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ceilidho · 6 months ago

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 6; ghoap x reader) masterlist

Johnny cleans up the lamp in the morning.

He might as well, being on second watch and all. Ghost wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn with a gentle kick to the ribs (gentle for him) before rolling over on the couch and going right to sleep. It’s routine for them to fall into sleep like rocks sinking in water, but the waking up is never quite as graceful. Johnny snorts awake and whips his head around sharply from side to side before confirming that he’s just in his girlfriend’s apartment and the asshole that woke him up is just his ornery lieutenant.

“I better not hear any fuckin’ jabber,” is all Ghost says before closing his eyes. Johnny chews his lip to keep the grin off of his face.

He tries to keep it down after that. For the first couple of hours, he sits up against the wall and scrolls on his phone. That keeps him occupied until any lingering exhaustion is flushed from his veins.

There’s a broom and dustpan in a small closet in the kitchen where his girl also keeps the garbage bags and compost bin that he uses to sweep up the mess, and he tries to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up. The glass makes a tinkling sound as it’s swept up though, just loud enough that it inevitably wakes his girl up.

She comes creeping out of her room late into the morning, the shop not due to open for another hour or two. The late weekend opening hours mean she usually gets to sleep in.

Weeks back, it used to be something that Johnny got to do with her as well, cuddled until she’d suddenly pull away, then waking up to her swallowing his cock, peeking under the bedsheets to find her pretty head bobbing up and down his length. Groaning and palming her head to press her lips down to the base, eyes rolling back at the sound of her gagging around his length, the base of his dick a mess of come and drool.

In the present day though, she clears her throat. Johnny blinks and refocuses on her.

Her eyes flit to Ghost’s still form on the couch and when they dart back to Johnny, he raises a finger to his lips. Let the man rest. It’s the least Johnny can do for him after he dragged him back to his girl’s place to make amends. She hazards another cautious glance at Ghost—his lieutenant lies still as a statue on the couch, motionless like he isn’t even breathing—before pursing her lips, displeased.

In the light of day, his previous anger feels cleansed. He understands now. They’ve gone about this all wrong, topsy-turvy. He’s been chasing his own tail and making a mess of things for far too long now, but Ghost’s voice is clear in his head now. It settles him.

So when his girl goes to open her mouth, maybe thinking that she can whisper softly enough so as not to wake Ghost up, he steps forward quickly and covers her mouth.

She squawks behind his hand. Again, he shakes his head. Any sound would be too loud for the man slumbering on her couch.

Johnny can feel her swallow behind his palm and it almost makes him salivate. His fingers twitch on her cheeks like he might press them into the soft skin and make her lips pout.

“Not here,” he murmurs, almost mouthing the words.

He waits until she nods before removing his hand. Then he leaves to go dump the dustpan filled with glass into the trash.

She corners him in the bathroom after that and it’s all he can do not to come in his pants. It’s not his fault he’s been trigger happy since Ghost tugged them off on the sparring mats and came on his stomach; he’s been pent up since the last time he saw her. There’s still flakes of dried come on his belly. He only half resists lifting his shirt to look. If his girl knew, she’d be mortified.

He wonders if she’d be more upset that he let Ghost beat off on him or that he didn’t clean up his mess.

Johnny lets the bird guide him to the toilet, letting her shove him down onto the lid.

“Ah, hen, ye really wanna do this now?” he teases, spreading his legs and wrapping his hands around her waist to reel her in, slipping up her shirt at the same time.

He almost moans when she slaps him across the face, biting his lip when she gasps right after, surprised at her own actions. “Oh—fuck—I’m so sorry—”

He clicks his tongue, lips curling up into an impish grin. “Dinnae worry, baby. ‘M tougher than I look.”

It’s a small mercy that she’s too agitated to really look him over because if she were to direct her gaze even slightly south, she’d find Johnny’s shaft straining against his fly, hard enough to pound nails the second her hand touched his face. He swallows a groan and his fingers tighten, sinking deeper into her flesh.

“I didn’t mean to��Jesus, it doesn’t matter.” He loves that when she gets frustrated, her bottom lip juts out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into it. “When your…boss or whatever…wakes up, can you please take him and leave?”

“Leave?” Johnny repeats, blinking up at her innocently.

“Yes. Leave,” she says, stressing the word. He hums and strokes his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach, pleased that she hasn’t yet told him to take his hands off her. Sweet little bird. “We kissed and made up. That’s what you came for, right? So the two of you can get going once he wakes up.”

“No breakfast?”

She looks distinctly unimpressed. “There’s a coffee shop down the block.”

“Aye, I ken, baby,” Johnny croons, pulling her in closer, smiling when she squeaks and braces her hands on his shoulders, his face almost cradled between her breasts. He turns his head to kiss one, mouth lingering over the cotton of her shirt, tempted almost to bite and rip it. “It’s jus’ that…seems an awful like the second Simon and I take off, you’re jus’ gonna go right back to cold shouldering me. Sure you’re nae jus’ putting on a little show for me now?”

Her fingers grip him by the fabric of his shirt. “Johnny—” She yelps when he bites the inside of her breast, snarling when she tries to pull away. “Okay, okay, okay, I got it—”

“That’s right,” he says with a content sigh, pulling back just the slightest bit. “You��re nae going anywhere. Not until we’ve talked this out, nice and civil.”

When she stares down at him, wide-eyed, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, it’s a rush like he’s never experienced. He feels right in the flow of things now, his head on straight for once.

“What’s there to talk about?” she mumbles, and he almost melts. “I’m not mad anymore.”

“Nae mad? Then why’re ye trying to kick us out?”

“Because I’m busy, Johnny,” she snaps. “The shop’s opening in an hour and I don’t have time to babysit the two of you.”

“Ye willnae even notice we’re here, hen, I promise. Fuck, I’ll even help ye out—make some deliveries, go shake anyone down that still owes ye—”

“I don’t shake down my customers, Johnny—”

“Whatever ye need, baby.” He drags his palms up her sides, pulling up her shirt with his hands. Her tits pop out like ripe fruit dangling in front of his mouth, puffy nipples begging to be sucked on. “Simon and I will be right here. Ye can use us however ye want.”

He stares at her nipple while saying that, unconsciously leaning forward until his lips graze her skin and his tongue pokes out. She doesn’t budge, just curses under her breath and lets him rub his tongue over her beaded nipple, shaking in his hold. Johnny bets if he pulled down those little sleep shorts of hers, he’d find a wet little cunt begging for a fat cock to fill her up.

It’d take nothing for him to pull them down and give her what she’s asking for. The love of his life is tucked away beneath a layer of flimsy cotton and begging for him to give her some love and affection. Johnny hasn’t kissed her in God knows how long—a week? Two? He’d probably find her swollen and aching beneath her shorts; could get her to come just by dragging two fingers up the seam of her.

He knows what Ghost would say though, so he drags his teeth over her nipple just for the pleasure of feeling her flinch and then pulls back. The bird blinks down at him with hazy eyes when he helps readjust her shirt, pulling it back down to cover her gorgeous tits, a damp spot on her shirt over the nipple he just had in his mouth.

“We’re not going to…?” she asks, letting the question dangle in midair. She says it without thinking—clearly, because the second it dawns on her that she just asked if they were going to fuck in the bathroom with Johnny sitting on the toilet, she looks horrified with herself. It’s beyond endearing.

“No’ with Simon in the other room, baby. Wouldnae be fair for him to have to listen in.”

He doesn’t tell her that fairness in this case doesn’t mean cruel. It means that it wouldn’t be possible.

Still, he needs to shoo her out of the bathroom to tug one out into the toilet bowl. Johnny would be half tempted to jerk off onto her mirror just to leave his mark where she could see, but he has some manners.

He gives himself a nice, leisurely tug with the help of his girl’s expensive hand lotion. It’s not as viscous as the lube in the gallon tub on his nightstand back at the barracks, but it’s a good substitute; makes his hand glide nicely over his shaft. If he closes his eyes, it even smells like her, like it’s his girl giving him a morning reach around, and part of Johnny wonders whether he was too quick to kick her out of the bathroom. Ghost wouldn’t begrudge him a quick and dirty jerk.

The thought dissolves the longer his hand flies over his dick though. Hard to think about anything outside the present moment when his hand is braced against the wall and his orgasm barrelling towards him. When he comes, it’s with a deep, shuddering grunt, not even bothering to muffle the sound. He hopes his girl hears him from the other room. He hopes it makes her squirm and ache.

When he comes out of the bathroom, another voice takes him by surprise.

“Johnny. You’re on breakfast.”

Ghost’s voice is gruff in the early morning hours, abrupt. Rarely could it be classified as gentle, but it’s like chert rattling in a leather bag after hours of disuse. Especially since it comes out of nowhere, the man asleep one moment and awake the next. Johnny’s worked with him long enough to not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice, but his girl hasn’t; she yelps when his voice comes unbidden from the couch, big body suddenly upright like he’s been awake the whole time.

He’s no cook, but Johnny can rustle up eggs and bacon like any other self-respecting serviceman. On deployment, they used to rotate cooking duty every night, no one skilled enough to take over the post permanently. Still, Johnny eyes Ghost worriedly when he takes a seat across from the bird at her little kitchen table. It’s not a table meant for two grown men, just a small wooden thing with four chairs, only enough for one on each side. It means that Ghost’s knees knock against hers when he takes the chair across from her, forcing her to curl up into herself, tucking her legs under the chair.

He stares her down. Menacing eyes. Not the kind of man you want sitting across from you, no matter the circumstances. It makes Johnny anxious to turn his back on them when he has to crack the eggs into the pan, checking over his shoulder religiously. The whites go crispy at the edges before he remembers to flip them over.

“You work downstairs in the flower shop,” Ghost says bluntly, breaking the silence. His first words to Bird all morning. Not a question.

“…Yes,” Bird answers gingerly. Her palms are clamped over her knees, sweating likely. “I own it.”

“Since when?” He doesn’t blink before firing off another question.

“Um…two years.”

“Where’d you work before?”

“In…in London. I was a shopgirl there though—”

“Where’s your family from then?”

It goes on that way for a time, an interrogation with no rhyme or reason. Even Johnny has to wonder at Ghost’s intentions—knows that there’s no shot that Ghost hasn’t already done a background check on her. Why interrogate the bird then? Why rattle off question after question in such quick succession? Why make her tremble and look down at the tabletop and stutter out her answers and fidget under his stare—

He notices Ghost’s hand slip beneath the table to grip his length, spreading his legs to help readjust.

Ah. Mean bastard. Of course he’d get off on making her squirm.

The bacon burns. Johnny can’t help it. He listens attentively to her clear voice—softer in the morning hours, still sleep-laden and flowery—whispering out her life’s story, dick getting hard behind the kitchen island. He bites his lip to hold back a moan when she trips over her words. Thrusts forward to rub his bulge against the underside of the island when she chews on her lip, relieving some of the pressure. It drives him mad that there’s a wet cunt going unsatisfied just a few feet away.

Ghost shoots him a sharp look as if he can hear his thoughts. “Johnny.”

He turns around to flip the burner off.

