#Yes I'm still goddamn mad | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

killerplink · 3 months ago

Text

DEVOTION

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader

Plot: A fight with Jason gets heated—sharp words, stubborn tempers, neither of you backing down. But when the tension snaps, it turns into something else entirely. Something raw, desperate, and messy.

Words: 10k

The apartment door slams behind you both, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet space. Your heels clack against the hardwood as you stalk toward the bedroom, too pissed to even look at him right now. Jason follows, his heavy boots thudding after you, that cocky swagger in every step even though you're very clearly fuming.

"Are you really gonna be mad all night?" he asks, tone half lazy, half exasperated.

You whip around so fast your hair flies over your shoulder, finger already pointed at his chest. "Yes! Jason, I swear to God, you're fucking impossible!"

His brows shoot up, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. "What'd I do now, doll?"

"What'd you do? Are you serious?" You step closer, eyes flashing, and jab a finger into his chest. "You almost started a fight at the restaurant! Over nothing! Just—someone bumped into me, and suddenly you're ready to crack skulls like you're still some street kid with nothing to lose, except you have everything to lose, Jason! I have everything to lose!"

That softens his smirk, just a little. But it doesn't disappear, not entirely. "Baby, I had it under control."

"No, you didn't!" Your voice breaks on the words, frustration and fear tangled up too tight in your chest. "You never have it under control when you get like that. You stop thinking. It's like you don't even care what happens to you."

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "You're bein' dramatic."

"Oh, fuck you." You turn away, arms crossed tight, nails digging into your own skin like you can hold yourself together if you just squeeze hard enough. "I'm not being dramatic, Jay. I'm scared. Every time you act like your life doesn't matter, it scares the shit out of me because your life does matter. To me."

That knocks some of the wind out of his cocky sails, but true to form, Jason Todd never backs down that easily. "I can handle myself, baby. I've been in worse fights before you even knew me."

"And maybe that's the problem!" You spin around again, hands flung wide. "You're so used to throwing yourself into danger like you've got a death wish, you don't even think about the people who love you, who have to watch you do it. Who have to fucking wait and hope you come home in one piece."

His jaw clenches, that sharp edge of defensiveness flashing in his eyes. "I came home tonight, didn't I?"

"Barely! If Dick hadn't dragged you out of there—"

"—I would've walked out just fine on my own," he cuts in, voice hard, like he's this close to losing his temper too.

You both stand there, breathing hard, anger seeping through every pore. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, anger and fear and love all tangled into a knot you can't untie. And goddamn him, even now, with his blood still running hot from almost throwing down, with that cocky little glint still in his eye—he looks good. Messy hair, jaw clenched tight, that black shirt stretched over his broad chest, his hands flexing like he still has adrenaline to burn.

You want to shake him. You want to kiss him. You want to scream until your throat hurts.

Jason exhales, slow and heavy, like he's trying to ease some of that heat out of his chest before you both say something you can't take back.

"Baby," he says, quieter now, "I'm fine."

Your throat closes up. "For now."

He takes a step closer, hands sliding to your waist, fingers curling into your dress. "I'm not goin' anywhere, pretty girl."

You shake your head, eyes stinging. "You can't promise that."

Jason sighs as he leans down, forehead tipping against yours. "What do you want me to say, huh? That I'll never lose my temper again? That I'll play nice and walk away every time some asshole gets in my face? That's not who I am."

"I know," you whisper. "But it's who I wish you could be. Just for me."

That hits somewhere deep, somewhere tender he doesn't let many people see. But instead of softening, Jason leans into the heat instead because that's how he knows to handle fear, with fire.

"C'mere," he mutters, dragging you into him, arms wrapping tight around your waist. "You wanna fight with me? Do it right here, baby. Get it out of your system."

You shove at his chest, and he catches your wrist, twisting you into him like a dance, his breath warm against your ear.

"Or," he says low, voice all gravel and heat, "you can find a better way to work out all that attitude."

"Fuck off," you snap, but it's weaker now, your anger unraveling into something messier, hotter.

He chuckles, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "C'mon, pretty girl. You're pissed, I'm pissed, and you're standin' here looking like that." His hands slide down, grabbing your ass hard through your dress. "We both know exactly how this night's gonna end."

Your breath catches, nails curling into his chest again, not pushing this time, just holding on.

"Still mad at me, baby?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He grins against your mouth, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. "Let me make it up to you."

Your hands land flat on his chest, shoving him back, catching him off guard enough that he stumbles two steps out of the bedroom. And before he can say a damn word, you slam the door right in his stupid, handsome, reckless face. Not locked, just shut, because locking it feels too final, too mean, and you're pissed, but not that pissed.

Jason stares at the door for half a second, then his forehead drops against it with a low thud, and he knocks his head against it once, twice, just hard enough to feel it.

"Fuck."

He didn't mean to ruin the night. He never means to ruin shit when it comes to you. But the moment that asshole's hand brushed against your ass—innocent or not—it flipped a fucking switch in him. And maybe that's fucked up, maybe he's got a million unresolved issues tied to losing everyone he's ever given a shit about, but you?

You're his. His girl, his future, his everything, and seeing someone else's hand anywhere near you sends him spiraling into that ugly, possessive part of himself that only you've ever managed to soften.

And yeah, maybe the guy didn't mean it, maybe it was just a crowded restaurant and accidents happen, but Jason's not the kind of man who plays it cool. Not when it comes to you. Not when he loves you so much it hurts sometimes, sitting right there under his ribs like a bruise he can't stop poking.

He presses his palms to the door, wishing he could just rewind the whole night—go back to you looking so pretty at the restaurant, all smiles and soft touches, letting him steal kisses between courses. You'd been happy. And then he fucked it up. Again.

Inside the bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled into the sheets, trying to hold back the sting in your eyes. You won't cry—you won't—but your throat's tight, and your chest aches, and the night feels like it's unraveling right between your fingers.

Tonight was supposed to be fun. It's Tim's fucking birthday, for God's sake. The restaurant had been beautiful, the food actually good for once, the atmosphere soft and warm with all your friends laughing and talking and teasing each other.

And then some random guy brushed past you on his way to the bathroom, bumping your hip, and Jason went feral. You love that he's protective—God, you do—but Gotham is full of crazy assholes, and you don't want him starting a fight with someone who might pull out a gun and blow his brains out over a misunderstanding.

The thought makes your stomach churn, fear sliding ice cold down your spine, and you have to shake it off before it eats you alive. You stand, fingers reaching behind you to unzip your dress, and it slides off your body in a whisper of fabric, pooling at your feet. And that's when you catch your reflection in the mirror, and yeah, no wonder he couldn't keep his hands off you all night.

The lingerie underneath? It's not the kind you wear every day. This is the good shit—black lace and thin straps, sheer panels teasing the curves of your tits, a matching thong barely covering anything, thin enough to show just how wet you already are.

Because for all the shit he's pulling tonight, Jason's still your hot ass, broad shouldered, cocky as hell boyfriend, and your pussy? She does not hold grudges.

You're still mad. You still wanna shake him until his teeth rattle. But you also want him to fuck you so hard you forget why you were even mad to begin with.

You sigh, tug open the bedroom door, and march straight into the living room, chin high, steps confident even though your knees are still a little weak from all that adrenaline. And, yeah, maybe from how fucking good he made you cum this morning.

Jason's slouched on the couch, head tipped back, hands dragging down his face, and when he hears your footsteps, he looks up, and freezes.

His eyes rake over you, slow and dark, tongue darting out to wet his lips like his mouth's gone dry. "Jesus Christ."

You cross your arms under your tits, pushing them up just a little higher. "What? Cat got your tongue, big guy?"

His gaze flicks from your face to your tits to the sheer lace stretched over your hips, and the way the thin strip of fabric between your legs is already dark with how wet you are.

"You're tryin' to fuckin' kill me," he mutters, half to himself, half to you.

