying to drink it away, trying to forget it. The weed wasn’t enough this time. He needed more.

You had been texting him, but he ignored every message. He needed the space. Needed to stay frozen. And yet, the longer he stayed away from you, the more the emptiness took over. He couldn’t stay away, but it was all he knew how to do.

The night swallowed Chris whole the second the door shut behind him. He walked fast. No direction, just away. Away from everything. His hoodie was on inside out. He didn’t care.

The streets were damp. His fingers trembled when he pulled out his phone and scrolled past your name. Straight to another one. A plug. Not weed. Something stronger. He needed something stronger.

Maybe to shut his brain off, silence the loud, angry thoughts raging through his head. Maybe to feel nothing for a while. He told himself it was just to take the edge off. He’d sleep. He’d forget. It was better than crying, better than screaming into the dark like a kid, better than being weak. 

The meetup was fast. Impersonal. Like everything else in his life.

Two white pills, swallowed dry. A half bottle of something bitter to chase it. Then…nothing. Numbness. As the wave of euphoric washed over him, pushing him into the soft mattress of his darkened room, he almost felt good. He felt normal. Until he didn’t. The pain still throbbed in his heart, a dullness that didn’t go away, not even when his head started floating.

All he could think about was her.

The flash of familiar eyes across the crowd. Her. Laughing like nothing happened. Wearing the same perfume. Smiling at him like she hadn’t ruined his life and then walked away.

He didn’t say anything to anyone. Just turned and left like a ghost. Told no one. Not even you. What would he even say?

Hey, the girl who ruined my life is back and I think I’m losing my mind?

Fuck no. He’d rather be numb.

He laid on the floor of his apartment now, staring at the ceiling, shirt half off, heartbeat crawling under his skin. He hated this. Hated how empty he felt.

But most of all: he hated how much he couldn't escape it.

[lacedwithsuguru]

❦ pt. three — pt. two here

your olderbrothersbestfriend!sukuna was at a loss for words.

as of this morning, two days after your last interaction in the bar with sukuna, your brother was on a trip for his internship for the week.

as close as sukuna was with him, he had a key to your shared apartment so he could crash whenever he wanted as long as he gave you the heads-up.

a year ago, you hadn’t minded. no—a month ago you hadn’t even cared.

but right now, when he failed to hone the last part of their agreement, you cursed yourself for allowing a man access to a slice of your little world.

you were between laundry loads and an everything shower, realizing you’d left your towel in the washer and walking to grab a spare from your bedroom, naked, when you’d walked into…

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

squealing, you covered all of your special parts before turning on your heel and running into your bedroom.

sukuna was standing in the corridor of your apartment, flowers in hand, wide-eyed, and a bewildered look on his face.

fuck. fuckity fuck fuck.

what was he doing here? in your apartment? knowing damn well he was intruding after destroying whatever sort of respect you had for him?

he wasn’t quite sure either.

he’d spent the last two days in a fit of anger, confusion, guilt—you name it. he knows he fucked things up with you for a second time but all he craved right now was to see that sweet smile of yours.

before the last two weeks occurred, sukuna had simply been your older brothers best friend. he hung around you from time to time, or briefly acknowledged you in passing.

however, without fail, you’d graced him with that soft beam of yours, making it nearly impossible to conceal the twitching tug of the corner of his lip.

all he wanted was to see that sparkle of yours again thanks to his presence. his near seven foot height loomed nervously in the hallway, hearing you mutter curses behind your bedroom door as you shuffled on a change of clothes.

he thought about writing a note while you did so and leaving the flowers but it felt slimey, emasculating, and he wouldn’t even be coming here for what he wanted—that beautiful smile of yours.

rubbing his nape and adjusting his leather jacket, he allowed you the space to step back into the hallway, awkwardly playing with the hem of your shirt as he just saw you in such a vulnerable state.

in all honesty, he hadn’t managed to register anything he saw as he snapped his lids shut once he realized you weren’t clothed.

your cheeks were warm and your heart was racing a million miles an hour as you shut your bedroom door behind you.