#there are like 2 more parts to come btw - it's not done yet. im just doing 2k chunks #ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/soap/reader #soap x reader #soap x you #soap/reader

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pupkashi · 5 months ago

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satoru loves you & he’s tired of being your friend

a/n: loosely inspired by taehyungs song fri(end)s i hope u guys like pls lmk what yall think plsplsplspls

word count - 1,764

masterlist

the only light illuminating your living room was from your tv as it played your favorite comfort movie, one you’d seen countless times before. the familiarity of it had you dozing off on your couch, in and out of sleep as you lost the battle with your heavy eyelids.

there’s a soft knock on your door that has you jumping out of your skin, heart racing loudly in your ears. you pause the movie, wondering if maybe you’d hallucinated it and it truly was time for you to go to bed.

knock, knock, knock

your palms are sweaty, checking your phone before standing up. there’d been no missed texts or calls from anyone you knew, who the fuck knocks on a door at 3:24 in the morning?

you grab the baseball bat by the door, peeking through the peephole and being met with tousled white locks. a color of hair you’d be able to spot a mile away, one you’d grown to care for.

“what are you doing at my door at four in the fucking morning?” you whisper-yelled, setting the bat down and opening the door wider to let the man in. he gives you a small smile, one hand pushing his hair back and out of his face and the other holding his side.

“sorry sweet cheeks, didn’t wanna go home just yet” he mumbles, stepping in and standing by the doorway, waiting for your instruction.

“d’you get hurt? are you bleeding?” the annoyance in your voice is gone, and it makes satoru relax. he gives you a small nod, shrugging his shoulders and trying to play it off.

“nothing that won’t be healed by mornin’” you roll your eyes at him, muttering a small ‘come on’ and walking to the bathroom down the hall. “i miss you y’know” satoru says softly, watching as you searched for the first aid kit under the sink, grabbing the box and making him sit on the toilet lid.

“did you really?” you scoff, not meeting his gaze as you grab a soft rag, running it under warm water. satoru furrows his brows, confused as to why you think he wouldn’t have missed you.

“‘course i did,” he replies, opening his mouth to continue but closing it quickly when you turn to face him.

“can i take your blindfold off” you ask, your hands fiddling with the damp rag before setting it down when he nods ‘yes.’ you find the small knot hiding in his hair, gently undoing it.

the black blindfold loosen instantly, and you’re quick to gently take it off his head, setting it on the counter. his hair flops onto his forehead, falling almost perfectly to frame his face. despite the countless times you’d seen his eyes, your breath still hitched in your throat when you looked into them.

you try not to stare too long, brushing his hair out of his face and cleaning the dried blood on his face. satoru doesn’t take his eyes off you, eyes tracing your every feature. his gaze is one you always faltered under, growing nervous when he’d stare at you for too long.

“what” you ask, a small nervous smile forming on your face. satoru shakes his head, a small upside down smile on his face as you wipe the cut on his cheeks with an alcohol wipe.

“you’re just real pretty” he says, watching as you bite your bottom lip, surely trying to stop the smile fighting its way into your face.

“is you side hurt too?” you motion to where his hand is covering, trying to brush past the compliment he’d given you.

“healed it up a good amount while you were cleaning me up” he shrugs, lifting his shirt and showing you the brand new scar, “I’m not completely helpless.”

“no you’re the strongest” you tease, throwing away the used items and washing your hands. “did you wanna shower? you look like you could use it” satoru pouts at your words.

“don’t have to be so mean about it” you laugh softly, drying your hands before you’re standing in front of him again. you let your hands brush through his hair, exposing his forehead before you press a kiss to the skin.

“sorry angel, you’re the one who woke me up” satoru lets his eyes close softly, heart sinking a bit when you pull away from him.

“I’ve got some clothes you’ve left over so I’ll leave ‘em on the counter” you smile, closing the door behind you and sighing softly.

how’d you get to this point? how’re you stuck between friends and something more?

friends don’t feel the way you do about satoru. friends don’t place feathery kisses on their friends scars. friends don’t act the way you two act.

satoru steps out of the shower, smiling when he realizes his clothes smell like you. his heart leaps when he exits the restroom, finding you still awake and waiting for him on the couch.

“waiting for someone?” his voice makes you jump a bit, shaking you head and watching as he sits next to you. “did you have plans for tomorrow?” he questions, watching as you send a text.

“told them something came up,” you shrug, “figured you need me more.”

the words tugged on satoru’s heartstrings. there was a never night you hadn’t been there when he needed you. you’d been there for him since the day you’d met him, there to comfort him and ease his racing mind. you were there to calm him from panic attacks and frustrations, help him through grief and stress. everything.

you were a great friend.

he hated that word. you weren’t his friend, you were something more. he knew how he felt about you, he had an inkling feeling you felt the same. so what’s stopping him?

satoru shakes the question out of his head, focusing instead on the tv. the end credits are rolling but you’re not looking away, eyes unfocused and your mind elsewhere.

“should we go to sleep?” satoru whispers, a feathery touch to snap you back to reality. you nod with a small smile, the two of you making the familiar walk to your bedroom, satoru turning off any lights and closing the bedroom door behind him before slipping in next to you.

you’d always liked having your head on his chest, you were able to hear his heartbeat this way. the rhythmic pitter-patter never failed to make you smile or help you relax. it also gave away anytime he was nervous.

“your hearts beating real fast” you state, not looking up, instead continuing to draw circles in the palm of his hand. “what are you thinking about?”

there’s too many thoughts in satoru’s head, so many that he can’t begin to process a single one of them. so instead he blurts out what had been on his mind all night.

“i love you.”

you never thought people were telling the truth about time stopping when something like this happened. you’d always figured they romanticized their life a little too much.

but you felt time stop.

your fingers faltered and you felt your breathing hitch in your throat. your stomach erupted in butterflies, face hot and your eyes wide as the three words landed on your ears.

there was a million thoughts in your head, memories flooding in. spring nights around a fire pit, hot summer days at the beach, cool autumn afternoons carving pumpkins and cold winter mornings drinking hot chocolate. and in every one of them you bit back three words while staring at the white haired man.

“you don’t have to say it back” satoru begins, his heart beating even faster than before, “i just- I’ve been think-” you sit up quickly and cut him off, shaking your head and finally looking him in the eyes.

“I love you too,” you smile, letting yourself enjoy the the moment of euphoria the two of you felt upon hearing the other say the three words you’d dreamt of.

there’s only a second of silence before satoru’s blue eyes are looking at your lips, flickering up to meet your eyes momentarily. all it takes is you leaning in ever so slightly.

his hands are cupping your cheeks, crashing his lips against yours, a sense of urgency as his lips move against yours. he tastes like his vanilla lip balm and toothpaste, smiling as the words replay in your head.

“what’s funny?” he mumbles against your lips, laughing softly, not bothering to pull away from your lips. satoru’s cerulean eyes are fluttering open, completely focused on you.

you pull away a couple inches, staring into his eyes, you can see the emotions swimming in his eyes, love and excitement written over his face as he takes in your beauty.

“just happy” you reply, “never thought you’d put the end in friends” satoru pouts comically at your words, shoving his face in your lap and groaning softly.

“‘m sorry” he grumbles, “new to all the relationship stuff” there’s genuine frustration and remorse in his voice, it makes you smile as your run your fingers through his hair, tugging softy.

“‘s okay” you say, “thought technically I’m not yours since you haven’t asked me” he knows you’re poking fun at him, not rushing him into anything.

“don’t worry,” he says, sitting up and adjusting himself to lay down next to you, smiling when you lay your head on his chest, “gonna make you mine as soon as i can.”

the words make your heart flutter again, a sheepish smile on your face as your cheeks and ears burn.

“alright smooth talker let’s get some sleep.”

funny enough satoru feels the weight on his shoulders grow lighter with your body weight pressed against him. he feels a sense of serenity running his fingers up and down your exposed skin.

you can see goosebumps rise where your fingertips touch, smiling softly and holding back a giggle as your fingers ghost over his abs, causing him to shiver.

it’s different from before, more intimate.

satoru wonders why he was so afraid of baring his heart to you in the first place. he can’t find an excuse as he watches the golden ray of sunshine hit your face softly, causing you to stir. he’s still as he watches you immediately nuzzle your face into his side, falling back into a deep sleep in his arms.

it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep too, a smile on his face when he feels your grip tighten.

lovers, he thinks, it has a nice ring to it.

taglist (send an ask to be added): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

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fairy-angel222 · 9 months ago

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Choso loves quickies. Whining out desperate pleas to let him have any part of you. It doesn’t even have to be your sweet pussy, as long as he could feel your skin on his aching cock. Anything was enough. He’s so pouty when you tell him that you guys are in public, letting out a whimper of your own when he grinds into you from behind. His arms around your waist as he places a kiss to your neck.

You’re being pulled into the public bathroom, Choso taking you into a stall before hurriedly unbuckling his belt. Freeing his cock with a long breath at how red his tip was, leaking with precum as it jumped at the thought of touching you. He’s willing to sit on the lidded toilet, cock standing hard on its own as he pulls you down onto his lap. Flipping up your skirt and stuffing himself in between your smooth thighs with a moan.

His cock’s already so slippery, gliding over the soft skin effortlessly. Your boyfriend groaning at the way your thighs spread each time he pulled you back down. You can’t help your moans when he begins rutting his hips up in desperation. Face twisting into one of satisfaction as his eyes cross, lips curling upwards in loud breaths and grunts.

Your boyfriend buries his face into your chest, tongue darting out to suck sloppily at your breasts in your tank top. Covering the area in dark spots of red with a shaky mewl, looking up at you with glassed eyes as his mouth hung open. Letting out a breathy cry of your name as he cums with a shiver.

His eyes never leave yours, even with the jerks of his body his puppy-like gaze stays on you. His movements coming to a slow halt as his cum spurts into the air then down onto your thighs. Coating the supple flesh in the sticky white substance.

It’s dripping down your thighs, his cock twitching before your eyes as it pumps its final load. Choso letting out a hum before sinking into you in thanks. His head in your neck with his arms tight around your torso, inhaling your delicious scent and feeling his cock grow hard again. Letting out another whine for him to fuck your pussy instead.

#ty to the anon who put this in my head #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso x reader smut #choso kamo smut #choso kamo x reader #choso smut #choso kamo #choso x reader

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kitasgloves · 3 months ago

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— ♬ NSFW

Imagine NAKAHARA CHUUYA giving you bedroom eyes across the table during a meeting with all the executives in the Port Mafia. The way his gaze was lidded and dark while he subtly fixed his focus on you during the entire time. You watch him humming and nodding, pretending to listen and understand whatever is being discussed. With how his eyes were blatantly undressing you, it made you squirm in your seat and clench your thighs involuntarily.

"[Name]-chan"

Suddenly, the voice of Dazai Osamu from beside you pulled you out of your thoughts. You blinked and looked at the brunette, he grinned at you and poked your cheek.

"You seem to be focusing on something else other than the meeting"

He teases and you break into a sweat. Your eyes slid back to Chuuya and noticed how he was immediately glaring daggers at Dazai. You gulped and let out a nervous laugh.

"...Was it that obvious?"

"Uh-huh. I'm wondering what's got that pretty mind of yours distracted"

Dazai smirks down at you and you can feel his hand on your knee, slowly rubbing your skin. You open your mouth but turn away, hiding your flushed face. You were afraid to see what expression was on Chuuya's face now. You tried to remove Dazai's hand on your knee, but he stubbornly brought it back, even trailing it higher to your thigh.

As soon as the meeting was done, you felt a firm grip on your arm as it dragged you to the nearest restroom. You gasped when you realized that Chuuya had dragged you and he did not look happy. He pushes you into one of the stalls and locks it behind him. You winced when he grabbed your jaw.

"Why the hell is Dazai talking to you, huh?"

He grits his teeth and smiles darkly at you.

"It was nothing"

"Nothing, huh? I can see his fucking hand crawling up your leg during the meeting!"