You cock a hip, all attitude, even though your pulse is hammering. "Thought you liked a challenge."

Jason pushes up from the couch, moving slow, shoulders broad and tense, every line of him saying he's holding himself back—barely. "You're still mad at me."

"Furious," you agree.

"And you're standin' there looking like that."

You glance down at yourself, trailing a finger over the top of your bra, down the center of your stomach. "Yeah. What are you gonna do about it?"

He's on you in two steps, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other grabbing a handful of your ass, yanking you flush against him. "Gonna fuck the attitude right outta you, baby."

"Promises, promises."

He kisses you hard enough to steal your breath, hands already roaming, already tugging at the straps of your bra, already ready to tear you apart and put you back together again, but you're faster. You grab two handfuls of his shirt, spinning him around and shoving him back onto the couch. He goes down without a fight, grinning like the cocky bastard he is, because you both know you can't actually budge him unless he lets you.

But fuck, does it turn him on when you try.

Jason sprawls into the cushions, legs spread, hands braced on his thighs like he's daring you to climb on top of him, but instead, you drop to your knees between his legs. His whole body tenses, chest rising slower, breath catching because you—all pissed off, all attitude, all tits spilling out of that black lace bra—are kneeling right there, looking up at him like you're about to ruin his fucking life.

And for once, Jason Todd has nothing to say.

You reach for his belt, slow and deliberate, dragging the leather free of the loops with a sharp tug, and you swear you see his fingers twitch. He's already getting hard, already pressing against the front of his jeans, already so fucking easy for you.

The buckle clinks as you undo it, popping the button next, tugging the zipper down with a sound that seems louder than it should be. And then you pull his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free his dick, and—fuck.

He's so fucking big, already thick and flushed, veins standing out along his length, and a bead of precum clings to the slit, catching the low light. Your pussy throbs on sight alone, clenching around nothing, still sore from the last time he was inside you.

Jason's hand lifts, fingers reaching for the back of your head—because of course he wants to grab your hair, guide your mouth, fuck your throat—but you slap his hand away, sharp and quick.

"No touching."

He freezes like you've just short-circuited every thought in his head. "What?"

"No. Touching." You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, giving him one slow, punishing stroke, twisting your wrist just the way he likes. "You wanna act reckless? You wanna scare the shit outta me? You wanna start fights over shit that doesn't matter? Then you can sit there with your hands to yourself while I handle this."

Jason's jaw clenches, shoulders tight, every muscle in his thighs twitching, but he obeys. Barely. His hands grip the edge of the couch so tight his knuckles go white.

You lean in, licking up the underside of his cock in one slow, wet drag, ending with a kiss to the tip that leaves your lips shiny with precum. "You're such a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, baby," he rasps, voice already rougher. "I know."

You pump him slow, fingers squeezing just right, thumb swiping through the slick at his tip before you slide down again.

"What if you got yourself shot tonight, huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do if you get yourself killed because you can't stand someone breathing in my direction?"

"Fuck." His head tips back, throat flexing, cock leaking even more into your palm.

"Who's gonna love me the way you do? Who's gonna fuck me if you're dead, Jason?" You squeeze his dick just to see his hips jerk. "Who else knows how to ruin me like you do?"

"Baby—"

"No. Don't talk." You flick your tongue against the tip, barely a taste, before you sit back on your heels, jerking him slow and mean. "You don't get to talk, you reckless, possessive, stupid fucking man."

His abs tighten, hands still white-knuckling the couch, and his cock twitches in your grip, a fresh bead of precum sliding down the side. "You love that I'm possessive."

You glare up at him, lips curling. "I do. But not when it puts you in danger, asshole." You kiss the tip again, softer this time. "Not when it makes me scared I'm gonna lose you."

Jason's breath stutters, and you see it. That crack in his tough guy armor, the one only you ever get to see. But you don't let him soften.

Not yet. Instead, you drag your tongue along the underside of his cock again, pumping him faster, twisting your wrist just right, watching his thighs tense and his hips fight not to thrust up into your mouth.

"Keep your hands there," you murmur, voice all sweet and mean at once. "And maybe—maybe—I'll let you cum down my throat."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ."

His head falls back, a bead of sweat sliding down his neck, and you know you've got him right where you want him.

Jason yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it aside, not even bothering with unbuttoning it, because if you're gonna make him suffer, the least he can do is give you something to look at. And fuck, do you look.

Your hands rest on his thick thighs for a second, gaze dragging over every inked inch of him—the dark ink across his chest, the jagged lines along his ribs, the script down his arms that you've traced with your tongue a hundred times before. He's so fucking hot, all muscle and attitude, sprawled out, dick rock hard in your grip, glistening with spit and precum.

"Enjoyin' the view?"

His voice is pure gravel, but there's a waver in it, like he's already hanging by a thread.

"Shut up."

You lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock again, tracing that thick vein with the tip of your tongue until you reach the head, circling it slowly before you take him into your mouth, lips stretching, jaw aching already, but you don't stop. You never stop.

He's too fucking big, he always is, but you try anyway, sinking lower, feeling the weight of him press against your tongue, the blunt head nudging the back of your throat.

"Greedy little thing," Jason mutters, hands twitching, and you see it. The instinct, the need to grab your hair and fuck your throat until you're crying.

But you slap his thigh sharply. "I said no touching."

"Baby—"

"No."

You sink back down, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him deep until your throat spasms around the fat tip, gagging. Tears prick your eyes, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, but you fucking love it. Love the way his thighs tense, love the way his dick jumps on your tongue, love how fucking desperate he looks.

Jason's chest heaves, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "You're evil."

You hum around him, the vibration making him swear under his breath, and you pull off with a filthy pop, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his cock before you drag your tongue up the side again.

"Yeah? And what's that make you for loving it?"

"Completely fucked."

You grin, all teeth, and take him back into your mouth, bobbing your head faster, sucking him down until you gag again, drool dripping down your chin, slicking his cock even more. Your thighs press together, your pussy throbbing, panties soaked through. You can feel it, the sticky mess between your legs, the ache in your cunt, the way your body needs him, no matter how mad you are.

Jason groans, deep and low, and you glance up at him through wet lashes, seeing the flush on his chest, the tension in his jaw, the muscles jumping in his stomach. He's so fucking close already, you can tell, and every time he tries to lift a hand, you slap it back down, keeping him helpless beneath you, all that strength and power completely useless unless you let him use it.

"Baby, please." His voice cracks, and it's the hottest fucking thing you've ever heard.

You pull off one more time, stroking him fast and messy, your spit slick hand gliding easily along his length. "Please what?"

"Please lemme touch you."

You shake your head, licking up the underside again, tongue teasing his slit before you suck the head back into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks until his hips buck, just once, just enough to choke you again. You swallow hard, tears sliding down your cheeks, and his dick throbs so hard you can feel it on your tongue.

"Be good," you murmur around him, voice muffled and obscene, "and I'll let you cum."

Jason's head falls back, a broken groan ripping from his throat, and you know you've got him. You sink back down, taking him as deep as you can, lips stretched tight around the fat width of his cock, spit and precum slicking your chin as you work him with all the devotion you can muster. What you can't fit—and there's always part of him you can't fit—you stroke with your hand, fingers gliding over the thick base, your palm sticky with drool and his slick.

Your tongue works the head, lapping up every drop of precum he leaks, tasting that salty, addictive tease of what's coming, and you fucking love it. You flick your tongue against his slit, suck gently on the sensitive tip before you sink down again, sucking hard, cheeks hollowed so tight your jaw aches, but you don't fucking care.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Jason groans, his voice wrecked, head tipped back against the couch, muscles tight like he's holding himself together with sheer fucking will. "You're perfect, baby. Mouth so goddamn good—fuck, you always know how to suck me just right."