“what’re you…?” you questioned, mustering up every ounce of confidence in your body to ensure your nerves wouldn’t betray you.

he shoved his right hand forward, holding a bouquet of blue hyacinths and pink carnations. you’d never pegged him as the symbolic type.

your gaze flickered up to his eyes, an unreadable expression on his face.

a scoff left your lips, planting your hands on your hips as you averted your eyes from his expression and mirth filled you. “you thought a bunch of flowers would fix this?”

dropping his hand, he racked his brain to figure you out. “still mad?”

you let out a bark, nearly startling the beast of a man. “still mad? your reputation precedes you, s’kuna.”

he tossed the flowers lazily on your kitchen island, rubbing his jaw that twitched beneath his finger pads. sukuna was more than aware of the gossip that clouded him—campus fuckboy and certified asshole. but to hear you justify it…?

“look, pea,” he exhaled through his nose. it’s a nickname he coined for you years ago, removing the ‘sweet’ for reasons unbeknownst to you. “would ya let me explain myself?”

an entertained grin covered your face before you waltzed past him slowly, keeping your gaze trained on his eyes as you not-so-subtly bumped into his arm and plopped down on the kitchen island stool, lighting a candle. spinning your chair, you crossed your arms over your chest and nodded. “floors all yours.”

and, of course, sukuna felt his heart race in an unfamiliar manner. god, a woman has never had him in this state before.

“back in the kitchen, i shouldn’t have… it was wrong of me to prey on ya like that.”

your brows shot up in surprise, nails nearly digging into your biceps. “you think that’s what i’m mad about?”

he cocked his head in confusion, shoving his massive hands into his baggy jean pockets to distract him from his racing pulse. “s’ not?”

“do you think for more than five seconds a day, possibly? or was your brain lacking oxygen when you were born?”

you knew it was a cheap shot but his utter impudence for you and ignorance was unmatched.

sukuna bit the inside of his cheek, reminding himself of what he came for as he held back his words.

“i don’t fucking care about what my brother thinks, dissimilar to you. what i’m trying to understand from you,” you said, standing from your chest and lifting a finger to push against his chest that stood well above your head. “is why you’re going to all this fucking trouble for a girl who’s ‘not worth it.’”

despite the hurt that twisted in your chest from the recountance of such a painful memory, a smug and pleased grin made its way to your face as you reveled at his loss for words.

“your words, not mine,” you whispered, narrowed lids up at him. you dropped your hand, stepping back to the island to smell the decadent scent of the candle you just lighted. “mmmm,” you hummed to yourself. “jasmine.”

as he stood behind you, you had no idea the panic that was coursing through sukuna’s veins. had he seriosuly said that? what the absolute fuck was wrong with him?

“pea, i… i ain’t mean it like that…” he trailed off, walking toward your turned back, hands outstretched as he waved them to express his inner turmoil.

“you can see yourself out,” you replied, unimpressed with his lack of apology as you played with the small blaze, fire flickering and dancing in your eyes.

he stood there, mouth agape and heart pounding so painful against his chest, it was definitely bruised, before quietly making his way out.

eyeing the bouquet as the door clicked shut, you coiled your hands around the verdant stems and squinted at the trash can across from you, tossing it and hearing it land in easily.

you sat down on your chair, feeling a bit detached from the entire situation, before blowing the candle out—more than done with it’s job from your perspective.