The gravity manipulator snarls at you. The relationship between you and Chuuya has been kept a secret for months during your time in the Port Mafia. So far, nobody has ever known what was going on between you and him. Not even Dazai. And Chuuya would love to keep it that way. He hated when Dazai was meddling in his personal life. However, it pissed him off whenever the bandaged freak was trying to make a move on you. The mafioso wasn't inherently possessive but seeing Dazai constantly hit on you in his presence while he can't do anything about it since he values his secret relationship with you, made his blood boil.

"Were you letting that bastard touch you?"

"No! I keep removing his hand but—"

"That fucking mackerel"

Chuuya hissed. You whimpered and avoided his gaze; he growls at this and crashes his lips against yours. His hand trails down to wrap it around your neck while your hands fly to grab his hair. The kiss was filled with heat and urgency. The executive presses you against the wall as his free hand goes to grab your breasts. You moan into the kiss as your hands go down to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants.

Dazai sighed as he entered the restroom. He realizes that one of the stalls is occupied but he can hear the faint sound of groaning. A smirk rises on his lips.

"Chuuya, are you in there?"

Dazai knocked on the stall. Both you and Chuuya froze before sharing a panicked look. You were settled half-naked on the toilet, legs spread while the gravity manipulator's dick deep in you. Chuuya pauses mid-thrust as he holds his breath.

"The fuck you want, Dazai?"

"Ha! I knew it was you! Watcha doing? Taking a fat shit?"

Dazai laughed and leaned against the bathroom stall. Chuuya grits his teeth as he signals for you to keep quiet. You nod your head as your hand creeps up to cover your mouth.

"Leave me the fuck alone, bastard"

"You sound like you're struggling while shitting, want me to help?"

"Fuck off!"

In genuine frustration of being annoyed by Dazai's unexpected presence, Chuuya's hips unintentionally buck forward making you go cross-eyed. You pressed your hand against your lips, hoping a noise won't slip out.

"Hey Chuuya, don't you think [Name] looks very pretty today?"

You watched as Chuuya's eyes landed on yours, a devilish grin appeared on his features and your heart skipped a beat. The gravity manipulator continues to languidly thrust in and out of you. The feeling of his cock delicately stretching your walls and hitting the deepest parts of you made you drool.

"Why should I care about that?"

"She was pretty distracted during the meeting, and she looked cute when I caught her"

Dazai giggled. Chuuya's grin grows bigger as he stares down at you. His pace was slowly picking up speed and you felt like you could barely hold back a whimper.

"You got a stupid crush on her or something?"

"Yeah, she's hot. I kinda of wish she would let me hit"

"Oh? Well maybe she's not into a bandage wasting machine"

"As if she'd be interested in a midget like you!"

Dazai raised a brow when Chuuya barked out a laugh. That's odd, usually the gravity manipulator would snarl at him, kick down the door, and then strangle him. Meanwhile, Chuuya was hooking both of your legs over his shoulder before thrusting deep into you, his cockhead kissing your cervix. Your eyes rolled back as his thrusts turned faster, rendering you breathless and speechless. The mafioso couldn't hold back his condescending chuckle.

"You don't know her at all, stupid mackerel"

"Huh? What makes you think you know anything about [Name]?"

The brunette crossed his arms. Chuuya smiles wickedly down at you when he brutally thrusts forward, his hips slapping against your ass with a resonating smack as a choked moan escapes your lips. Dazai freezes and merely doubles over. He blinks once, twice, before stepping back from the stall. His eyes trailed down at the bottom of the stall, his eyes narrowed when he could only see Chuuya's feet with his pants down to his ankles, and he was certainly not taking a shit on the toilet.

"Hey, Chuuya—"

"What makes you think that you, Dazai, know anything about her?"

Chuuya kept his eyes on you as he watched you getting closer to your release with the way he was deeply fucking into your sopping cunt. Oh no, he was no longer hiding the fact he was fucking you in the stall. To hell with it! Who the fuck cares if he's banging you? Plus, he's tired of stupid Dazai trying to get in your pants.

You wanted to get mad at Chuuya with how embarrassing the situation was and how he essentially exposed your carefully concealed relationship with him. But he was pounding your pussy so good that you can't help but curl your toes and arch your back. Dazai stood motionless as he processed the sound of skin slapping against each other violently on the inside of the stall. He could hear the sound of Chuuya panting and your gasps and moans slowly picking up volume.

"Shit! I'm fucking close!"

The mafioso digs his nails against your thighs as he thrusts erratically inside of you. He watches with a smirk when you throw your head back and moan loudly. Chuuya brings you to your orgasm when his hand reaches down to rub delicious circles on your clit.

"Oh fuck—Chuuya—!"

You whine as your jaw goes slack. Chuuya hisses when your walls clamp down around him during your release. It didn't take long for him to cum. With one, two, and three thrusts, you can feel Chuuya's warm cum painting your walls.

Dazai's throat went dry. Did he just fucking listen to Chuuya fucking you? Fuck, he hated how it made his pants go tight. The sound of the stall door creaking open catches the brunette's attention. The air from Dazai's lungs gets violently knocked out at the sight that awaited him. Chuuya was grinning proudly at him with his cock out as he held the door wide open. The brunette's eyes zeroed at you, fucked absolutely dumb on the toilet with your legs spread open and with Chuuya's cum leaking out of your cunt in display for Dazai.

I'm back with the horny guys

#— ♬ with love; kitasgloves #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd fanfic #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs chuuya #bsd chuuya #bsd nakahara chuuya #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya nakahara x reader #bsd chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #chuuya x you #bsd dazai osamu #bsd dazai #dazai osamu #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader

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stevieschrodinger · 3 months ago

Text

Part One Sixteen

Eddie leans heavily on Steve as he walks. His whole body looks knobbly; he’s far too thin again, having clearly lost all of the weight he put on beforehand. His legs shake as he takes one tentative step after another, the blanket barely held together in Steve’s free hand, desperate to keep a little warmth for Eddie.

Steve is still favoring his injury a little when he walks, and that isn’t exactly helping things.

When they finally makes it to the stairs, Steve has to white knuckle the hand rail and take half of Eddie’s weight. Eddie struggles so much to pull himself up, one torturous step after another, and Steve’s foot really is a hindrance.

They really need to eat; especially Eddie, but he’s so crusted in filth he smells absolutely horrendous. His eyes look so sore too; Steve can’t ignore it, they have to get cleaned up. The last thing he needs is for Eddie to go through all of that only to die of a stupid fucking infection.

And thinking of that makes Steve remember that he’s just dipped his own injury in all that filth; he really needs to get cleaned up himself.

They finally make it, and Steve drops the blanket and helps Eddie over the edge of the tub and in, taking down the shower head so he can turn the water away while it warms up. Eddie just lies there, shivering with either cold or exertion or shock; or a mix of all three.

Steve uses his free hand to strip himself naked, his sweat pants are soaked to the knees in filth, the rest of him is pretty crusted from holding Eddie, he leaves all their dirty things in a heap, kicking it over into the corner of the bathroom with his uninjured foot.

Steve starts to rinse Eddie down, and he shifts under the feel of the warm water, eyes opening, “Stee.”

“Hey baby...lets get you cleaned up, okay?”

Eddie, with what looks like an extreme bit of effort, pulls himself up, making room. Steve gets in, kneeling between Eddie’s shaky calves.

Eddie doesn’t seem to have a single hair on his body anywhere; his head is completely bald, no eyebrows, nothing. It makes his ears look even more obviously pointed. His teeth haven’t changed either; just a tiny bit sharp. Steve grabs a flannel, resting the shower head for a second while he lathers it up.

Eddie’s head ridges are still there, but way less obvious than they were before. Steve finds them by touch, slightly raised lines on Eddie’s skull, but nothing else; like what would have once split has now healed over. Sealed.

Gone.

Steve works his way down, the water running down the drain a miserable black brown color that's leaving streaks on the bottom of the tub. Steve carefully cleans, but his eyes keep dipping; it’s kind of hard to miss the fact the Eddie doesn’t seem to have anything at all between his legs.

The filth comes off slowly, Steve using the flannel and shower head in tandem, scrubbing as gently as he can, “close your eyes baby,” Steve cleans around them carefully, wiping all the dried crud off the lids.

He cleans Eddie everywhere, the bumps of his ribs, between his toes, under his nails. Eddie still doesn’t have a belly button or nipples. His fingernails remain black almond shaped claws; his toenails though, look completely human, totally normal.

Steve finds he does have something between his legs, a narrow slit that was nearly invisible when Eddie was covered in crap. Steve cleans him there just as carefully, Eddie shifting his legs, lifting a thigh, to help, “Stee?”

“Nearly done baby,” Steve stands, putting the shower head back on the holder so he can quickly wash himself, taking a moment to carefully clean the area with the stitches, “you hungry? Food?”

“Food. Yes.”

Eddie leans forward, mouth open, letting the shower spray land on his tongue before closing and swallowing and doing it again, “thirsty?”

“Yes. Water.”

“Okay, we can do that next,” Steve finishes up, getting out of the tub carefully and toweling himself dry, before helping Eddie out on his incredibly shaky legs. Steve sits him on the lid of the toilet, ditching their toothbrushes into the sink so he can fill the cup with water.

Eddie, hand unsteady, drinks the whole thing in three long gulps. He does the same with the second. He sips the third more slowly while Steve dries himself off the rest of the way and leaves Eddie wrapped in a towel so he can find them some clothes. He also takes a minute to get out the first aid kit, propping his foot on the edge of the tub, he dabs disinfectant thoroughly over his stitches, “Stee ow?”

“No baby, it’s fine now. Promise.”

“Called promise?”

“Uhm...it means I tell many many many true? Like I promise it’s okay.”

Eddie cocks his head, and Steve’s heart feels tight in his chest with how much he missed him, how close they came to loosing him, “perfect true?”

Steve nods, “kinda’ yeah.” He packs the first aid kit away, “lets get you onto the bed, and I’ll go down and make-”

“No.”

“Eddie, you need to eat-”

Eddie grabs Steve’s hand, holding tight, “no.”

“Okay. Okay yeah, we go together.”

“To-gether.”

Eddie goes down the stairs on his ass, moving both feet together, dropping one step at a time, the same way he did when he had a tail. Steve doesn’t fight it, he just waits at the bottom. They can work on all of that shit another time. Stairs can be lesson three, after lifting with your knees, or something.

They hobble into the kitchen together, like the worlds shittest three legged race competitors, and Steve gets Eddie into a chair at the table in the breakfast nook. His heart sinks at the sight of the inside of the fridge; there’s fuck all food for Eddie, and what's in the crisper draw is either soft or fully gone off.

“I’ll get you some peas, be right back.”

Steve grabs a bag out of the freezer; Eddie looks so tired, slumped at the table in one of his sweaters and a pair of Steve’s sleep pants. Steve makes him a bowl of peas and sticks a spoon in it, putting it on the table.

Eddie takes a spoonful quite enthusiastically, then immediately pulls a face. He does chew, and he does swallow, but he’s clearly not impressed, “cold.”

“Yeah baby, they’re always cold.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose, “bad.”

“Oh. Well...I’ll make them hot?”

Eddie nods, pushing the bowl back. Steve takes the bowl, swapping them into a pot with some water and putting them on to boil. He decides to make himself bacon and eggs in a second pan while he waits, since that’ll be fast and easy.

He keeps looking over at Eddie; he can’t help himself really. Steve’s half convinced that this is one of those horrible dreams, and that something fucking awful will happen any second now. He looks so ill; it’s amazing how much of a stark difference the lack of hair has made to his appearance; it's, somehow, more shocking than his legs.