The praise makes your pussy clench hard, heat flooding your belly, and you double down, bobbing your head faster, working him with both your mouth and hand until your throat burns and your jaw trembles. Every time you pull back, you leave a messy trail of spit and precum glistening along his length, but you dive right back in, tongue swirling around the head before you take him deep again.

"Look at you," Jason breathes, his voice low and rough. "So fuckin' pretty like this. My perfect girl. You love this dick, don't you?"

You hum around him, the vibration making his whole body twitch, and he groans so low it vibrates in your chest. You pull back just enough to gasp, "Love it, Jay. Best fucking dick I've ever had."

"Yeah?" His grin is sharp, dangerous. "Then show me, baby. Show me how much you love it."

Challenge fucking accepted. You take him deep again, swallowing around the head, ignoring the gag reflex that flares up as you press lower, working him into your throat until your nose brushes the skin at the base of his cock. You gag again, spit bubbling past your lips, but you don't stop. You fucking love how heavy he feels on your tongue, how thick and hot and perfect he is, filling your mouth like he was made for it.

Jason's fists clench at his sides, his whole body trembling with restraint. "So good for me, baby," he mutters, voice cracking with it. "So fuckin' good. My pretty, filthy fucking girl. Takin' me so deep—fuck, 'm gonna cum, baby. Gonna fill that perfect mouth."

You moan around him, and that's it. His hips jerk, cock swelling, and then he's cumming, thick ropes of cum spilling across your tongue, hot and salty and so much, it makes you whimper as you swallow, throat working hard to take it all.

He always cums a lot, his balls emptying in pulse after pulse, and you keep sucking, milking him through it, letting every drop slide down your throat until your belly feels warm with it. His cock throbs against your tongue, so sensitive it makes his hips twitch every time your tongue flicks over the head, but you don't stop until you know he's completely spent.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice rough and almost shaky. "Gonna kill me one of these days."

You pull back slowly, licking your swollen lips, wiping the mess from your chin with the back of your hand, and grin up at him, all fucked-out satisfaction. Jason pulls you right into his lap, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

His hands slide down to grab your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, grinding you down against his cock, still hard and slick with your spit, and you moan when you feel the thick length press up against your soaked lace panties.

"Fuck," Jason mutters, dragging you along his cock again, feeling how drenched you are even through the lace. "That pretty pussy misses me already, huh?"

"Jay," you murmur, voice soft, needy, and when you lean in, he catches your mouth in a kiss—hot, messy, all tongue and teeth, licking into you like he's starving for your taste.

He groans low when he tastes himself on your tongue, dirty and possessive, and you whimper into his mouth, hips moving on their own, grinding down against him, chasing friction.

You break the kiss to breathe, forehead resting against his, and your fingers stroke the hair at the nape of his neck as you whisper, "Do you love me?"

Jason's hands flex on your ass, holding you tighter, and his voice is low, earnest when he says, "You know I do, baby. Love you so fuckin' much."

You lick your lips, eyes dark with want. "Then fuck me like you mean it."

His eyes flash—something feral, something wild, and before you can say anything else, he's moving, standing up with you in his arms like you weigh nothing before he lays you down on the couch, his jeans and boxers kicked off in one rough move. He kneels over you, hands already tugging your bra down until your tits spill out, and he doesn't even bother unclasping it before he's on you.

"Love these tits," he mutters between kisses, licking over one nipple, sucking it into his mouth before letting it go with a wet pop. His tongue flicks over the other, sharp and teasing, before he closes his lips around it, sucking hard until you gasp and arch into him. "So fuckin' pretty, baby. Could spend all day suckin' on these."

You tug at his hair, breathless, moaning when he drags his teeth over your nipple, just the right amount of rough. He leaves a trail of messy hickeys down the curve of your tits, marking you like the possessive asshole he is, and you swear your pussy gets even wetter from it.

He kisses down your stomach, hands already hooking into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down just enough to get access to you. "Love this body," he murmurs, licking over the waistband before kissing your hipbone. "Love this pussy. Love you, baby."

You whimper, spreading your legs instinctively, and he groans at the sight of your panties clinging to your soaked folds, the lace darkened with how wet you are. His fingers trace along the edge of the fabric, barely touching you, just enough to make your thighs twitch in frustration.

Then his tongue flicks out, teasing you through the fabric, just the lightest drag of warmth over your clit, and you jolt, hips twitching up, chasing more.

Jason hums, amused, as he pulls back, blowing cool air against the damp spot where his tongue just was. "So fuckin' wet for me already," he mutters, voice wrecked, his breath hot against your cunt.

His fingers slide down, pressing against the soaked lace, rubbing slow, lazy circles over your clit, just enough to make you ache but not enough to satisfy.

Your hips stutter, desperate for more friction, but he doesn't give it to you. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, his scruff scratching at your sensitive skin, and then, another flick of his tongue, this time firmer, tracing over your clit through the thin barrier of lace.

"Jay—" Your fingers tighten in his hair, trying to pull him closer, but he only chuckles, the vibrations making you tremble.

"You love this, don't you?" His voice is thick with hunger, fingers still rubbing slow, teasing circles over your clit. "Love bein' all messy for me, panties soaked, beggin' for my mouth..."

He leans in again, dragging his tongue over you, pressing the fabric against your cunt, making it cling to every swollen, aching inch of you. Then his teeth close around the lace, tugging just enough to make you feel it before letting go.

Your thighs tremble, your body desperate for more, but he just keeps playing with you, running his tongue along the slick fabric, soaking it even more, his fingers pressing right against your entrance, but never giving you what you need.

"Jason—" you whimper, pushing up against his mouth, but he only smirks, pressing another teasing, barely-there kiss over your clit.

"Patience, pretty girl," he murmurs, eyes dark, voice rough.

He finally hooks a finger into the crotch of your panties, pulling them aside to bare you to him, and then his mouth is on you. Hot, wet, tongue sliding through your folds before fucking into you, slow and deep, licking you open like he's savoring every drop.

You moan his name, thighs trying to clamp around his head, but his big hands grab your thighs and hold you open, spreading you wide like he's got all the time in the world to devour you.

"Keep 'em open, baby," he growls, voice muffled between your thighs. "Wanna see this pussy when I eat you."

He fucks you with his tongue, nose brushing against your clit, and every time you try to roll your hips or squirm away from the intensity, he holds you down and just keeps going, messy and obscene, spit and slick dripping down to the couch beneath you.

Jason groans into your pussy, the sound vibrating against your clit, and he sucks. Soft at first, just enough to make you gasp, before he latches on and really sucks, lips wrapped around that sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue flicking against it, over and over, relentless.

"F-Fuck—Jay—" Your voice is all breathy, wrecked, your fingers pulling at his hair, but it only spurs him on.

He hums again, mouth still latched to your clit, and then drags his tongue down, lapping at your folds, hot and messy and so deep you feel it in your gut. He groans like he's starving for you, like he could live off this alone, tongue pushing inside again, fucking you slow and deep before dragging up to swirl around your clit.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

His hands squeeze at your thighs, holding you open, keeping you spread, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into your trembling skin, soothing even as his mouth drives you insane.

"You taste so fuckin' good, pretty girl," he rasps against your soaked cunt, his lips slick, his chin glistening with your arousal. "Could eat you for hours."

He presses a soft kiss right against your clit before flattening his tongue, licking a long, slow stripe up your pussy, gathering every drop of slick before pushing his tongue back inside you.

You keen, legs twitching, and he groans into you, hands tightening, like he can feel you dripping for him.

"Goddamn, look at you," he mutters, breath hot against your cunt as he pulls back just enough to admire the mess he's making of you. "Drippin' down my fuckin' chin, baby—"

The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on you echo in the room, filthy and desperate, and all you can do is whimper and take it.

When he pulls back just enough to suck your clit into his mouth again your whole body jolts, and he hums in satisfaction, eyes locked on you as your mouth falls open on a gasp.

"C'mon, baby," he murmurs against you, every word vibrating against your skin. "Cum for me. Wanna taste you."