❦ m.list > pt. four

🏷️: @samoankpoper21

[yoiisa]

𝐁𝐋𝐋𝐊 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

mean! Isagi Yoichi smut, AFAB reader, slight choking, hair pulling, rough sex, degredation!

mmmmm i have such bad mean isagi yoichi brainrot rn i can't even!

normally, isagi is so nice to you. he gives you presents, compliments, kisses, and just about everything you could ever possibly ask for, and you love it! he makes you feel like the most perfect person in the whole world, and you couldn't be happier.

but then you go to his games, and the man you see in the jersey is completely different. he's ruthless, hurling insults at the other players left and right. his eyes have a spark in them that ignites something in you as well. to make everything even more confusing, once the two of you reunite after the game, he's completely fine!

a little while later, the two of you are in your apartment, his head on your lap and you playing with his hair. The TV is showing reruns of the match, and you can't help but say, "I've never seen you that mean before."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," he says a bit bashfully, "I can get a little mean, I guess . . . but not to you though."

" . . . shame. I thought it was kinda hot."

before you know it, your on the two of your's bed, getting pounded into from behind. Isagi has his hand on the back of your head, his hands fisted in your hair. you're drooling into your pillow, muffled moans pouring from your mouth.

"Is this what you wanted, hm?" he growls, his hips snapping into your ass. he revels in the way the flesh bounces and he tosses his head back when you clench particularly tightly around his shaft. A low sound emanates in his chest and he chuckles darkly. "Ohhhh~ you fucking slut. You needed this didn't you?"

"yes 'ichi!" he pulls on your hair, tugging your head up from the pillow. He lowers his whole body against yours, his chest flush against your back. "haaahh~ ahhh~ 'ichi . . . i love it . . . ah- harder!"

"ohhh, my fucking girl," he complies and nibbles at your neck. "you're so dirty, coming to all my games, hearing me shit talk my opponents, and all you could think of was me talking to you like that? you wanna be treated like my little slut?"

You nod, and he releases your hair. That same arm snakes around your neck and puts you in a chokehold. "ahhhh- yoichi! I . . . I . . ."

"i know, i know," he coos, "oh, are you gonna come for me baby?"

"yes!" you gasp.

he pushes himself up and twines his fingers again in your hair. He tilts your head back, staring down at your blown out eyes, open mouth, and flushed face. he leans down to kiss your forehead, pausing his ministrations for a brief moment, before straightening to his full height again and continuing to thrust into you.

the sight that meets your eyes now is tantalizing.

isagi is covered in sweat, his face glowing from the sheen of it. his deep blue eyes hold a firey passion in them, his heady gaze ready to light you on fire at any moment. but the cherry on top of it all is the shit eating grin on his face. it pulls his mouth to the right in a smirk and his teeth are bared as he watches your debauched expression. the sight alone is enough to choke a whimper from you.

"c'mon babygirl," he coos, his thumb brushing your chin. "lemme see it. lemme see you come after finally getting what you've been dreaming of."

"'ichi!"

"Fuck!" he roars, feeling your juices soak him. he ruts his hips into you a few more times, trying to drain everything out of you. "That's it! just like that!"

after a few more pumps, he finally finds his release as well, your name escaping his mouth if a roar.

he collapses again against your back, nuzzling into your shoulder blades. he whispers soft words against your skin, but it's mostly incoherent.

finally, once you've regained your sanity, you turn to him. "You can get really mean, huh?" you tease.

He chuckles and shakes his head, a few drops of sweat falling onto you. "Yeah, was it too much?"

You smile and shake your head. You kiss his cheek and nuzzle into his face. "No, it was perfect."

[k1mbe3rly]

hi dear I hope you’re doing well.

could you please make a sieun x reader where sieun is envious cuz the reader (his gf) is getting too close to suho. thank you!