Steve flips his bacon and shuffles his eggs, then looks over again at Eddie. He’s up. Steve waits, breath held, as Eddie takes a dozen, tentative and shuffling steps across the kitchen. Steve stands with his hands out, ready to dart forward. He can’t help but think of a toddler taking his first steps unaided. Eddie makes it to Steve, taking both hands for the last few steps, “that’s great baby. You have legs!”

Eddie smiles wanly, “legs good...food?”

He looks over Steve’s shoulder at the pan, “yeah, you want to try?”

Eddie nods eagerly, and Steve slides the bacon and eggs onto his plate, giving Eddie the fork. Eddie eats both rashers of bacon with his fingers, using his claw like nails to lift the hot food and blow on it before he shoves it in, then he eats the eggs with the fork.

Steve’s toast pops while Eddie’s eating, “food?” he asks with his mouth still full of egg.

“Yeah baby, here,” Steve spreads both pieces with jelly, and Eddie eats those too, leaning against the counter. He seems a little better suddenly, a little more alert maybe.

“Stee food now?”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” Steve makes it all again, Eddie watching avidly where he’s propped up against the counter; on a hunch, Steve makes twice what he wants to eat, pleased when he’s right, and Eddie picks off his plate, eating more.

Eddie burps, then looks shocked that the noise just came out of him. Steve laughs so much his eyes water.

They both stand at the bottom of the stairs, and it feels like looking up at mount Everest.

“Okay, we can do this buddy.”

“Not budidy. Baby.”

Steve sighs, smiling, “you got it baby.”

After what feels to Steve like forty days and forty nights of toil, they make it to the top. Eddie is very unsteady on his feet, like his obvious exhaustion is making his coordination worse again.

“Clean teeth,” he tells Steve on their way to bed.

“In the morning. They’re not going to fall out if we miss it once,” and the bathroom feels about fifty million miles away at this point.

They climb into bed together, and Eddie is asleep pretty much instantly. He’s snoring softly, quiet, but enough for Steve to hear it clearly. It makes it feel real almost. A confirmation that Eddie is really here, that he’s different now. Eddie never used to make a sound when he was sleeping; and now he does. Eddie has a leg thrown over Steve’s, and that’s real too.

Part Eighteen

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #ficlet #ao3 author #mermeddie #mermaid eddie #upside down creature eddie #Fish Guy Eddie #creature eddie munson #creature

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rememberwren · 5 months ago

Text

/•Harmless Fun 6•\

Everyone comes clean.

About this: some explicit talk about consent and non-consent.

Johnny insists that it will be easier for the three of you to talk in the ruined bathroom, which is how you end up in the bathtub. A part of you thinks that Johnny should be the one in the tub (he’s the one limping, after all), but he had taken the broom from your hands and insisted on sweeping up the remains of the ceiling tiles himself.

“Don’t need two good legs to work a broom, hen. Be reasonable,” he’d said with a roll of his eyes.

Simon keeps busy at the other end of the bathroom sopping up the standing water that threatens the bedroom carpet. With nothing to do and no one who would accept your help, you had minimal options: sit on the closed lid of the toilet or curl up in the empty tub.

At least in the tub you could draw the curtain shut and retain a little dignity.

“The bathroom needs major reconstruction,” Simon says, the close quarters and tiled walls making his voice sound as if it is coming from every direction. Not that you mind, with a voice like his. You take in this news while examining the bottles of soap and shampoo nestled in the nook of the wall, reaching out quietly to take one and pop the cap open. God, it smelled like Simon did after his post-run showers, woodsy and clean. You inhale deeply. “So we’re down to one bathroom for the next few weeks.”

Your belly swoops with relief: they weren’t kicking you out. You peek out of the shower curtain, soap held out of view, and maybe it is partly that outlandish relief that has you saying: “That’s not so bad.”

Simon stares, kneeling on the tiles, wet towels all around him. “It’s an invasion of your space and privacy.”

“Yeah, who knows the sort of girly things you keep hidden in there,” Johnny says.

Simon shoots him a dry, unamused look.

“I don’t mind sharing,” you admit (thank God you’d hidden the only real incriminating item before Johnny had used your bathroom). “My last roommate and I had to share while we lived together. We just locked the door and tried to respect each other’s time. I’m sure the three of us can make it work.”

“We’ll have to,” Simon says, sounding about as thrilled of the prospect as a man might be of the electric chair or other unwilling euthanasia. He turns his dark, all-seeing eyes on you. “What is it that you needed to talk to us about?”

You pull the curtain shut abruptly. With care, you sneak the soap back into its former position and hope that Simon won’t notice it’s been moved. Your hand shakes while you do. You’re horrified to feel tears of embarrassment and shame filling your eyes, grateful for the cover of the shower curtain as you palm the tears away before they can fall. Even if they weren’t planning to kick you out, it made you feel no less shameful about what you had done on the car ride home.

“I just feel terrible about last night. What I did to you, Johnny—and you, Simon—it, it was trashy to say the least. I mean, it was predatorial—”

The soft rasp of the broom’s filaments against the floor stops.

“Preda—? Alright, I’m coming in there.” Johnny draws the curtain back, frowning down at you. You don’t want to imagine the sight you make: curled up in his bathtub, eyes red from rubbing them raw. He turns himself sideways and sits on the ledge, wincing as he does so. Ever attuned to Johnny’s needs, Simon reaches out and helps him adjust his leg into a more neutral position. “What’s all this? Yer no predator.”

“You tried to stop me.” Your voice is thick, cracking at the edges.

“I didn’t say no, not in so many words—”

“You didn’t say yes either, Johnny,” you remind him. “If a man had done to me what I did to you last night, you’d break his teeth in.”

Johnny’s face twists into a grim expression. “Aye. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t right what you did—but I get a say in it too, don’t I? I get to decide what happened to me, and I don’t feel like I was taken advantage of. Jesus, I could have stopped you if I hadn’t wanted it so bad.”

“I think you’re—” you pause, blinking as Johnny’s words make it through the fog of your own self pity. Your eyes flicker to Simon, unsure if you had heard correctly. Simon gives nothing away, his eyes reminding you of cool dark rooms, if only you could find a lightswitch to illuminate them. “Johnny, did you just say—”

“Is it easier if I shut the curtain again?”

“Might be.”

“Alright.” Simon helps him stand and Johnny tugs the curtain shut again. “Let me preface this by saying that you can say no to the likes of us, fer any reason, explained or otherwise, and there won’t be any consequences! But since the day you moved in, we’ve felt a chemistry with you that we haven’t felt with many people before, and we wanted to know if you felt the same way.”

Chemistry. That was one way to put it. Overwhelming attraction and unshakeable fondness was another. While you knew that the three of you got along well enough (and more than once Johnny had referred to you all as friends), it loosened some tight, anxious muscle in your chest to know that they felt the connection too. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on your part; there was chemistry.

“What sort of chemistry?” you ask, adjusting yourself into a more comfortable position.

“There’s more than one?” Simon mutters.

“I mean, there’s chemistry in a friendly way or a more romantic way—”

“A sexual way,” Johnny suggests. You jolt and accidentally bang your knuckles against the porcelain of the tub. Hissing, you cradle them against your chest, mulling over his words.

Your mouth feels almost too dry to speak.

“Right. Well—yes, I feel…that.” In the back of your brain, a tiny fire burns, fueled by disappointment. You try to smother its flames before it grows out of control and threatens to burn up your higher reasoning. Not every relationship needed to be centered around romance; this was the twenty-first century. You were perfectly within your rights—some would consider it smart, even—to have physical relationships without the complication of emotional aspects.

You’ll keep working on convincing yourself. In the meantime: “So you’re saying you want to have sex.”

“I’m open to taking things slow and seeing where they lead,” says Johnny.

Dimly you remember something: some night spent curled up on the couch, your head lighter than air, listening to Johnny and Simon talk beside you. Something about their conversation reminded you of this moment, but the more you tried to remember, the more it slipped through your fingers like sand.

“All of us?” you ask, noticing Simon’s pointed silence.

There is shifting on the other side of the curtain. You see shadows moving through the thin plastic and fabric, like the two of them are trying to have a silent conversation with only hand gestures. It does nothing for your nerves. At length, Simon says: “Not me. Just you and Johnny.”

Your heart does a strange dip, like a bird changing course and soaring toward the ground. You feel strangely, stupidly hurt by this, though you couldn’t put into words why, and you wouldn’t want to even if he asked. It was within his rights to say no. Hadn’t you just learned that lesson?

“Are you sure you’d be okay with that?” you ask. Simon had never come off as a jealous sort of type (and you imagine that a jealous type wouldn’t last long with Johnny anyway, not with the way the other man liked to flirt), but everyone had a limit. You weren’t sure that if the situations were reversed you could be so affable.

“Someone needs to keep a clear head,” he says. “I’ll be the designated driver.”

Maybe he’s right. If you truly plan to sleep with Johnny, maybe it will be best to have someone in the apartment still as detached as possible.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say, trying to force a little humor into your voice. “I think I proved last night that I don't make the best decisions under the influence.”

“You did make the best decision,” he says solemnly. “You called me.”

Johnny’s hand appears from around the edge of the shower curtain. Grinning, you stretch out to touch his fingers with your own and lace them together. It’s a little awkward, but most new things are. His hand is warm and gentle, and you could get used to it.

“We’ll take it slow, yes?”

“Alright.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Lunch?”

“Definitely on the same page there.”

“Get out of my tub then.”

“Hey. Stay back.”

Feeling a little like a student asked to stay behind after class, you watch with envy as Johnny slips into the living room to call for takeout, leaving you alone with Simon. You don’t get to spend a lot of alone time with Simon, and that time is usually spent in companionable silence as he reads. Nerves bubble in your belly, wondering what else he could have to talk to you about that he wouldn’t want to say in front of his husband.

“What’s up?” you ask, aiming for nonchalant.

“I’ve got a rule,” he says. “One for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Don’t fall in love with Soap.” You blink up at him. Of all the things you could have imagined him saying, this hadn’t been on the list—though perhaps it should have been right there at the top. “I know how easy he is to love. But I also know that this is going to end at some point, one way or another. Let's not let it end up a mess. That’s my advice. As the driver.”

“Just friends,” you clarify around the knot in your throat. “Believe it or not, I was thinking the same thing. This is all just for fun, right?”

Simon stares at you hard, like he is trying to see through you to the door behind you. You hope your face is arranged into something neutrally appropriate but know that if it isn’t, it’s already too late.

“Right,” he says at length.

The night ends softly, with something mindless and easy on television. Simon sits on the floor with his back against the base of the couch, head against Johnny’s knees. Johnny lays outstretched across the couch on his side, one hand reaching down to rub at his aching thigh now and again. All while you sit curled up in the armchair, watching the television half as often as you watch the two of them.

They’re beautiful. There’s something about the way they contrast with each other, the darkness and the light, which you find aesthetically pleasing. Sometimes Johnny slips his fingers into Simon’s hair and scratches softly at his scalp, and you get to watch the relaxed, blissed-out expression creep over Simon’s face at the stimulation.

The domesticity of it does something to you. Deep in your chest—in between your legs. It’s time for you to call it a night; there’s a toy in your room with your name on it (not literally). Joints creaking from disuse as you stand, both their heads swivel to look up at you, making your heart squeeze fondly.

“I think I’m tapping out for the night,” you admit.

Simon wishes you a goodnight.

Johnny says: “Where’s my goodnight kiss?”

You feel zapped, suddenly wide awake. “You…want one?”

Johnny nods. He tries to sit up but can’t find the leverage, face twisting in pain.

“No,” you tell him, “You stay there, I’ll come to you.”

Walking around the coffee table, you come to kneel beside Simon at Johnny’s head. Your chest feels tight, blood thrumming with nerves. You can’t help but glance toward Simon who hasn’t changed positions except to angle his body towards you both a fraction more, his eyes dark and shadowed.