It hits you hard, your back arching, thighs trembling in his grip as you cry out, body clenching tight before it melts into pleasure. You swear you see stars, the intensity making your head spin, and he groans low in his throat as he licks you through it, sucking every drop you give him, cleaning you up with his tongue like a man fucking starving.

He doesn't stop until you're trembling, oversensitive and gasping for breath, your hands tugging weakly at his hair, begging for a break. When he finally pulls back, his mouth and chin are glistening, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand, grinning down at you like the devil himself.

"Goddamn, baby," he mutters. "Tastes even better when you're mad at me."

Jason flips you onto your stomach like you weigh nothing, handling you exactly the way you love—rough enough to remind you how much stronger he is, gentle enough to show he'll never actually hurt you. And you already know what he wants, so you arch your back, pushing up onto your hands and knees, glancing over your shoulder with a bratty little smirk that makes his jaw clench.

His hands slide down your sides, slow, deliberate, before they settle on your hips, fingers digging in just to hear you gasp. Then he grabs the lace of your panties, tugging them down over your ass, baring your soaked cunt and the mess he already made between your thighs.

"Fuck," he mutters, palming your ass, squeezing and spreading you open to get a better look. "Always so fuckin' pretty back here."

The first slap lands sharp, making you jolt forward, your slick thighs trembling. The sting blooms hot across your skin, and you whimper, but it only makes you arch deeper, pushing your hips back toward him.

Jason watches, transfixed, as your pussy clenches around nothing, dripping slick onto his cock when he presses the thick head between your legs. He's still hard, precum leaking from the swollen tip, and you rock your hips, rubbing your soaked folds against him until he curses under his breath.

"Needy little thing," he grits out, guiding his cock to your entrance. "Can't even pretend you're not desperate for me."

He starts pushing in, splitting you open slow, and the stretch knocks the air from your lungs, leaving you trembling under him. "Oh, fuck—"

"Always so fuckin' tight for me," Jason groans, one hand stroking down your stomach, feeling the way your body stretches to take him. His fingers slip lower, over your clit, slick and swollen, and you shiver all over when he rubs slow circles over it. "Goddamn, baby."

You rock back, taking him deeper, moaning as your pussy clenches down hard around him. He curses, leaning over you, chest pressed to your back, and murmurs low in your ear, "You want me to fuck you like I mean it, huh?"

You nod frantically, words catching in your throat, and Jason groans, pulling back just enough to grab your hips, steadying you before sliding in deeper, bottoming out with one slow, brutal thrust.

He gives you a second, like he always does, letting you adjust because he knows he's big, knows he's a lot, and he loves you too much to hurt you.

But you're impatient, your body burning with need, so you glance back over your shoulder, panting, "Thought you said you loved me."

His jaw tightens, a flush spreading down his chest, and he growls, "I do."

"Then fucking prove it," you challenge, and that's it, the last frayed thread of his self-control snaps.

Jason's hips slam into yours, driving his cock so deep you see stars, and you cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase against the cushions. His hands grip your waist, holding you still so all you can do is take it, body jerking with each brutal thrust, wet sounds filling the room every time his cock splits you open.

Your cunt grips him like a vice, soaked and clenching around him, dragging him back in every time he pulls out, and the slick slide is so obscene, so messy, it only makes him fuck you harder. His hips snap against your ass, the slap of skin on skin echoing, and you bury your face in your arms, moaning his name like a prayer.

"Still wanna fucking die, you idiot?" you gasp between moans, glaring at him over your shoulder, and Jason groans, dropping one hand to slap your ass again.

"Shut up," he pants, driving in deep enough to knock the air out of you. "God, baby—you're so fuckin' wet for me."

"Because you're—you're so fucking stupid," you sob, half-scolding, half-moan. "What if—what if you get yourself killed, and who the fuck's gonna fuck me like this?"

"Jesus Christ," Jason groans, the filthy confession sending a sharp pulse of heat straight to his cock, making it throb inside you. "No one, baby, no one else is ever gonna touch this pussy."

He fucks you harder, deeper, grinding into you until you're shaking under him, toes curling, nails clawing at the couch. Every thrust punches little gasps from your throat, and you can't stop talking, can't stop scolding him even as he's fucking you stupid.

"You love me?" you pant, voice high and breathless.

"Love you so much, baby," he groans, leaning over you, lips against your ear. "Love you, love this body, love this perfect fuckin' pussy. All mine, baby. All fuckin' mine."

"Show me," you whisper, voice shaking. "Show me how much."

Jason's hips snap forward, hard enough to drive you into the couch, and you moan his name, cunt squeezing tight around him. "I'll show you, doll," he pants, sweat dripping down his back. "I'll show you exactly how much."

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your ass, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks tomorrow, and you'll love every fucking one of them. Each thrust is brutal, his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy, so slick with arousal and his precum that it drips down your thighs, making a mess.

"Look at this greedy fuckin' pussy," he groans, thumbs spreading you open wider just so he can watch. "Suckin' me in like you missed this dick."

"I did," you gasp, fingers clutching at the couch cushions. "But you're still a fucking idiot."

Jason grits his teeth, hips snapping forward hard enough to shove you up the couch, your knees scraping against the fabric. Your slick little cunt grips him tight, soft and warm and soaked inside, milking his cock every time he drags back just to slam back in. Precum leaks from the swollen tip, mixing with your slick, and every thrust pushes it deeper, making you feel so full you can barely breathe.

The couch creaks under both of you, the whole thing rocking with the force of his thrusts, and Jason can't tear his eyes away from the way your ass bounces every time his hips smack into you. Your skin glows, sweat-slick and gorgeous, and he can see the way his dick stretches you open, disappearing into your perfect pussy over and over again.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, almost to himself. "You're perfect. This pussy's fuckin' perfect."

"Damn right it is," you pant, pushing back against him until you're stuffed full all over again. "And if you get yourself killed, who the fuck is supposed to fuck me like this?"

That ticks him off just right this time. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of your neck, not to hurt, but to hold, to control, and he hauls you upright, your back pressed flush to his broad chest. You gasp, legs shaking, the stretch of his cock inside you deeper, hitting that sweet spot that makes you cry out.

"Who said I was goin' anywhere?" he growls against your ear, hand sliding up from your neck to wrap gently around your throat. "You think I'd leave you, baby? Fuck no."

His other hand finds your tits, fingers tugging at the bra you still hadn't taken off, yanking the cups down completely so your soft skin spills into his hand. He palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, and you moan loud, head tipping back onto his shoulder.

"You love me?" you whisper, breath hitching with every thrust.

"You know I do," he pants, fucking up into you, hips rolling slow but deep, stuffing you so full you swear you can feel him in your throat.

"Then fucking show me," you challenge, rocking your hips down to meet him.

Jason groans, fingers tightening on your throat just a little, enough to make your cunt flutter around him. "I am," he mutters, mouth hot on your neck. "Fuckin' you so good no one else could ever touch you— no one else could make you this wet, this fuckin' messy."

He shoves you back down, face to the cushions, ass in the air, spreading you wide so he can see everything. Especially the way your slick pussy stretches around him, sucking him back in every time he pulls out, shiny with your wetness and his precum.

"Fuckin' shit, baby," he groans, watching his cock slide in and out of your perfect little pussy. "You're fuckin' drippin'."

"Because you're that good, asshole," you snap back, voice muffled by the cushions.

Jason slaps your ass hard enough to make you jolt, cunt squeezing down on him so tight his vision blurs for a second. "Yeah? Then why the fuck you talkin' so much?"

"Because you're a fucking idiot," you sob, back arching when he drives in deep. "You don't—you don't need to start shit every time someone looks at me, Jay. You're the only one who gets to fuck me like this, don't you know that?"

Jason groans, hands tightening on your hips as he slams into you harder, hips snapping, driving you into the couch so deep your knees nearly buckle.