Jealousy looks good on you

warnings: smut,

Ever since you and suho met each other y’all were quick to become best friends as well, he even taught you a bit of fighting moves and third wheels you and Sieun, but lately it’s like sieun is third wheeling you both, Sieun was quick to notice you and Suho closeness and how quickly y’all connected, he couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous because of it. At first he was gonna ignore but he couldn’t

After having lunch with both of them, Suho had to go to his job leaving you and Sieun alone, you smiled softly wrapping your arm around his arm while walking home, you groaned “Ughhh i’m so full! are you?” you said making a conversation, he looked over at you and just nodded looking foward, you raised an eyebrow “Are you okay Sieun? why the long face?” you said with a cheeky smile pointing his cheek, he gently shoved your hand away, “I’m fine..just thinking.” he said plainly

“About?” you asked him still looking up at him, he hesitated to tell you and just shaked his head, once yall arrived to his place it’s been a tiny bit awkward, still noticing his plain expression, “Are you sure your okay? what’s wrong?” you asked him, he sighed softly, “What’s going on between you and suho..yall been, i don’t know hanging out a lot?” he simply asked, you raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean? we’re just good friends” you told him, “You sure about that?” he said with no hesitation, than realization hit you, he was jealous as you smirked a bit, “Why? jealous Sieun?” you teased

He just stared at him his back against the headboard, you crawled on his lap, “You have no reason to be jealousss, i’ve never seen you jealous, it’s look good on you..” you whispered to him, he got a bit flustered, “Seriously tho. What’s going on?” he asked again, “Nothing, i swear, i’ll distant myself for you baby” you said kissing his cheek

He hummed a bit, you than kissed him which he kissed you back, his hands slightly going to your hips, you slightly pushed your tongue in his mouth which made him grunt in surprise, but he went along with it, your tongue on his dancing around it, finally pulling back you took off your own shirt, his eyes soften at your body admiring it, your hand took his off which he didn’t resist, “I’ll make sure you never feel jealous again okay..?” you told him as he just nodded feeling excited

His hands exploring your body, he then unhooks your bra letting your bra fall off. You lifted up a bit to slide down your pants as he watches, his breath going heavy a bit as he realizes he should undress too quickly fumbling with his pants and pulling them down as well, he waited until he saw you take off your panties to take his boxers off, which was right after your pants were off

He quickly removes his boxers, positioning you directly above his cock, he slowly lowers you down onto his length, filling you completely with one smooth thrust, you moaned softly, as he let out a tiny noise at the sudden hot and tight feeling, as you begin slowly riding him, his hands begin roaming over your stomach and chest possessively, slowly guiding you as well, his cock hitting all the right spots nice and slowly, soft moans falling out your mouth, while riding him you kissed all over his face making sure he feels completely loved and that nothing is happening

You slowly picked up the pace, his eyes closing and his mouth opening slightly, enjoying the feeling of you doing all the work, “I’ll make sure you feel good okay? you just sit there” you whispered to him as he just nodded, he was practically hugging you, his arms around your waist and your chest on his chest, his face in your neck moaning softly, as you pick up the pace again, his whines become more frequent. He loves how you're treating him so gently

You paused for a moment steadying him, wanting him to be able to cum, you slowly bounced on him, second by second going faster, he moaned out feeling your ass crash down onto his hips as you kept going faster, he watches your boobs bounce with your movements, he tilts his head back, a loud moan escaping his lips as you bounce faster on him. His fingers clutch desperately at your thighs, his nails leaving marks. His hands move up to your bouncing hips, trying to slow you down but your relentless pace makes his arms weak, “Just wanna make you cum..” you moaned to him as he nodded feeling his orgasm build up

You started moaning as well feeling your orgasm build as well, his hands move to the bed sheets quickly clawing at the bed sheets, “Oh my-.. i’m gonna- i’m gonna cum!” he whimpered out, you tried to speed up as you suddenly came on him, your cum making a mess on his cock as he looked down biting his lip, watching as his length disappears in and out, he moans loudly as he also cums, you panted stopping

Both of yall taking a breath as you fell onto him hugging him slightly, “Feeling better..?” you asked him, he nodded as a small smile formed on his face being glad to have you with him.