“Alright, hen?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah,” you murmur.

He reaches out to cup your cheek, his palm warm, thumb stroking along the length of your cheekbone. Steeling your nerves, you lean down and press your mouth against his. His lips are soft, warm as you give him the simplest, chastest kiss. He keeps you there, searching for more, tilting your head with his hand until the angle serves him best, parting his lips until you can taste the lemon from the tea Simon had shared with you both earlier that night.

His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip and your thighs shake, weak in the knees from holding yourself up. You grip a fistful of the couch cushion beside his head and meet his tongue with your own, a soft little dance, familiar steps but a new partner. He exhales, the breath fanning across your cheek, and something about that makes the ache between your legs so much worse.

You break away. Your fingers find his hair, soft dark strands that slip through your fingers like silk. You whisper: “Johnny.”

“Just a little more, please,” Johnny begs, and you can’t say no when you want it so bad.

You meet him open mouthed, shifting on your knees to make yourself more comfortable—and you brush against Simon seated beside you. It has you pulling back, sucking in a breath. You can’t help but look at him with wide, guilty eyes, only to find him watching you with quiet, earnest intensity. His mouth curls at the edges into the ghost of a smile, though why he would be smiling, you couldn’t say.

Meanwhile, Johnny sighs, brushing his thumb against your lower lip.

“Chemistry,” he says, mouth red and kiss-swollen.

You silently agree.

#ghoap x reader

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del4yedsvnrise · 3 months ago

Text

"Pretty" Katsuki Bakugou x Reader masterlist

“You owe me for this one, nerd.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever”

Normally, you wouldn’t need help dyeing your hair. Having done it so often before that you had grown quite experienced in doing it yourself. However, you had injured your arm during a training session and were unable to use your arm extensively for a couple days. Which led to your current situation.

You bent over the side of the bathtub and your friend, Bakugou, vigorously scrubbing at your hair

“Be gentle!”

“I wouldn’t have to be so rough if you just stayed still..”

He squinted, his eyes crinkling in concentration. It would take a while but he was fairly good at it. A good fifteen minutes later your hair was somewhat ready and you had finally finished washing. Bakugou grabbed your towel off the rack and helped you stand up. He pulled off his pair of gloves and tossed them onto a pile of discarded laundry on the other end of the bathroom.

A tired sigh leaves your lips as you take a seat on the toilet seat lid and wait patiently. You didn't expect him to take long to get everything ready – he was always incredibly efficient when it came to your caretaking (as much as he'd loath to admit). As soon as he finishes, he starts drying off your hair with a fluffy hand towel. The two of you sit there together in relative silence whilst he ruffles the back of your head dry. His fingers are rough and calloused from years of quirk usage – you can barely feel anything through the towel but they're comforting nonetheless. After about five minutes pass by, his hands stop moving and he leans over you to grab another towel, the one he was previously using damp and covered in dye.

"turn 'round."

"What do you mean?" you tilt your head towards him, frowning slightly. “Aren’t we done yet?”

“Turn around,” he repeats, holding out the towel in your direction. “I'm nearly done. I just need to finish the front so hurry up.”

You roll your eyes but comply anyway. Turning your body slightly, You stare straight ahead, watching as he gets to work once again. You know he doesn't do it on purpose – or rather, you think he doesn't – but his eyes lock onto yours as he works. There is a hint of something in his gaze – an emotion you don't recognise, maybe a little bit more than just admiration, which makes you wonder how you must look right now. The room was filled with a gentle hum of the bathroom fan, the only sound accompanying the rhythmic rustle of towels and the occasional drip of water.

Your half-damp hair cascaded down your face, the strands sticking together in clumps from the dye. Bakugou worked diligently, his movements precise and focused, as he carefully dried the front of your hair. The tips of his fingers lightly grazed your cheek as he moved his attention to your face. The touch, though unintended, sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and nerves dancing along your skin. You could feel the heat emanating from his palm, contrasting with the cool dampness of your hair. Bakugou's eyes, usually sharp and intense, softened as they met yours, a rare vulnerability peeking through the cracks of his tough exterior. For just a second, you thought you saw him falter, but when he blinked his expression returned to its usual scowl.

"Done." His voice startled you out of your reverie. He turned your face towards himself and smoothed down the last section of the dyed hair. "Okay, move and let me see it!"

You got up from the toilet and moved over to the mirror. Your hair looked great, the colour being a nice change compared to the last colour you chose to dye it. You turned around to face him, expecting him to give you some kind of judgement on how it looked but instead, he merely stood staring at you with a curious expression.

"Well?" you ask, crossing your arms and leaning against the sink countertop.

"What's wrong with my hair?" you ask after a moment. He furrows his brows. You knew him well enough to understand that he didn't want to say anything, but you felt like he was holding something back.

"Nothing," he said quietly. "It looks good. Really good, actually." he grumbled, shoving his hand abruptly into his sweatpants.

"Then why are you looking at me like that? Is it messed up? does it not look alright?"

"No!" He exclaimed defensively, taking a step towards you. "You just look...pretty."

"But why did you-"

"...Pretty." he interrupted, staring into your eyes with an unreadable expression. You stared back, confused by his sudden shift in behaviour.

His words made you blush slightly, the warmth spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Bakugou's usual fiery demeanour seemed to have momentarily subsided, replaced by a rare sensitivity that left you both intrigued and bewildered. Wouldn't he normally get lost in a fit of rage over someone trying to question him? This softer side of him was one you had rarely witnessed, a side that tugged at something deep within you, stirring emotions you had tried to bury beneath the guise of friendship.

"Um, thanks..." you mumble. You weren't sure what else to say, you had no idea what to make of this new development. Did he mean it or was he just messing with you like he normally does?

Either way, you found you were strangely disappointed by his comment. Even though he had just complimented your appearance, something about the whole exchange bothered you. Something told you that he didn't really mean it. That he wasn't telling you something.

With that lingering feeling in mind, you turn your head away from him slightly, ashamed your own insecurity made you react this way.

"Hey, what's wrong?" you hear Bakugou ask. You shook your head slightly, hoping to shake the feeling away.

"Nothing," you answered. "I just gotta go, okay? Thanks for helping me dye my hair. See you tomorrow!" You hurriedly go to exit the bathroom, ignoring Bakugou's protests when a hand grips tightly onto your forearm, stopping you in your tracks.

"How dense can you be?" he mumbled underneath his breath. Unexpectedly, he turned you round to face him, forcing you to look into his burning red orbs. Your heartbeat picks up in pace at the proximity between you two, causing butterflies to flutter inside your stomach. You could hear Bakugou breathing heavily, his breath hot against your cheek.

The air feels heavy and tense all of a sudden, making it difficult to breathe properly.

"Don't leave." His voice is soft.

You blink twice.

"You heard me," Bakugou says sharply.

You nod wordlessly, letting your eyes fall closed as Bakugou guides your face closer to his. Your heart begins racing as you feel a warm pressure against your lips. The kiss itself is gentle, hesitant. When you part and open your eyes you're surprised to find him gazing down at you, an expression of tenderness and concern etched across his face. When he notices your staring, he quickly pulls his hand from your arm, pulling himself back to a healthy distance away from you.

"Sorry. That probably shouldn't have happened." he mumbles. "I should've kept my damn mouth shut." he mutters angrily, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

“No, it’s fine. I-I liked it.” you answer, smiling softly at him. He stares down at you , the tension slowly dissipating. Your heart rate slows considerably, the feeling returning to your chest as you relax against the cold tile wall behind you.

"So…you wanna get dinner sometime?" Bakugou asks suddenly, glancing awkwardly at the ground, avoiding eye contact with you completely. "Maybe we can hangout or somethin'..."

"Sounds good to me." you reply, grinning. Bakugou smiles briefly, before reaching up with his free hand and pushing a stray strand of newly-dyed hair from your face.

"Alright then, I guess I'll see you later. Get some rest." he says before turning around, exiting the bathroom.

Once the door was closed and locked, you walk towards the bedroom, still feeling a light tinge of pink on your cheeks as you flop onto the bed. A smile still lingers on your lips, the memory of the kiss playing on repeat in your mind until sleep finally claimed you for the night. ⭐︎

#bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou x reader #mha fanfiction #mha x reader #mha #bnha #bnha x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my hero academy fanfiction

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wannaeatramyeon · 4 months ago

Text

DG x Reader: Manager and their Idol

8.5k. G/N. Soft, colleagues to lover (guess I love this trope). Masterlists

You had imagined life as a K-Pop idol manager to be much more glamorous.

You pity your young naive self. The one that envisaged schmoozing with stars and rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers, and instead set you on this horrid, lacklustre path.

What you didn't expect was the amount of time playing driver. Carting that stupid pink haired brat around. Waiting on him hand and foot during shoots and interviews, and being at his beck and call.

You have saved his ass more times than you can recall, ran through scripts with him, practised his stupid dances and moves alongside, protected him from unhinged fans and reporters and scavengers.

And yet you can count on one hand the amount of times he has thanked you.

Actually no, it didn't require any hands because he has thanked you exactly zero times for all your early mornings and late nights and for going above and beyond your duty.

Out of desperation, you had asked your boss if you could manage someone else and the request was declined.

"DG has taken a liking to you," she said, tone impressed as if that was something you should be proud of.

"Great," your smile comes out as more of a grimace.

And goddamn, this agency was so stupidly prestigious and the benefits and perks here really are second to none. Just why did Diego fucking Kang have to be their top idol.

The first time you crossed the threshold into his building, greeting the reception security guard and entering his penthouse keycode like you had been let in on the world's greatest secret, you had tiptoed around like a child in a museum. After all, this was DG's residence. The DG!

You had ooh-ed and aah-ed at every little thing.

Taking delight in seeing his interior design of choice, the type of candy that he snacks on, the shampoo and conditioner he uses, the way he organises his desk. This is the chair DG sits on to eat. This is the sofa DG lounges on to watch TV. This is the bed he sleeps in, the bath he uses, the toilet he-

Any wide eyed innocence and awe evaporated after your first week working together.

Today, you stab in the entry code and let the door shut with a bang.

You set his now cold coffee order on the kitchen counter and rifle with practised fingers through his unopened mail to see if there is anything you should draw his immediate attention to. You pick up his discarded clothes from the floor (and for fuck's sake, this suit jacket was on loan) and make your way to his bedroom where tufts of pink hair peeks out from under the cover.

"Good morning," you announce, locating the remote to open the blinds and letting in some sunlight.

Bedsheets rustle behind you.

"Good morning Diego," you repeat and give one warning, "I hope you're decent." With that, you throw the covers back to find the scantily dressed idol glaring up at you.

You remember the days when this sight would have made you weak at the knees. Seeing him half naked, in the flesh, freshly woken up with bedhead and half lidded eyes. It's what most of Korea dreams of, including yourself once upon a time.

Now all you feel is extreme irritation.

"Good morning," you say for the third time, plastering on a saccharine smile that you know DG sees clearly through because it is insincere as hell to anyone with half a brain cell. You let the fakeness shine through anyway.

For a split second, DG frowns as his eyes drop to your lips and then he pretends everything is good. Smiling back prettily, sharp canines on show and stretching. Lifting his arms overhead, showing a good stretch of pecs and abs and the line of muscle in a V pointing like an arrow straight down to his-

You roll your eyes.

"You're late." You throw the covers back over him and stride back towards the door. "We should have left half an hour ago." You leave out the part where you had been waiting downstairs in the car and after an hour of no show and no anything, you stomped your way up to his home.