"I know, doll," he pants, voice wrecked. "I know, fuck—I just love you so much, I can't stand anyone else even lookin' at you."

"Then—then fuck me harder," you gasp, tears in your eyes from how good he feels, how perfectly his thick cock fills you up, dragging against every sweet spot inside you. "Fuck me so good I can't even think about anyone else."

Jason yanks you up again, your back flush to his sweat-slick chest, his cock buried so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking lungs. His big hand cups your jaw, turning your face toward him, and he kisses you messy, tongue sliding between your parted lips like he's starving for the taste of you. It's sloppy, wet, both of you panting into each other's mouths, sucking on tongues, biting at lips.

You moan into his mouth when his free hand finds your clit, two fingers rubbing sharp, relentless circles over the sensitive little bud. It's too much, too fast, your cunt already stretched wide and soaked around him, every rub of his fingers making you clench down tighter.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, breath hot against your cheek, hips snapping up into you so hard you bounce. "You're so fuckin' wet—you're drippin' all over my dick."

His fingers don't slow down, and you can't do anything but take it, legs shaking, cunt squeezing around him, your swollen clit throbbing under his ruthless touch. The heat coils low in your belly, sharp and fast, climbing so high so fast it almost scares you.

"Jay—fuck—wait, I—"

Your hand flies down, grabbing at his wrist, trying to ease him off your overstimulated clit, but he's not budging, the muscle in his forearm flexing as he presses down harder.

"No," he growls into your ear, voice wrecked. "You wanted me to fuck you like I mean it? This is what that fuckin' means, baby."

His dick pounds into you mercilessly, every thrust dragging against your sweetest spot, thick and hot and leaking inside you, smearing precum along your fluttering walls. You're soaking him, so slick you can hear the obscene squelch every time he sinks in to the hilt as he rubs your puffy little clit.

Your whole body locks up, spine arching, mouth falling open as you cum so hard it knocks the breath out of you, that sharp edge of pleasure tipping you into freefall. Your pussy clamps down on his cock, tight and trembling, and Jason fucking moans, jaw clenched, hips stuttering as you soak his dick with wave after wave of hot, slick arousal.

But he doesn't stop.

"Gimme more," he pants, fingers ruthless on your clit. "C'mon, baby, you can do it, show me how messy you can get."

"Jason, I—fuck—fuck—"

Your thighs quake, eyes rolling back, and when he starts to slap over your clit lightly, it hits like a live wire—your whole body seizes, cunt pulsing around him, and then it happens.

You fucking squirt, hot and sudden, a slick rush spilling from your cunt, drenching both of you in a messy gush that soaks the couch, his thighs, your thighs—every inch of skin that's pressed together—leaving your pussy glistening, clenching around his dick as your juices drip down to the cushions. It's a mess you didn't even know you could make, and Jason loses it.

You both knew you could squirt when you were drunk off your ass, but this? This was all him. And you're both wrecked with it—you, boneless and trembling, him, harder than fucking steel inside you, completely gone for you.

"Holy fuck, baby," he groans, voice somewhere between awe and pure hunger.

Your whole body shakes, tears spilling down your cheeks from the sheer intensity, overstimulated to the point of pain-tinged pleasure, and Jason kisses you through it, swallowing your sobs and moans right from your tongue.

It's still so messy—hot, wet, open-mouthed, tongues licking into each other's mouths, tasting sweat and spit and you, and he groans deep in his chest like you're the best thing he's ever had.

His cock keeps sliding into your soaked, fluttering cunt, so slick it's almost effortless, but you're still so tight, sucking him in greedily. His fingers finally ease off your clit, stroking instead of circling, soothing instead of torturing, but his kiss stays just as hungry. Desperate like he's trying to memorize your taste, the way you moan into his mouth when you can barely even catch your breath.

"Baby," he murmurs between kisses, breathless and tender and filthy all at once. "You're so fuckin' good for me. Love this pussy—love you."

Jason's lips break from yours, sliding down your jaw, over the curve of your throat, hot breath ghosting over your pulse before his mouth seals against your neck. He sucks hard, tongue flicking over the skin, leaving a bruising, sloppy mark.

And the whole time, his hips keep working, dragging his thick cock in and out of your soaked, swollen cunt, slow but deep, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl.

"Fuck, Jay—" you whimper, head tilting to give him more of your neck, hands clutching at his wrists, his arms, anywhere you can reach to steady yourself.

He hums low in his throat, all smug and wicked, and you can feel him smirk against your skin. "You want my cum, baby?"

You moan loud, nodding so fast it makes him chuckle.

"Of course you do," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, kissing his way up to your ear. "This needy little pussy loves my cum, huh?"

"Yes," you gasp, writhing against him, trying to push back and take him deeper, to make him give it to you.

But he just teases, slowing his thrusts, dragging every inch out before pushing back in so slowly, letting you feel just how thick and hot he is inside you. "Thought you were mad at me, pretty girl."

"I am," you snap, but it's breathless, your earlier fire softened by the way he's fucking you so deep and slow, pulling every sound he loves right out of your throat.

"Yeah?" he smirks, tongue licking over your racing pulse. "Then why should I cum inside this perfect little pussy if you're still so fuckin' mad?"

"Jason—" you whine, pushing back harder, but his hand holds you steady, thumb pressing into your hip, controlling the pace no matter how desperate you are.

"Gotta convince me, baby," he taunts, voice all low and syrupy-sweet, fingers sliding down to your clit just to flick it, making you jolt and clench down hard on his cock. "Why should I fill you up, huh? Gimme one good reason."

"Because I need it," you gasp, fingers clawing at the couch cushions. "Need you to cum inside me, need to feel it—fuck—please, Jay."

"Need it?" He grins against your neck, biting just hard enough to make you yelp. "Sounds like my girl's not so mad after all."

"I am—"

"No, you're not," he cuts you off, fucking into you a little faster, just to hear the pitch of your voice climb. "You just like actin' tough until you're full of my dick, huh?"

You nod frantically, pride shredded, nothing left but raw, aching need. "Yes—yes—God, yes—please, Jay."

"Please, what?" His cock drags against your sweet spot with every thrust, his fingers circling your clit again, faster this time. "Say it, baby. Tell me exactly what you want."

"Want you to cum inside me," you sob, back arching, thighs trembling. "Want to feel it dripping out—want to be so fucking full of you, Jay, please—"

That does it. His grip tightens as he snaps his hips forward, fucking you deep, no more teasing, just hard, filthy thrusts, skin slapping skin, his cock driving into your slick little cunt until the wet noises echo louder than your breathless moans.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, forehead pressing to your shoulder. "Gonna give it to you— gonna fill this perfect pussy up."

You moan his name like a prayer, clenching down so hard it makes him stutter, and then he's gone, hips jerking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spills, hot and thick, cum flooding your pussy in pulse after pulse after pulse.

It's so much—the heat of it, the way his dick twitches inside you with every spurt, and fuck, you feel everything. The way his cock pulses, the way his cum paints your insides, so deep, so full, your body reacts before you even realize, pleasure slamming through you again, white-hot and all-consuming.

"Oh—fuck—fuck—"

Your whole body trembles, seizing up as you arch, as your walls clamp down hard around his dick, the overstimulation pushing you over the edge again, even sharper this time.

Jason groans, choked and wrecked, because he feels it. The way your pussy flutters, grips him like a vice, milking him, dragging out his orgasm as another thick pulse of cum spurts deep inside you.

"Shit, pretty girl—fuck—"

His voice is hoarse, breathless, hands locking onto your hips as he bucks up, rutting into you with slow, desperate rolls, like he's trying to fuck his cum deeper.

You're soaking him, your release gushing around his dick, slick dripping down to his balls, making everything filthy as you keen, breath hitching, body trembling. The pleasure is so much you can't stop shaking, can't stop gasping, every little twitch of his cock sending more sparks crackling through your limbs.