[zorosangell]

Imagine Katakuri sitting still while his daughters cover him in glitter, nail polish, and hair clips 🎀 Just imagine him having a sweet little bonding moment with his girls

⛥ﾟ・。 fairytale

SECRET BONUS/prequel to pocus -- katakuri is busy playing tea party with his daughters when his two sons attempt to party crash—with a twist. luckily, sir dad is here to save the day.

cw: fluff, comfort, dad katakuri, katakuri is katakuri, the girls are adorable, he is thirty-five, you are thirty-four, soda is eleven, cocoa is eight, the twins are four, chai is two,

"So, tell me, Sir Dad, how goes your work in the Lollipop Court?" Cocoa asked in a British accent, tipping her nose in the air. "I heard you're working on a tough case."

Your large, floppy sun hat—which was entirely too big—sat slightly crooked on her head, shading her face as she took a sip out of her empty, plastic tea cup.

Unsure of what to say, Katakuri hesitated a moment, quickly wracking his brain for something.

He had no idea he worked in the Lollipop Court, much less was currently on a case.

Hell, he didn't even know how Cocoa knew what a court case was.

"It goes... well..." he answered, unsure, as he raised a brow, his two, large fingers completely dwarfing the tiny teacup in their grasp.

"Daddy!" Latte loudly whispered, stealing his attention as she leaned over from her seat next to him, shielding her mouth from her older sister. "You gotta stick your pinky out! S'the tea party rules!"

Glancing down at his hand, he quickly corrected himself, before turning back to her.

"My mistake."

Promptly, Cocoa nodded, before turning to her younger sister.

"Lady Latte, how goes your fashion business?" she asked, fake eating a toy scone. "I must say, I loved your fashion show."

"It goes soooo good!" Latte grinned, her accent coming off more Valley Girl than British. "I just got finished making a new skirt! Look!"

She motioned toward her father, who was sitting in a chair entirely too small for him, his leather-clad knees pressed firmly against his bare chest.

Around his large waist sat an equally large, sparkly, pink tutu, which the young girl had actually managed to sew herself—with your assistance, of course.

"His hair! I did Sir Dad's hair!" Frappe chimed in, excitedly, pointing toward his spiky, pink hair, which was now haphazardly filled with all sorts of flowery clips and blows.

Proudly, Cocoa nodded, taking another "sip" of her tea.

"And, of course, I did a splendid job on his makeup."

Together, the girls' gazes shifted toward his face, where his cheeks were adorned with large, circular blotches of blush and matching pink eye shadow.

His usual neutral expression made him look like he'd rather be anywhere but there, but the girls knew their father and knew that wasn't what he meant by it at all.

"Fantastic jobs, everybody! Let's toast!" Cocoa cheered.

"Yeah!" Frappe and Latte agreed, raising their cups in the air.

But, for a moment, the girls paused, quickly realizing that none of them knew how to actually toast.

"Uhhh... nice work?" Cocoa suggested, unsure.

"Yeah, nice work!" the twins played along.

The four of them happily clinked their glasses together—Katakuri included—promptly taking a large sip.

Expectantly, Latte watched as her father downed his tea, waiting for his commentary.

"Whaddya think, Daddy? Do ya like it?" she whispered, excited. "I made it myself!"

Nodding, he leaned over, giving her soft head pats.

"It's delicious, munchkin," he complimented, heart warming when her eyes turned starry. "You did a very good job."

Cocoa and Frappe hummed in agreement, each pretending to take a bite out of a toy cucumber sandwich.

"I—"

Instantly, Katakuri's haki kicked in, showing him a rather tumultuous future.

'Oh, no.'

"RAH!" Soda exclaimed, bursting into the girls' room with a flourish, beginning the assault on his sisters with his two water guns. "TIME TO CRASH!"

"EEEEEEK!" the girls squealed, putting up their hands in defense as their older brother began to soak them.

Glancing around the room, the boy's eyes went wide when they set sights on his father, all princess-ified.

"Jeez! What the hell did you guys do to Dad?!" he grimaced, genuinely concerned.

"Hey! Sir Dad looks great!" Latte defended with a pout.

"Soda! Cut it out! You're ruining our tea party!" Cocoa whined, brows furrowed as she glared at him.