DG, sensing your mood, adds oil to the fire with a smirk, "Why didn't you wake me then?"

If that idiot bothered to look at his phone, he would see a number of missed calls and unread messages from you.

Whatever.

"Hurry up."

DG has come across many people like yourself over the years. All cute and bright eyed, way too soft.

He never gave you any special treatment, for better or worse, and assumed that you would eventually burn out or give up and move on to something more worthwhile.

Unfortunately, in a rare turn of events, he had miscalculated.

Of course most people would be starstruck, it's only natural. But he mistook your sincerity and kind smile for ignorance and missed your sharp, observing gaze, and astute mind.

He's impressed, and he really can't remember the last time he was impressed.

In a matter of days of working together, you had managed to cut through the bullshit and within the month got him more compliant and docile than anyone else ever has.

Which should be a huge fucking problem, and raising red flags all over DG's mind.

...Except-

What's really troubling him right now, as he sulks in the passenger seat and you in the driver's, is that you have developed some sort of resistance to his charms.

Maybe a part of him does actually miss the you who he formed the first impression of. Who looked at him in wonder, with the same admiration that everyone else did.

Now that he knows you, he hates that he had thought that initial admiration was insignificant and worthless.

DG has a stash of candy in the car.

Or more accurately, you keep a stash of candy next to him to a) Shut him up and b) Keep him tolerable.

If DG wasn't so aloof, the fact that he has an incurable sweet tooth (and probably cavities to prove it) would have made headlines as a cute K-Pop fact and likely garnered sponsorship and advertising deals with all sorts of confectionary brands.

You had only found out during your adventures as his manager, rifling through his kitchen drawers trying to find his goddamn phone that he misplaced and you stumbled upon his stash of candy.

It really was a disgusting amount, something you'd expect a gaggle of grade schoolers at Halloween to hoard, not Diego goddamn Kang.

And then you also found out if he's not quiet and haughty in the car, making the atmosphere awkward, he likes to comment on your driving.

Who even sits in the passenger seat next to their 'chauffeur' anyway? He complains about you braking too suddenly and not accelerating fast enough. How you drive like an 80 year old with cataracts, and you're too slow when the light changes to green.

The turn in your relationship happened when you snapped at him to shut the fuck up after losing the final shred of your sanity on a three hour drive.

DG, to your dismay, didn’t miraculously lose his hearing and turns to you as you silently berate yourself for voicing the quiet thoughts out loud.

Although, you're in the deep end now. You're gonna get fired anyway, so if he says anything else you might as well give him a flick on the forehead or a pinch or maybe a punch to the face-

Instead, he laughs.

It's nothing like the laugh you have heard on TV and in interviews. The rehearsed and manicured 'haha' or cool chuckle that suits his shiny persona. It's kinda goofy and a lot endearing.

What's even more endearing is the way he does actually shut the fuck up for the rest of the journey. You like him a lot more after that.

So. You digress.

The candy is a way to keep the sweet toothed maniac quiet. Even if it doesn't work, at least it's harder to make out what insults he's slinging with a lollipop rattling around his mouth.

However, he has never ever shared any with you. Any of the candy that you stock, and pay for.

(That you technically claim back on company expenses, but you're trying to be self righteous here.)

Ever.

In all the months of working with him, he gobbles away happily even if your stomach is growling and you refuse to take any yourself out of principle.

Until-

"Here."

"Huh?"

Taking advantage of your response and open mouth, DG leans into your personal space and feeds you some chewy strawberry something or another (which coincidentally are his least favourite), fingers lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second.

Three things happen in quick succession.

The burst of sugar hits your tongue.

You nearly choke.

You narrowly avoid swerving.

"Careful now," DG grins when you get the car and yourself under control, and glance at him with a scowl.

Good. That proves you're not completely immune to his charms.

That bastard has now taken it upon himself to feed you candy at every opportunity.

You wonder if he's doing some sort of Pavlov experiment. The sweetness trying to erase any sourness you feel towards him.

It sort of works, and you consider biting his fingers off one of these days.

You hear the crinkling of wrappers, one for him that he pops into his mouth, and one for you that he gives without asking.

You angle your head towards him, and his fingers graze your lips every time.

Neither of you comment on the change but the intimacy drives you a little crazy.

And DG too.

Because intimacy works both ways and damnit his little gesture to keep the pretty blush on your face has backfired.

The only form of intimacy he knows comes from discreet hookups and low key links. Not someone who is around day in, day out. Or anyone that goes deeper than one night stands and booty calls.

You're there, you're always there. Of course you are, you're his manager.

But today, he feels under the microscope with you standing a couple metres away and keen eyes watching the camera monitor.

It's a no nothing day. Standard schedule where he shoots a fragrance commercial and he exits a pool all wet and sultry, white t-shirt clinging to his muscled body.

Then another scene where he writhes around slightly on a sunbed and eye-fucks the camera.

How it sells a fragrance, he never knows. The mystery of showbiz.

"Cut! More powder!" The director shouts out, the crew springing into action and DG knows exactly why.

He feels strangely embarrassed and flustered, which has manifested into his cheeks being flushed, and god he can't even remember the last time he has been like this.

It’s out of character and he needs to get his head together.

As the make up artist hurriedly dabs on some foundation, you make your way over to him.

"Are you sick?" you ask, concerned and reaching out to feel his forehead with the back of your hand.

"I'm fine," He says, turning away from your attentiveness and staring at a point in the distance.

With most people, if DG wants them out of sight, they stay out of sight.

But as his manager, and a very competent one at that, it’s harder to get you to leave.

Not that DG wants you to either, don’t get him wrong.

The only constants he has around him are people who want something from him. And yes, he knows you’re only in his company because you work with him. However, he really can’t doubt the concern he always sees in your eyes. The compassion and empathy even when he makes you want to scream and tear your hair out.

His standoffish demeanour is not new to anyone. It’s part of his appeal to be quite honest.

Yet he feels bad over the next couple weeks as he turns it up to eleven and tries to create some distance. He registers the hurt on your face as he is extra short with his answers and behaviour.

Pandering to overinflated celebrity egos and the insane Korean work ethic often leads to after hour shoots and dinner delayed until past midnight.

Honestly, this wreaks havoc on your sleep schedule and your skin.

"Here." You retrieve DG's takeout from the paper bag.

A double portion of delicious fried chicken with a side of kimchi and pickles. It's a change of pace from what most idols order, yet he doesn't give two shits about calories or sodium intake and to add insult to injury, somehow manages to keep his trim figure.

You lament your soggy salad sitting at the bottom. As if it’s not sad enough right now - once you arrive home, the lettuce will be wilting and room temperature and you will eat it in your dimly lit apartment with nothing to keep you company except the sound of the TV.

DG notices you turning to leave his penthouse, and his mouth moves before his brain can.

"Aren't you staying?"

"What?" You double take at the question.

DG's company is usually worse than your lonely meal for one.

He’s annoying and you frequently want to slap him, but how he has been with you lately has been troubling and you actually feel a sense of relief at his offer.

(You had wondered if you might have been getting sacked up until this moment.)

Nevertheless, in all your time working alongside, you have never had a proper meal one on one together. Nothing more than you driving with one hand and the other hastily shoving a burger into your mouth as he looks on in disgust.

You would have dwelled on this more, wondering what's changed, what’s happened, but then-

"I'll share." DG nudges the box towards you, and the delicious scent of deep fried, battered goodness wafts along with it it

All your misgivings and your salad is forgotten.

Almost.

No, you were wrong.

Eating with DG, without any distractions such as traffic to navigate or other boisterous colleagues around, is unnerving. Disarming.

His haughtiness remains, but how haughty can someone be when munching on a drumstick.

All frostiness from the past weeks melts away as you both eat your way through his chicken.

He’s talking more tonight than you have heard in a while.

You find him funny, and really quite bitchy. Which you did know all along except it's much funnier now his slanderous comments aren't directed at you.

And has he always looked at you with such a piercing gaze? So intensely focused on what you have to say. Even if you're just complaining about your boss, blurring your lines of professionalism, he gives you his full attention.

You really can't remember the last time you have been in each other's company like this.

You loathe to admit that even with what an asshole he is, DG's shine hasn’t dulled enough for you that you don't understand the appeal.

Leaning forward, DG whispers into your ear.

To anyone else, it looks like an over-affectionate idol with their manager. If they could hear his words, "I'm going to kill you," they would think otherwise.

Ok, so this one is your fault.

The good times have to come to an end and maybe you should have been more careful with his pride and joy - some ridiculously overpriced and over-specced vehicle.

Taking advantage of the clear blue Seoul skies, the pink haired menace was the one who drove you today in his fancy imported sports car, but the speed limits and the rest of the traffic was not on his side.

Already running late, even for him, he parked somewhere convenient and illegal then passed you the keys, leaving you stranded on the sidewalk, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, as he strode off to meet his music producer and choreographer and left you to park his baby elsewhere.

Why he entrusted you with it, you're not sure.

You would have done it anyway though, because when else are you going to have an opportunity to drive a supercar, if your boss didn't call at that moment. Questioning your expenses and DG's schedule and confusing you about the fitting at a fashion house and hair styling appointment that you knew like the back of your hand but when someone is so confidently incorrect, you start to doubt yourself.

By the time you got off the phone after pacing up and down the street and checking and double checking DG's timetable, you finally make your way back to the car-

And see it in the middle of being compounded.

You had begged and pleaded with the two men who were having none of it and you left, tail between your legs, to beg and plead with the other man who you knew would also have none of it.

Damn, you hate it when you prove yourself right in these instances.

You know DG won't really kill you, but he will likely make your life hell for the next couple weeks.

A normal person being pissed off at you would probably result in the silent treatment until tempers cool down.

DG does the opposite. Sort of.

He takes pleasure in making things as awkward for you as possible, until you're squirming in your seat trying to stay professional, thinking about your job and your rent and your bills; or torn between wanting the ground to swallow you up.

Around other people, your boss, your colleagues, his colleagues, he sidles up to you all smiles and soft looks. Slips purposely into banmal, and then oopsy, pretends that he didn't mean to be so informal with you around others.

Gossip soon stirs about your and DG's close relationship, if there's something else going on. Only you can see the mischief in his eyes and the malice in his smile and you think about yanking him by the ear and demanding to know what he is playing at.

Alone, he denies any sort of miscreant behaviour. Barely listening to you complaining and snapping at him. Ending with him outright ignoring you and you fume even harder.

This time, you're not sure the punishment even fits the crime.

Any guilt soon dissipates when his car is returned in perfect condition within a couple days but his performance lasts for weeks.

Teasing you has always been fun for DG - when your cheeks dust angrily with pink and your eyes burn with fire.

The equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails in the school yard.

Meetings with HNH Group usually do not involve you. If it does, at most you are waiting in the car.

Luckily, there are also an assortment of cafes and restaurants within a stone's throw and it gives you some time to debrief and catch a breather from following DG's hectic schedule.

The downside is you're never sure if a two hour meeting will be condensed to fifteen minutes or if a quick catch up with Charles Choi and other Executives turns into an all nighter.

There's been days where you have ordered a meal, then had to abandon it with a sigh and a longing look as you spot DG striding out of the building looking pissed off that you're not already there, or stayed in the vehicle with the engine running and your stomach rumbling as short appointments overshoot.

Maybe this is another consequence from DG being petty and irate with you for getting his car towed - you're left snoozing at the steering wheel of your runaround, the idol standard-issue luxury minivan, waiting for his return.

It's far too late in the evening for anywhere to be open, only the fluorescent lights of convenience stores and glare of the HNH logo illuminates the streets.