Jason groans again, deep and raw, his fingers digging into your skin, keeping you right where he wants you, his cock still buried inside, still throbbing, even as his hips slow, his whole body shuddering against yours.

"Jesus Christ, baby—" He swallows hard, head falling forward against your shoulder, voice thick, half-slurred. "Damn near killed me."

But he doesn't let go. He won't. His arms curl around you, holding you close, keeping you locked against him, cock still nestled deep, even as his cum drips out, thick and hot, making a mess between your thighs.

You both shudder, your pussy milking him for everything, his cock twitching, still so sensitive it makes him groan low in his throat as he grinds against you, lazy and slow. You're so full you leak around him, creamy slick dripping down his balls, sticky and hot, smearing where your thighs press together.

It's messy, obscene, perfect, and he loves every second of it.

He kisses your shoulder, still panting, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, lazy fingers playing with one nipple. "Still mad, baby?"

"Maybe," you mumble, face buried in the crook of his neck, completely fucked stupid.

Jason's laugh rumbles low in his chest, warm and rough and just so him, his lips pressing to your temple in a lazy, affectionate kiss. "You're a terrible liar, doll."

His cock slips free from your fluttering cunt with a slick, obscene noise, your pussy clenching reflexively at the sudden emptiness, already missing him even with his cum still leaking from your swollen slit. It smears down your inner thighs, dripping onto the couch cushion below, and Jason watches it like a man obsessed, fingers tracing over the slick mess he made of you before finally easing you down against him.

You whine, soft and spent, but you don't fight it when he turns you gently, pulling your smaller body right on top of his, the perfect little puzzle piece to his broad, muscular frame. Your skin feels like it's buzzing, every inch of you overstimulated and tender, but his hands are so gentle.

Big palms soothing up and down your back, warm fingers tracing lazy circles along your spine. His lips find your temple again, softer this time, and the two of you just breathe, hearts still pounding, somehow falling into the same steady rhythm.

You nuzzle into his neck, breath warm against his skin, and for a while, the only sound is both of you catching your breath, bodies molding together.

After a long, quiet moment, Jason's voice breaks the silence—rough, hesitant. "I'm sorry."

You blink up at him, your face blissed-out and sleepy, limbs heavy, but you still reach up, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing gently over the scar there. His hand comes up to cover yours, his palm dwarfing yours as he lifts it to his mouth, kissing your palm, his lips warm and soft.

"I'm sorry too," you murmur, voice soft, but Jason just shakes his head.

"Nah," he says, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like it's easier to talk to that than to you. "It was my fault. I just..." he trails off, breath hitching slightly, and for a rare moment, Jason Todd looks nervous.

You wait, patient and quiet, until he finally sighs, his grip on your hand tightening just a bit. "I never had this kind of love before," he says, voice so low you almost miss it. "Ever."

Your heart aches, and you squeeze his hand back, silently urging him to keep going.

"And yeah, I don't—I don't know how to behave sometimes," he admits, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "I know it's wrong to be so fuckin' possessive. To assume you're mine just because I want you to be."

"Baby," you whisper, brow furrowing, but he keeps talking, like he has to get it all out before he loses his nerve.

"It's selfish and stupid," he says, frustrated with himself. "But I just... I never felt this way about anyone before. And it's fuckin' terrifyin', but it's also the best goddamn thing that's ever happened to me."

Your chest aches, soft and warm and so full of love for this man who's only ever known how to fight for what he wants, and now he's fighting himself, just to figure out how to love you right.

You tilt his chin until he's looking at you again, your eyes wide and soft and just a little stunned, because yeah, Jason's softer with you, you know that. But this? This vulnerability, this naked honesty, this is rare. This is the part of him no one gets to see.

"What are you talking about, baby?" you whisper, thumb tracing his lower lip. "I'm yours. You don't have to doubt that."

His eyes darken, something vulnerable flickering beneath the heat. "Yeah, but—"

"No 'but'," you cut him off, leaning down to kiss him—soft, sweet, no heat this time, just love. "I am yours, Jay. You don't own me, but I belong to you. And that's my choice."

His arms tighten around you, almost crushing you to his chest, but you don't complain. You just melt into it, letting him hold you like he's afraid you'll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And yeah, maybe your pussy's still throbbing, and there's cum dripping down your thighs, and you both reek of sweat and sex, but right now? Right now, all that matters is this.

You shift slightly on top of him, just enough to press your lips to his chest—soft, lingering, right over his heart. It's steady beneath your mouth, a quiet, strong beat that reminds you he's here. And you hold onto that, breathing him in as you kiss him again, even softer this time.

Jason's hand slides up your back, fingers weaving into your hair as he cups the back of your head, guiding you up just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. It's so gentle, so sweet, and your chest aches all over again, tears pricking at the back of your eyes.

"I'm sorry I said I want you to change for me," you murmur, voice quiet and a little hoarse. "I didn't mean it like that. I just..." you sigh, fingers tracing idle patterns over his ribs. "I knew what I was getting into when we first met. I knew. And I thought that over time, it would be easier to just... I don't know... get used to the idea that one day you might not come home."

His hand tightens slightly in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he's listening.

"But it's not," you whisper, voice cracking slightly.

"I know," he says softly, his lips finding your temple again.

You exhale, shaky and uneven, and your voice wavers when you say, "I just want you to promise you'll always come back to me. I can't lose you, Jason. You're the only person in my life I've ever loved like this, and I just... I can't—"

The words catch in your throat, and you almost sniffle, but Jason's already there, tilting your chin up until you meet his gaze. And fuck, the way he looks at you—like you're everything, like you hung the goddamn moon—it almost breaks you.

He can't stand seeing you cry. Not like this. Crying because he fucks you stupid? Sure, any day of the week. But crying because you're scared of losing him? That kills him a little.

His thumb strokes along your cheek, brushing away the tears threatening to spill. "I promise, doll," he says, voice low and steady and so fucking sincere it hurts. "I'll always come back to you."

You nod, swallowing hard before you nuzzle back into the crook of his neck, letting his warmth wrap around you like a shield. His arms tighten around you again, holding you like you're his lifeline. And maybe you are.

And yeah, there's still mess between your thighs, and the couch probably needs to be burned after what you just did to it, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is this. Just you and Jason, skin to skin, hearts pounding in sync, holding onto each other like the world outside doesn't exist.

After a quick cleanup—you both do what you can with the poor couch, but honestly, there's only so much scrubbing that'll save it—you end up in the shower together, lazily soaping each other up with that vanilla body wash you love. Jason grumbles about how it's too sweet and not him, but the second you press your slick, warm body against his under the spray, he shuts up real fast.

Wrapped in clean clothes, smelling like dessert, you curl up on the couch, freshly dressed in one of his worn-out t-shirts that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of cotton panties. Jason settles next to you in his sweats, bare chested, all warm skin and ink as you tangle yourself around him like the needy gremlin you are.

A box of shitty pizza rests between you—a sad, greasy excuse for a meal, but somehow perfect for tonight—and some trash reality show plays in the background, the kind that makes you both question humanity.

Jason glances at you, his arm stretched around your shoulders, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. "So... we good?"

You roll your eyes, groaning dramatically, before leaning over to chomp a massive bite out of his slice, despite the fact you're already holding your own.

"You little brat," he mutters, shaking his head, but there's no real heat in it. If anything, the way he smiles at you—soft, warm, a little exasperated—makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

You just flash him a smug grin, mouth full of stolen pizza, and lean your head on his shoulder, sighing happily. "We're good, Jay."

And yeah, the couch will never be the same, and the pizza's objectively terrible, and the show's giving you both secondhand embarrassment. But with you curled into him, his arm wrapped around your waist, and your bare leg hooked over his thigh, Jason figures he might just be the luckiest motherfucker in Gotham.