"And my hair!" Frappe chimed.

"And my dresses!" Latte added.

"Pssh! You call this a party?" he scoffed, a devilish grin curling on his lips. "What kinda crummy party has you sit down the whole time?"

"A tea party!" they all shouted together. "And we're not gonna let you ruin ours!"

With a knowing smirk, Cocoa turned to her younger sisters.

"Girls! Code Tea Cake!" she called out.

Confused, Katakuri raised a brow, crossing his arms over his chest.

'Code... Tea Cake?'

"Yeah!" the twins exclaimed, promptly flipping over the table as a shield and snatching up their own personalized BB guns from the underside.

"Let's go! Return fire!"

Without hesitation, each of the them began shooting back at their brother, raining a hail of BB pellets in an attempt to ward him off.

"ACK! HEY, NO FAIR!" he exclaimed, ducking behind a huge stuffed bear. "I'M USING WATER! YOU GUYS ARE USING BULLETS!"

"This is what you get for wetting my dress, ya big jerk!" Frappe called, not letting up.

"Get from behind, Mr. Fuzzykins, you coward!" Cocoa barked. "Don't take him down with you!"

Katakuri watched with a certain pang of pride—and a bit of amusement—as his girls defended themselves quite well, having each other's backs without question, and not running off crying like most girls their age would.

They were prepared for an assault—with both formation and weapons—and fearless in their resolve.

It made him hopeful for the strong, independent women they would grow up to be, all thanks to yours and his tutelage.

"ABORT! ABORT! PHASE ONE IS A FAILURE! TIME FOR PHASE TWO!" Soda shouted into his toy walkie-talkie. "CHAI, YOU'RE UP! BRING IN THE SECRET WEAPON!"

Confused, the girls turned to each other, raising a brow.

"Secret weapon?"

Together, they all watched with anticipation as small footsteps began to pad toward the door, before their youngest brother popped out from behind it.

"Weapon!" Chai giggled, toddling into the room as he held the handle of a jump rope, the other end of it seeming to be attached to something.

Katakuri's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'What the—?'

"Someone help me!" you cried—for pretend, of course—as your youngest son "dragged" you into the room. "I've been captured!"

You were tied up by the rest of the rope, clad in a regal play-gown and toy crown.

"Oh, no! They got Queen Mommy!" the girls exclaimed, their smiles and giggles quite the contrast from their tone.

Play time was getting good.

At the sight, Katakuri let out a small chuckle, brow raising with intrigue.

Sure, he was nothing but a lowly worker in the Lollipop Court, but he had to say... the queen was quite the looker.

"Hold your fire!" Cocoa ordered, pushing down her sister's guns. "We gotta break her free!"

"But Soda's gonna spray us again!" Frappe glared, blowing raspberry at her brother as he peeked from behind the bear, dragging down his eyelid and sticking out his tongue.

"Sir Daddy! You have to save Queen Mommy!" Latte ran up to her father, frantically tugging at his tutu as she giggled. "Hurry!"

Raising a brow, he fought off a smirk, carefully placing his teacup on the ground.

"I thought I was a lawyer in the Lollipop Court?" he asked, feigning confusion.

"Yeah, well, you're a knight, too! Sir Daddy, remember?" she clarified.

"Ohhh, I see," he nodded, slowly standing from his seat. "Then let me get to work."

Quickly, he pulled off his tutu, wiping off the makeup on the back of his arm before shaking out the clips in his hair, returning to his usual, imposing self.

"Hey, no fair! You guys have Dad on your side!" Soda complained, brows furrowed.

"Sucks to suck, ya big jerk!" Cocoa taunted, amused.

"Quick! Chai! Knock her out and retreat!" Soda ordered, getting ready to run away.

Slowly, the toddler turned to his mother, balling up his tiny fist before softly tapping it against her leg.

"Out!" he babbled with a grin.

At his touch, you pretended to flinch, slowly falling backwards.