DG opens the sliding door, climbs into the back and slams it hard enough to jerk you awake and rattle the entire van.

He’s sitting by himself in the back, which is odd enough in itself.

As you blink away the dregs of sleep, in the rearview mirror, you notice the stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw. His eyes stare vacantly out the window. DG is clearly upset about something, enough to crack through his aloof veneer.

"Are you ok?" You don't get a response, not even a passing glance.

Obviously something has gone wrong with the HNH Group meeting and the stress has manifested.

You wrack your brains thinking of something that might cheer up this asshole and you think of the only thing that improves your mood when you're on the verge of a breakdown.

(Usually due to the aforementioned asshole in your current presence).

"Tteokbokki and beer?" You offer. It’s past your bedtime but a sulky DG for the rest of the week will also ruin your week too.

DG briefly looks at you before going back to staring at the window. It’s not a no.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night.

At your favourite late night hole-in-the-wall, you eat far more tteokbokki than DG. On second thoughts, you don’t remember him eating any at all. You’re talking and downing beers to fill the silence, trying to perk up this silly celebrity. Loose lipped and spilling far more details than you would if you were sober, with him seated opposite and sipping on a soda.

As the night ticks along, he thaws and a small smile settles on his face watching you gesticulate and ramble about your life.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night-

With DG driving, piggybacking you up to your apartment, and tucking you into bed.

DG can’t stop thinking of the weight of you on his back, arms slung over his shoulders, legs at his waist and his hands gripping your thighs.

You slurring drunkenly into his ear as he climbs the stairs in your building. It’s mostly nonsense. He can’t make out your words but remembers your breath tickling his skin.

And when he wraps your duvet around you, the brief moment of lucidity in your eyes as you look at him, softer than you ever have, you tell him, “Thanks Diego.”

Diego.

Nothing changes between the two of you after this. Not really.

You still find him an enormous thorn in your side. Incredibly stuck up and haughty and you continue to want to throttle him on a weekly basis but you are immensely grateful for him not leaving you a passed out heap on the sidewalk.

You’re in the middle of chastising him once again, dragging him out of bed as he is running late and being an absolute dick about it. Taking it easy as if he has all the time in the world.

Well of course he does. He’s not the one that will be getting an earful from your boss or on the receiving end of the production crew’s complaints, as if trying to manhandle and cart this manchild around is easy.

“Diego Kang, I swear to fucking god-”

"James." He says, interrupting you as he picks out and pulls an eye-wateringly expensive jumper over his head.

"What?"

"Call me James when it's just us.” He checks out his outfit in the mirror, seemingly satisfied with it, before moving onto his hair. “James Lee. That's my real name."

DG, or James Lee, keeps his eyes on his reflection. Inspecting his non-existent roots, styling his fringe to make it fall just so and applying a liberal amount of hair product.

Nonchalant and casual even as he offers something desperately personal about himself.

"James," you say, trying out the sound for yourself. A name that seems at odds with his loud K-Pop shell but you imagine a time before the fame and the celebrity and the pink hair and it somehow fits.

"James," you repeat, and receive a small smile in return. Then it drops as you add, “If you don’t get your ass in the car in the next five minutes I will kill you.”

“James,” you think to yourself before you drift off to sleep that night.

How peculiar.

“James, James, James.”

Celebrities these days are multi-hyphenates.

DG is an Idol-CEO-Actor, or at least trying to add the last one onto his resume. On looks alone, he would have already gotten his foot through the door. Add on his reputation and popularity, he is drowning in offers.

What you personally dislike more with K-dramas scenes though, is how long things take. How much it revolves around other actors and their managers whereas DG being in the studio or filming a music video is pretty much all him.

This K-drama is supposed to be the next big thing.

With the biggest names attached, including DG who is making a cameo. The cameo that was also scheduled to be filmed five hours ago but you have both just been lurking in his dressing room since.

Along with some measly snacks and refreshments, which the crew has been kind enough to provide.

However, the snacks are all but gone (thanks to you) and the refreshments are dwindling and there is no end in sight.

DG, or James, as you have started to call him in your head, is on his phone. He’s always on his phone. Scrolling through news articles, responding to important emails and messages.

There’s only so much news or celebrity gossip you can take. You have exhausted your own social media feeds and you have spent far too much money on your gacha games and the guilt has set in.

You twiddle your thumbs on the sofa next to him as he takes no notice of your presence and you decide to rest your eyes.

Why not anyway? DG doesn’t need anything right now, work won’t be interrupting you, and there’s nothing for you to do. Just for a minute or five. Until someone from the production team knocks on the door and announces that it’s time for his scene.

DG side-eyes you when he notices your breath start to slow and deepen. Falling asleep on the job, really?

Then you let out a snore before smacking your lips together a couple times and he holds back a snort. He reasons that he should let you have some time to rest. After all, you’re the one that drives him around, his life is in your hands everyday and tiredness kills.

He’s on his phone for a few more minutes, reading through more emails on PTJ Entertainment and out of the corner of his eye he notices you drooping.

Body slowly slumping to slouch over him, until your head makes contact with his shoulder and you’re snoozing happily on your newfound pillow.

It’s equal parts inappropriate and cute.

Ugh, DG is 99% sure you’re drooling on him and the wardrobe department isn’t going to be happy when he returns the outfit.

Either way, that’s not going to be his problem. He adjusts minutely, makes it just a touch more comfortable for you and continues to scroll.

You wake up to a wetness by your mouth, and to your horror, DG smirking down at you.

Despite none of this being your fault, you apologise to everyone about having to reschedule DG’s music video shoot due to the previous day’s K-drama delays.

To your relief, the music video goes swimmingly and without a hitch, and the production is wrapped up on time.

You’ll happily bet that his new song will go straight to No.1. If not, then at least the sensual music video will guarantee DG remains top of mind for weeks.

You’re updating your boss and even she seems to be pleased.

"This is just work." DG interrupts as you're mid call.

You look up at him, brows furrowed.

Holding your hand to your phone to mute the speaker, you whisper, "I know."

"Good," and he walks away leaving you as confused as ever.

It's not the first time you have seen him shoot an MV, which thank the heavens is so much more efficient than bloody k-dramas, and also not the first time that there's been scenes that emulate an intimate moment. Lips nearly brushing together. Hands roaming bodies under fake rain.

Even if DG notices that you're watching the scene, eyes glazed over and bored, he still felt the urge to explain to you that there's nothing between you and the leading lady in the video.

Once out of sight of everyone, he facepalms himself for his ridiculousness.

You’re right, and you absolutely love it when you’re right.

The song goes straight to No.1 and holds that position for weeks, fending off competition from boy bands and girl groups and other solo artists. Apparently it’s going to be the song of the summer.

The music video also breaks records for being the most watched within 24 hours.

DG only reviews it once for post-production checks and finds it just fine.

There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on that seems off with it.

He wonders what it would look like if it was you starring opposite him.

“Where on earth is he?” You grit your teeth and grip harder onto the umbrella that is threatening to be swept away by the wind.

And another thing with being DG’s manager: it’s fine if he’s late but not if it’s you.

(Although to be fair, this instance of him being late is likely due to this particular music producer he’s meeting with enjoying the sound of his own voice.)

You were running late exactly one time in the past, during the first couple days of managing him, when the skies opened and drenched the earth.

Heavens forbid DG’s perfect, beautiful, flawless hair is ruined by the rain.

It’s not like he looked like a drowned rat. The paparazzi caught him in a wet t-shirt, fabric clinging to his abs and his pink hair slicked back stylishly. Even the goddamn raindrops were running fashionably down his high cheekbones and dripping off his pout.

For the next week, the tabloids and internet forums went wild with how hot he looked.

(Who knows, maybe that was the inspiration for his fragrance commercial.)

Nevertheless, DG was displeased and it made its way back to your boss how displeased he was.

Ever since, you have been the unfortunate soul waiting in all manners of weather for him. Rain storms, blistering sun, freezing snow.

Today, it’s your favourite. Rain. You shiver against the elements trying to take shelter under the building entrance canopy, the wind whipping the downpour every which way and you’re getting soaked regardless of how you angle your umbrella.

“Hurry up, DG.”

You check the time over and over. He would be early to his next appointment if he exited the building now.

…On time.

…On time if the traffic was in your favour.

…Late, but not terribly so.

…Fashionably late.

… Late enough to piss everyone off in the room.

Shit. Just as you begin to fret, wondering if something has happened to him-

Clicks and flashes from cameras alert you to his royal highness finally making an appearance, ready to exit the studio and making his way over to the car.

He materialises by your side, and you mutter a familiar phrase to him.

“You’re late.”

It’s a mantra you’re tired of repeating, but he relishes if the amused grin is any indication.

Without a word, he takes off his trench coat and drapes it around your shoulders. His right hand covers yours over the umbrella handle, left wrapping around your waist as he guides you through the throng of reporters and fans.

“What are you doing?” You hiss under your breath.

You can imagine the optics now from the papers and your boss. It looks… Well. Not terrible but not the best.

“You’re soaked,” is all DG provides, accompanied with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

He opens the driver’s door for you before he climbs into the passenger’s side.

Thank goodness for your gift of the gab.

He’s being a gentleman, you tell everyone that would listen. Isn’t this what Korea wants? An idol with manners and who looks after everyone? Is empathetic and caring?

Think how well it would resonate with the female demographic, who wants a boyfriend like this! The older boomer demographic, who thinks none of the young ‘uns have any manners anymore!

Your boss isn’t convinced until the advertising offers for umbrella companies roll in.

Truth be told, DG doesn’t know what possessed him to do that. Especially in front of cameras.

Though, it’s not like he could just let you get even more drenched could he? You’re standing there, looking pitiful and he was just going to let you hold the umbrella over him when he should be the one taking care of you-

Hold on.

DG frowns at himself.

Damn.

James Lee has never looked after anyone besides himself. You need to look after yourself if you are to survive this dog eat dog world. To make it atop the Pre-Generation, the First Generation and now the Second.

He had unfathomably high expectations of himself (that he managed to achieve) and low expectations for relationships (that hadn’t been proven wrong yet).

People have flitted in and out of the chapters of his life, no-one staying around for long. Definitely no-one staying around long enough to know him, for him to grow comfortable with.

Perhaps it has been the forced closeness that has caused him to let his guard down. Cabin fever, in a sense.

But James Lee, Diego Kang, has himself also been around long enough to know there’s more to you and he wants more of you.

Finding reasons to spend time together isn’t difficult. Actually, finding reasons to spend time apart would be much harder.

You both get on with your jobs and your duties, even as the closeness grows day by day.

And every time when you’re alone and you call him James, his heart grows fonder.

Out of all the seats available in his apartment, James lounges next to you, long legs draping over yours.

It's another night in together.

These seem to be happening with increasing frequency. DG at least used to keep up appearances, networking with his fellow celebrities.

Parties where you used to look at him with distaste as starlets surrounded him, award shows that he couldn't care less about as you hung around in the background.

Now he prefers to stay in with you, using work as a thin excuse. Studying lyrics that he has already memorised, going over dances that are long ingrained in him.

"You're not going to her party?" You ask, you were sure this fan-favourite and DG were an item or had history. At the very least, the who's who of the industry always attended her gatherings.

"No," his eyes continue roving over the lines.

Then when you thought the conversation was done, he looks over the top of his paper, eyes sparkling with playfulness, "I prefer being here with you."

Oh. Your breath catches in your throat.

You think you might never breathe normally again.

No, that’s a lie. Any opportunities for rose-tinted glasses has long passed by. You both know each other too well for that.

You breathe perfectly fine. Actually, this morning you are taking deep breaths to try and centre yourself.