1K notes · View notes

iniquitousyearning · 8 months ago

Text

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 25th. tom — anal sex / sexual punishment.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: basically how i see a tom riddle punishment playing out. biblical tom of sorts. so self assured its impossible to piss him off so you go to lengths some may consider extreme but…eh. he knows you’re his.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, UNI hogwarts (obvs but just a reminder) reader and tom have an…interesting dynamic, toxic but also not toxic because it works for them, anal sex (obvs), sexual punishment, brief fingering, copious amounts of dirty talk, i once again utilize my favourite place in the school (the library).

"Tom—"

With a hand raised, he cuts you off. "Don't."

You blink. Swallow. Blink again. He's mad—oh, yes, he's mad—more than you've ever seen him and you once watched Abraxas Malfoy knock over his potion during a heavily-weighted exam.

That, in currency to this, is pennies.

You breathe in, try again. "Look, I can explain—"

He doesn't let you. Within a second his wand is out and with a flick of his wrist the room shifts to static—the glimmer from the silencing charm he just cast settles over your corner of the library, and you feel your fingers go numb—

"Why'd you stop?" He cocks his head, brow raised. His jaw is tight, the tension there burning into the space between you. His fingers flex. You can feel how much he's holding back. "If there's an explanation, by all means. I'd love to hear it."

Right—yeah, an explanation. That should help. Certainly, the man staring at you like he has bullets for eyes and knives for fingers will understand—he'll be completely calm once you explain to him you kissed someone else in retribution—because you wanted to get back at him.

"Well, I—" you push up from the desk, desperate to feel bigger, to level with him somehow. Tom thrives in this—having the upper hand, knowing all he has to do is stare at you, all stillness and quiet fury. He knows you hate it, that you'll spiral under it until you break and present him your neck on a silver platter. Until you hand him the knife and beg him to cut. "We had that argument, and I thought—I thought, maybe—you didn't—"

He moves closer. The air thickens. You're too focused on the fire in his eyes to acknowledge the sound of his wand clattering onto the desk—

"You thought?" His voice is something almost bored, like this is a trivial exercise for him—you can barely hear him over the roar of your pulse in your throat.

"—that you didn't want me anymore!"

You force the words out in a desperate rush, and the silence that follows feels like a goddamn canyon—you're just staring at each other, scowling in the wake of what you just said because you both know how utterly foolish it sounds. The only person Tom Riddle has and will ever allow himself to be vulnerable in front of—and you thought he'd leave after a silly argument.

No. You never thought that for a second.

And so, you try to save yourself. "Tom—I-I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, I know I fucked up—but, it's not just me—I mean, you could have communicated better—"

He takes another step toward you, nodding along as if he's humoring you. "Right."

You step back—you don't mean to but the depleted space between you feels dangerous and your body reacts before you can stop it.

"Maybe—maybe we can learn from this? Right? A lesson for—for us both?" You keep talking. You don't know why, but you do. "And, maybe you could, uh, learn to talk about your feelings better?"

You wince as his eyebrows shoot up, mocking you without saying a word. Tom Riddle, talking about his fucking feelings? Right.

"I mean—you're just—" you hesitate because you know you're digging your own grave, yet he's still staring, daring you to finish. "—you're just so hard to read, you know?"

Another bored nod, another step closer. "Of course."

You swallow, stumbling back—of course Tom knows he's hard to read, that's the point. Every word out of your mouth is a wasted effort, a desperate attempt to reason with someone who's beyond it. Your ass collides with the desk behind you, boxing you in—and suddenly, he's there, right in front of you, all of his typical Tom intensity pouring into the limited space between you.

His breath brushes against your cheek, close enough that his lips could meet yours. But you know they won't. He'd never make it that easy. You can't tell if it's fear or something more wicked that twists in your chest. Dread, excitement—God, maybe both—

"You tried to provoke me."

Your throat tightens around a swallow. He isn’t asking.

"Maybe."

He doesn't blink. "You tried to see if I'd care."

You open your mouth, only to close it just as quickly. What can you say that he doesn't already know? You're as transparent as glass to him, and even that is a goddamn understatement. All you offer is a slow nod, unsure but weighted—he wasn't looking for an answer, he was looking for submission.

"And you thought, maybe, that I would come to you. That I would react. That l'd be angry." His fingers brush up your cheek, slipping into your hair with the kind of intimacy that feels out of place given the circumstances. And, inevitably, when the pull comes biting at your scalp, it's a burn you enjoy more than you should. "Were you hoping I'd punish you?"

"Well—I-"

"You know, don't you," he tugs your hair again to quiet you. Every question he's asking is rhetorical. "You know that trying to provoke me is dangerous."

You nod, fast. "I know."

"You know that I don't like to be provoked."

"I know, I know, I-"

"Shh." His lips brush over your neck, just once—a soft, fleeting thing that promises everything and nothing at once. You can't help the way you lean into him. "You're just making this worse for yourself. No more talking."

You choke on your stupid ego, but force a nod. You asked for this. You won't fight him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Good." He hums, and you feel your heart dance, stomach leap at the barest flicker of approval in his tone. His breath skates over your jaw, and you try not to shake. "You want to show me how sorry you are, don't you?"

You nod again.

"Good." He tugs at your bottom lip and something curls at the corners of his own that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. "Turn around."

With your heart on the floor beneath your feet, you nod for a final time before doing as he asked. You find that turning is a difficult task, though not due to resistance—your body just won't cooperate—a mess of weak knees and shallow breaths and tingling skin. You do it, though, with his hand on your hip, guiding you, directing you, pushing you over the desk until you're bent at the waist, positioned just how he wants.

It's merely a moment before you feel him pressed against your back, feel his belt buckle digging into your ass—

"What do you think I should do to you?" His breath grazes the nape of your neck and reflexively, you arch into him—his hands slide up your thighs, hips, finding your waist and the band of your skirt—he tugs at your zipper, you remain quiet. You know he doesn't want you to answer. "I'm sure you had your hopes. Your assumptions."

Tom Riddle, you've determined, is a torturous lover—a slow hand, a tease until you're in tears from the overstimulation. A sort of devotee to fulfilling your needs while simultaneously tempering his own. He's so very restrained, in everything he does—not fervent, not right away, anyway—

"Maybe you hoped I'd degrade you. Remind you of your place." He tugs down the zipper, letting the fabric fall to the ground at your feet—you shudder and pull your lips tight, willing yourself to stay silent as the cool air hits you. Tom's hand roams over one of your asscheeks, pawing lazily before tapping his palm against it. “Maybe you wanted me to make you feel it."

—he only rushes—he's only careless when he's angry.

And god, he's angry now.

"Maybe." You force the reply through the sting he left on your skin. It's past midnight—quiet is everything but you two, and you're almost certain he locked the door behind him on the way in. You let your head bow, eyes fixed on the wood under your palms. "Maybe I do."

"Of course you do. You've never been subtle." His foot nudges yours further apart, his fingers trailing up your thigh, finding the damp ache between your legs. Your breath catches but you hold still, biting your tongue as he teases—digits gliding through your slit, swirling your clit. "I know you thought about it."

"About what?" You try, though the question barely gets out before his other hand smacks the thick of your ass again, harder this time. "Shit—"

"About what I'd do to you." The hand on your clit shifts to smooth over the sting, rubbing slow, while the other works the buckle of his belt. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I—" you pause, steadying, gathering yourself. You know you have to give him something, but it's hard to think when he's like this. "I—I wanted you to be...careless."

"Careless." He says it like he's savouring it, rolling it over his tongue like candy. It's not a word that suits him; you're not convinced he even knows how. "You want me to be rough—to be selfish. Like you were."

The moment his belt is loose you feel those slender fingers dip back into your slit, two of them pushing inside your cunt without warning, stretching you open as his trousers slip down his thighs— he grunts low, a sound that cuts into the quiet as his cock springs free and he presses it against you, unoccupied hand slipping back into your hair, pulling you up until you're flush with him.