"Oh, no! I'm hit!"

"Save her, Daddy!" the girls squealed, happily, as they hugged each other.

"RUN, CHAI!"

In an instant, Katakuri was already there, capturing Soda and Chai before swooping in to catch you, bridal-style.

"Yay! He did it!" the girls cheered, jumping up and down.

"Dang it! That's is cheating!" Soda exclaimed, struggling against the jump rope he and Chai were tied up in.

"Yay! Dada!" the smaller boy cheered along.

"No, Chai... no yay."

"Wait! It looks like she's asleep!" Cocoa called out, realizing you had yet to "wake up".

"Oh, no! She's in a deep sleep!" Frappe snickered, turning to her twin. "You know what that means..."

"True love's kiss!" Latte squealed, clasping her hands together. "Sir Daddy! You have to break the spell!"

Disgusted, Soda's eyes bulged out his sockets, as if the idea was utterly absurd.

"No way! Gross!" he scoffed. "Don't do that here!"

Carefully, Katakuri cradled your neck, slightly lifting your head as he examined your face.

You were his queen, his personal princess just waiting to be saved.

Did he dare live out the cliche?

Thinking back on the fairy tales he read as a boy, he'd be a liar if he said he didn't think about being the handsome prince at least once.

But now, he truly was; and you were his fair maiden.

So, yes, he did dare.

Leaning down, he carefully pressed his lips against yours, wary of his sharp teeth at the odd angle as his grip on you shifted to one that held you like a dip.

You were warm and soft, and a sensation he'd missed in the past few hours of playtime.

"Awww!" the girls sighed, dreamily. "How romantic!"

"Barf!" Soda gagged, severely grossed out. "Cut it out! I don't need to see that!"

"Barf!" Chai mimicked, honestly unaware of what was going on.

"Hey, don't be a jerk, you two!" Cocoa scolded, brows furrowed as she rested her hands on her hips.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, greeted by the sight of your handsome husband.

You had been saved, and—as per usual—it was by the man you cherished so dearly.

"My, my, Sir Dad... what handsome teeth you have," you teased, arms wrapping around his neck

He let out a faint chuckle, amused, before deciding to play along.

Discreetly, his hand trailed upward to hold your thigh, his other sliding over to grasp the small of your back as he leaned down to whisper in your ear, making sure he was out of earshot of the kids.

"All the better to eat you with, my dear."

[mintmatcha]

Even with the warming spells, the cold breeze off of the Northern Sea rips through your cloaks. Snow has already melted through your pants, shivering your skin and sapping away your body heat. It's a full days walk to the nearest port, then a ferry ride back to the mainland. In three days, you'll be out of his hair forever and he can move on, live a happier life than you could even provide.

The salt air burns your cheeks.

That is, if you can even make it there. You might die on the way. You don't know if that's a bad thing; not when the pain you carry is so heavy. Maybe it would be easier to just lay down and succumb.

Obsidian had said that you would break his heart one day, but it turns out that the opposite was true. His silver tongue bewitched you and you had lost track of the truth: men would always hurt you, always-

Your name is carried on the wind.

Obsidian. When you turn, he's running, barreling towards you with all the might his body can muster. Snow is caught on his shoulders and stuck to his coat, building as he rushes down the path.

There's no reason for you to run towards him. Your decision has been made, your die has been cast. This man has broken your heart beyond repair.

And yet.

Your legs move on their own. Just as you always do, you run towards him. When you meet, almost colliding with force, he takes you by the forearm and pulls you in close, arm wrapped around your shoulders.

"You're so cold." His voice is haggard, not entirely from panting. "I thought-- you're so cold."

You can feel his heart pounding under his skin, racing faster and faster. His body jerks with each breath and you suddenly realize he's on the brink of crying, sucking in air to hold back tears.

"Why did you follow me?" you ask. The real question you want to ask is why is he crying, but you bite it back, afraid of the answer.