It’s not working.

“You’re always fucking late,” you snap, giving in to your anger.

Sometimes you think it is your fault for not watching over DG 24/7. That instead of going back home, you should just live with him so you can shake him awake when he is supposed to get up instead of when he wants to.

And does it hurt him to look the least bit contrite at making your life a misery?

Why does he have to look so smug with a lollipop stick hanging out his mouth? Seriously, between all the rushing around this morning, when did he find time to look for goddamn candy?

“For fuck’s sake, James.” You’re speed walking towards his front door, looking at the Maps app on your phone and miss his smile at you snarling his name.

You’re already running behind and every route to the recording studio is red due to roadworks or an accident or just plain ol’ congestion. “Shit!”

Your finger jabs at the elevator button multiple times.

“It’s not going to get there any quicker if you do that,” DG speaks lowly into your ear and you get the urge to pinch him.

Instead of prodding some more at the button, you turn around and prod him in the chest.

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days,” You growl. “It’s fine for you, Diego goddamn Kang, the star who is pretty much untouchable. I’m not. I’m replaceable. There’s a million people who would take my job-”

DG snatches your hand, holds it still. “You’re not replaceable.” Then adds with an infuriating grin, “So what if we’re late.”

The minivan is skipped, and his answer to your problem is his other pride and joy. A motorbike that looks far too aggressive and a complete death trap.

“I’m not getting on that,” you say as DG hands you leathers that materialised from god-knows-where and a spare helmet.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging and throwing a leg over. “I don’t think your boss will be happy.”

“Fuck!”

If this was any other situation, you would be acutely aware of yourself pressed up against DG’s back. Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Except all you can focus on is that you’re going to fucking die. You think you might be screaming.

“Stop screaming!” His disembodied voice calls out. Oh. Turns out you are.

For some reason, DG had thought the helmets with built in speakers and mic would be better for communication. Fun, even. Frankly, you’re just giving him a headache.

(Not to mention the fact that he bought a spare helmet at all. And leathers that he thought would be exactly your size.

He had never rode with anyone before and you certainly had never expressed any interest. Yet he passed by a motorcycle store when he had rare time to spare, and visited on a whim.

If he dwelled on this anymore, DG is sure his headache would turn into a full blown migraine.)

Later that night, when the ringing in his ears finally subside, he will still think about the way you held him.

When public opinion is on your side, then that’s fantastic. Amazing. You tend to get away with all sorts of things.

When it’s not, the truth can become muddied and there’s mental gymnastics from all sides painting you as the villain.

Fortunately, public opinion generally works in DG’s favour, especially in the case of his stalker who got sentenced for more jail time than if she was harassing a normal person, but not long enough to account for all the distress she has caused.

Such is the criminal justice system.

Her date of release looms large and near. DG, despite his talent and fighting prowess, realises certain traumas can’t be erased.

He grows on edge. Skittish. Snaps at any and everything. It’s noted by journalists. Other managers gives you questioning looks

You don’t miss his change in demeanour. To you, the reason behind it is obvious.

You’ve heard about this case, everyone has. It dominated headlines for almost a month: the crazy sasaeng fan who believed herself to be DG’s girlfriend before moving onto another poor soul and was finally arrested.

As he spirals, nothing you do or say to him manages to get more than a nod or a frown. You try to offer that she had fixated on someone else before she was arrested, hoping that was a small consolation to him. And though he managed a weak smile, the black cloud still hangs over him.

In the end, you pack your bags and arrive at DG’s one evening. Instead of letting yourself in like you usually would, you ring the buzzer, smile into the door camera and tell him “It’s me!”

The door swings open to reveal DG looking perplexed (and worse for wear). Head tilting, curious and inquisitive when he sees your suitcase and carrier bags full of snacks.

“I’m staying for a while.”

“According to who?”

You barge past him anyway with a grin.

The date of his stalker’s release arrives and passes without drama.

You miss your home comforts but it makes you happy to see DG’s mood genuinely improve as the days go on.

The luxurious oversized mattress, fancy spa shower, and jacuzzi bathtub also helps to make your stay a bit more bearable.

Not to mention each morning DG actually cooks breakfast for you. Turns out he’s not bad at all at playing a househusband, and it’s also maddening how he manages to get up each day before you when he hasn’t got any place to be.

“Thanks James,” you say, when he presents you with a home cooked meal and his smile grows a bit more each day.

Peace doesn’t last.

Blurry photos of you both leaving and entering DG’s apartment at all hours of the day and night make the front page of certain news sites.

Headlines scream with leading questions.

“Relationship beyond Manager and Idol?”

“How a Manager seduced their Idol.”

“Who is this mystery person that has tamed DG?”

Why anyone deemed it newsworthy is beyond you. You’ve been to his apartment a million times.

Yes, you suppose the closeness of DG and yourself in the photos can look a little suspect.

In this particular one, it looks like you have your hand caressing his chest when in actual fact you were shoving him away for a dismissive comment he made.

And the other photo, of his hand on your wrist, was actually him dragging you away when he spotted a herd of fans in the distance.

More pictures unveil themselves.

A snapshot of you driving and DG feeding you candy.

You and DG, whispering intimately in your ear as his supercar is being towed away in the background.

You red faced and drunk as DG piggybacks you outside your building.

His jacket wrapped around you, hand on your waist and angling the umbrella over you.

Him smiling down at you (ok, you admit that you didn’t realise how soft that looks to other people.)

Finally an exceptionally pixelated image of you both on his bike, that could be anyone really.

Unfortunately, your opinion is in the minority as the articles are inundated with comments and furious, tearful fans shrieking that their idol is betraying them.

Simply unhinged.

The speculation grows. You’re damned if you do deny anything, damned if you don’t. Your talent agency puts out an official statement.

To your ire, the statement is ‘no comment’ rather than anything more definitive. You glare at James when you find out, suspecting he has something to do with this.

He gives you a shrug, and a familiar look of mischief.

To his credit, he doesn’t leave you completely to fend for yourself. You stay off social media for your sanity, and when the paparazzi hounds you, he's the one with his arm around you, cutting a path through the crowd and shielding you.

It adds fuel to the fire. Does nothing to help your case.

Still, you can’t help feeling safe and secure with his hand guiding you - holding onto your waist, round your shoulder, or simply -

Your hand in his.

Outside of the conference room, where DG is wrapping up a press release for his newest album and nothing else, a reporter slinks out and approaches you.

You’re used to being on the other side of the conversation. Part of the staff, herding DG through camera flashes and questions being thrown at him though there was always some sort of camaraderie. Both parties just trying to do their job with deadlines and targets to hit.

This time you just feel a weariness as you see this person making a beeline towards you.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” They say, holding out their hand for a shake which you take with reluctance.

“Hi.”

A voice recorder is thrusted into your face, and you automatically take a step back. “Hope you don’t mind, but I just have a couple questions for you.”

“Um...”

“There’s been lots of sightings of you and DG together-”

You open your mouth to argue-

“Can you confirm your relationship with him?”

A vacant smile settles onto your face. It’s a practised expression where you follow all the cues to be polite and professional even as internally you wish to be anywhere but here. “I’m his manager.”

“Are you two together? Romantically?”

“I’m his manager.” You repeat through gritted teeth, and you’re surprised to hear your voice calm and collected.

“Is that a no? Or-”

“What even is this question?” You scoff, ignoring the way your cheeks heat, and refusing to partake in this circus a moment longer. “This is over.”

You manage to at least catch them looking apologetic, before you stride off into a corner to take a deep breath.

DG, much more adept and experienced at fending off questions, had finished the conference early and caught the entire exchange, watching you both with a bemused look.

Walking towards you with quiet, measured footsteps, his hand settles onto your lower back as he murmurs your name.

He bites back a laugh at your small, startled jolt.

DG tilts his head to signal ‘this way’. You give him a look but follow him regardless. Trailing behind, moving far away from other prying eyes.

Up a flight of stairs, through multiple fire doors, turning left then right then another right then maybe a left. It doesn’t matter. You’re hopefully lost and decide to just put your faith in this wretched idol.

He finally seems to find what he’s looking for as he reaches an empty corridor; stopping mid-step and you collide into his back.

“Ack!” You exclaim, hitting the solid wall of muscle.

He lets out a huff of laughter and whirls around to face you, noting how cute your look of surprise is.

How strange though, that this is his current position. But is it really unexpected that the person that has been by his side for months has finally worked their way into his heart and has somehow learned to read him when no-one else could?

If he really thinks about it, yes actually, it is unexpected. No-one else has managed to grow close to him before. As James Lee, as Diego Kang. Birds of a feather or opposites attract or everything in between, no-one has got him like you do.

There’s still so much more to tell and show you but… First things first.

Fidgeting, you shift your weight from one foot to another, growing self-conscious waiting for DG to talk, only to find him staring intently at your face. Impatient, you give in and speak first.

“What is it?”

“...”

“Diego-”

“James.” He cuts in abruptly, “It’s just us right now. Please.”

You blink in shock at the please and correct yourself at his insistence, lowering your voice so it doesn’t echo down the empty hallway. “James, are you ok?”

“Better than ever,” he says, a smirk now pulling at his lips.

You register his change in mood and narrow your eyes, wondering where this is going. “Why are we here?”

“When the reporter asked if we were together, you said you’re my manager.”

“I am your manager.”

“But you are interested in me.”

It’s not a question. DG, no James, says it like a fact and there’s no doubt in your mind or his. You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Open it once more-

What.

You feel some cogs in your brain misfiring and all you can manage is a feeble, “Huh?”

“You told them you’re my manager, but didn’t say no to being with me.”

“...”

“So. What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Us.”

“You like me. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

You take a step back. “...”

Another step. “...”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

And your back hits the wall with an oomph.

DG slaps his hand on the wall beside your head, bends at the waist and leans his weight forward until he’s eye level with you. “Tell me and I promise I’ll stop.”

“...”

You’re cornered and he searches your face for a response.“Y/N?”

“...”

Fuck. Fuck!

How on earth are you supposed to respond when he looks at you like this. When his face is millimetres from yours and his breath is on your skin and his dark eyes pierces into your soul, pupils blown deliciously wide.

With his stupid pink hair and his fringe flopping, framing his face and his high cheekbones.

The stupid canines of his poking out that gives him so much character and is so hot it hurts when he flashes it accompanied with an arched brow and an arrogant smile.

His stupid pout and his stupid lips, that you know is constantly moisturised with a fancy overpriced lip balm to make it look kissable for the cameras.

And Jesus Christ, you hate to admit it but they do. They 100% do because somewhere in the back of your brain you always knew they look kissable but it has been often clouded by just simply how annoying and bratty you found him.

Except right now you don’t find him annoying or bratty at all.

Even as he’s confessing his feelings with complete confidence, no unease, no anxiety or doubts, because he always had a way of worming under your skin and he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

Damn it all.

“Kiss me,” you tell James, and he isn’t surprised at all by your reaction, face lighting up at your confirmation.

He shifts.

Hand coming up to cup your cheek. He rubs his thumb twice over your skin, savouring you any way he can before tilting your face towards his. His lips at first brushes against your forehead. Leaves a trail down your nose, peppers both cheeks and then your chin.

He draws back once, takes in your sweet face and gives you a smile so soft it makes your heart hurt.

Then finally, after wanting this for so long, presses his lips against yours.

Diego Kang, James Lee, tastes like candy and sugar.

#might be very ooc but honestly i feel a little insane. your honour i dont even like him #lookism #lookism x reader #diego kang x reader #james lee x reader #dg x reader #kang dagyum #lookism dg #james lee #diego kang #lookism fic #wannaeatramyeon

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