"Why did I--? I would follow you to hell and back. I would swim oceans to find you." He drops to his knees, sinking with the snow, clutching at your legs with a fervent need, as if you'll slip away once again. "Every step I've ever taken was bringing me to you."

His frame is so big that when he looks up, his head rests against your torso. Those bright green eyes stare up at you, the whites red stained and glossed with tears. the ones that have escaped have frozen to his face, sculptures to his misery.

"Why did you go?"

The tears you had swallowed escape all at once. You sob, body heaving and shaking even as you cover your mouth.

"Obi..." you mourn as you wipe away his frozen tears. "I need to go. I'm not right for you."

He squeezes you tighter, gathering your coat in his hands.

"I don't belong there, Obi." You stroke the crest of his head, trying to engrain every ridge into your memory. "I know your mother wants-"

"I do not give an everloving fuck what my mother wants." Obsidian spits out the curse. It shocks you a bit. "I want you. I want you. I want you."

He kneels for you like it's worship, like he's praying for something he cannot have. It's mournful, hopeful, pained and healing. His expression is soft, even as his tears continue to roll.

"I want you."

Love is cruel, you decide. Vicious and cruel. The two of you cry together, frozen in place by the cold.

"Sorghum told me about the other girl," you say.l once you gather yourself. "The one you're going to marry."

Obsidian shakes his head together. "Other women don't exist to me -"

"The one your mother chose. The white-"

"Bubble?!" // He is so aghast the it makes you laugh through your tears.

"Sorghum translated your conversation." Laughter has freed more tears. "She said Umi matched you two-"

"She clearly did not translate well!" He swallows down his anger, over and over again. "Bubble and I were matched together, yes-"

You try to pull away, but he grips tighter, another plead. His manicured claws don't hurt when they dig into your skin.

"When we were children," he stresses. "I rejected the offer years ago-- before I ever left for school. My mother just wanted me to visit an old friend before we left."

The statement sits with you for a long moment. The bitter night has left both of you quaking and wet, shivering into each other's heat.

"But, Sorghum said-"

"Sorghum is a horrible, bitter woman who is caught in her own misery," Obi says. "I told my Umi under no certain terms that you are the love of my life."

He releases you to sit back on his heels, fishing into his pocket. From his pocket, he produces a familiar item- your abandoned earring. He holds it out with reverence, like it's a precious jewel.

"A direct translation would be that I have placed my heart in a silver dish for you to dine on," Obsidian says. "I am yours."

You uncurl your hand. The other earring had been gripped so hard that its edges cut into your palm. A perfect, heartbroken set.

"Loving me means we can't stay here. You'd be losing your culture," you whisper, barely audible over the howl of the wind.

"I don't want to stay here!" Obsidian gestures to the world around you. The ice barren cliffs, the white capped sea, the dot of a town behind you. It's lifeless, frozen and snowbound. Obi had always preferred the warmth, sun to bask in, warm waters for swimming. It had never occurred to you why he had ventured off, why he had chosen the life of a traveler when his family was waiting.

"I adore my family, but they do not control my life. They do not dictate my happiness. I left to explore the world to become my own self, to choose my own life." He stands finally to brush the hair back from your face. It's frozen in tendrils to your forehead. "And I choose you with every bit and fiber of my being."

He takes his earring and loops it into its place. His hand stays extended expectantly, waiting for your half of the set.

"I should have told you about Bubble, but I knew you were feeling othered. I didn't want to make it worse."

"I will always be a human." You place the earring into his palm. You look at him, truly look, drink in every curve of his face, every scale and horn and tooth. It's yours, all of him is yours and yours alone. "Loving me will never be easy."

He loops your other earring in for you. "It's always been easy to me."

Suddenly. you press on to your toes and press your forehead against his.

"Come home with me." Obi whispers. He holds you again, softer this time, now that he knows you won't slip away. "Let me warm you tonight."

This time, it's you who holds tight. "Keep me warm for the rest of our lives."