"Yes." You're not sure who sounds more hollow for it—your voice for asking, his for granting it. "I want that. I deserve it. Please. Please—"

"Please. It's always please with you," he mocks, the words a hiss that burn your cheeks. "Yet, I don't get to be selfish like you, do I? I still have to show restraint."

"I mean—oh—fu—" you choke as his lips find your neck, muttering something against your skin before you feel the sudden cool slip of a lubing charm coating your asshole and cunt. "Tom-"

"Despite what you might believe, I've never had much in the way of patience," he breathes, a confession almost, something deeper—something that feels like it costs him. "Not when it comes to you."

"Tom—" you fucking gasp his name as he pulls his fingers from your cunt—only to drag them higher until they find your asshole. Despite his haste he's still at ease, massaging, pressing one finger against it until you let him in. He sinks slowly, curling slightly, and your thighs shake—lungs deflate. "Oh—oh, fuck, Tom—it's been—"

"A while, hasn't it?" He finishes, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his finger sliding all the way in. "So tight for me. So—tight—"

"Tom—" a repetition of the last one, his name spilling from you like it’s the only goddamn word you know how to say. "Please, Tom. Oh god—"

"Shhh." He shushes, but it's not to quiet you; you know that. He's savouring this. He slips in a second finger, stretching you wider, working you open, and you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. "This isn't about you."

"You—" your voice breaks on another gasp, hands clutching at the desk. "—you think this is punishment."

"Partially." His muses as his fingers scissor, filling you with the most delicious ache. You're so slick, arousal running down your thighs, and that—oh no, that does not escape his notice. "Look at you, dripping for me. And yet,"

"Oh god." The realization crashes over you—it’s punishment as in orgasm denial. "That's—that's not—"

"Not fair?" There's a smirk in his voice, and though he doesn't say it, you hear the word that lingers beneath it: pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He pulls his fingers out and you whine, feeling empty for half a second before the head of his cock glides against your slit, gathering your juices before finding its way up to the throbbing ring of muscle. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to be selfish?"

"I just—" words scatter, useless, because you're trembling, breathing hard, and then he's pressing in, slow enough to save you pain but fevered enough to make you feel him. "Oh—oh—"

"Oh fuck." He says it breathless, as if it's an agony to fit himself inside of you. "Oh yes."

And it is an agony—for both of you, though for very different reasons. Tom is huge, and even on a good day, it's a struggle to take him. He's so deep, filling you in ways you'd forgot were possible. You struggle to hold yourself upright—legs visibly shaking, teeth gritting. He sinks all the way in, and in your mind, you can almost see the look on his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his head tips back—

"Ah—“ he groans, a rough sound that's followed by a huff and a slight roll of his hips, like he's holding back, like he can't bring himself to move just yet. He yanks you up against him by your hair. "That's fucking tight, isn't it? This must be hell for you."

He's not wrong, it is. But it's hellish for Tom too, the type of hell the two of you inflict on eachother that is as fucking addicting as it is anything else—

"Just—" you manage to bite out breathlessly, but it's a struggle to make the words. "Move—"

"Make me," he grits, jerking your head to the side until your foreheads press together. "Convince me to use you. Tell me how badly you want it. How much of a whore you are for it."

Merlin help you, you moan at his words. It's that thing inside you—the needy, desperate part that's dying at his feet. You don't know what it is or why it's there; it just is, and it's greedy. It's not something you'd give into normally—your ego is far too big to give him the satisfaction of begging, not aloud—never in words that he could use against you later—but in these moments, you both learn to make exceptions.

"Dear god, Tom—please, just use me-" you push your hips back against him, one of his hands slide up your stomach, cupping your tits. "Please, l'm—I'm a pathetic, begging whore for you. God, I know you're pissed—I feel it—just take it out on me—l want it—"

He moans—a soft, almost gentle sound—and you know you've struck a nerve, the part of him that's equally as weak in the moment—the part of him that makes it all too easy for things to spiral like this.

"Goddamn you." Something inside him snaps, something that's been frayed, just waiting for a pull—and you've pulled it now, and oh you want, no, you need him to make you pay for it, to make it hurt. "You just—you always-"

He grunts, cutting himself off and in a way, it's almost like he's thanking you because you're giving him an outlet, something to take it out on. You test each other, push and pull and let the other break, because, at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. The two of you. Like this.

A sharp inhale, and he starts to thrust.

"Fuck!" it's all you manage, it's all you can manage, because it—just like that—feels the way you wanted it to feel but it also feels so much more intense, so intense that your brain can't keep up. "Oh god—oh fuck-"

"Fucking hell," he spits, like you're the worst thing in his world and the best thing all at once, and somehow, that makes perfect sense. He lets go of your hair, and you slump forward onto the desk, elbows barely holding you up as his hand smacks your ass, fingers spreading you apart. "So—so tight—“

You're a shuddering mess, helpless to it; all you can do is remember to breathe through it.

"That's it." Another smack to your ass, thrusts quick and deep. "Fuck. The things you drive me to do."

You know him so well—and he knows you just as damn well, and that's the point, isn't it? That's what this is all about. You're the perfect mix of wrong, a match that burns too hot it hurts but the ache makes him feel alive.

"I want to cum—" your neglected clit is begging for it, you’re fucking begging for it. "Tom please—"

At that, he laughs and it's mean and it's condescending and you love—God—how you love it and want it and can't get enough of it. His hips snap forward a little bit rougher and you lose a bit more of your sanity—

"You think you deserve to come, after what you did?" Another smack to your ass.

You don't know how to answer, and he doesn't wait for one anyway. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you—everything is so calculated and calculated and calculated. You've never once seen him falter, and you don't expect to see it now. You don't know if you'd survive it if you did.

"No." He answers for you. "You don't."

His fingers trace around your thigh, grazing your mound and finding your needy clit, your sopping slit, gliding through it—you moan louder than you should as he gathers your slick on his fingers, humming at what he finds there before retreating—bringing them up to your mouth.

"Open."

You open your mouth and he feeds you your need—the result of his selfishness. You love him for what he is and you love him for what he isn’t too. How he tries to be both, only when you ask.

"Taste that?" It's a whisper, something he's telling you.

You sob around his fingers as he fucks your ass deep—he pulls them out to let you respond. You nod. "Yes."

"Taste how much you want this?"

"Yes." A pathetic moan. The perfect response.

"Good girl." He presses the words into your hair, the back of your neck, along your spine. He sucks in a breath as he fucks like he needs it just to speak. "You're going to remember this the next time you think about doing something just to spite me, I hope you know that."

Of course you will. He knows it, you know it—there's no doubt in your mind that you'll remember this the next time you toy with his patience; the next time you give him a reason to discipline you again. And what's worse is: you'll do it anyway.

It's a battle you two will fight for eternity.

But you don't get a chance to respond, not that you'd have one anyways—because his hand is on your throat and his lips are at your ear and he's sucking in air through his teeth and then—

"I'm going to cum." He whispers and you hear the pain in it. "Fuck."

You shiver in reply; a whine of a whimper coming from the back of your throat. “Tom—“

"Shh." He shushes you with his free hand, gripping your jaw as his thrusts turn sloppy, erratic. "Fucking take it.”

God—you’ll take it. Of course you will. You asked for this, drove him to this point. You're both sick, but this is the kind that doesn't have a cure.

One of his hands moves to his own hair, tugging at the back of his head; it's the only hint you've had this whole time of how much he's affected by this, how much it's driven him mad. He's doing his best to keep control, to maintain composure and make sure you feel it—but it's the way his hand squeezes your hip when he lets go of your throat that gives him away.

It gives in to what he's been repressing.

"Ohhh—fuck—yes—" and then you feel it, feel him, hot and sticky and warm, filling your ass and holding you there until he’s finished. His body collapses against the back of yours, hips slow rolling until he's drained—until you’ve taken all of him, all of his anger and frustration and restraint along with it. He’s sweaty, exhausted, spent—forehead pressed to your hair. "You feel that?"

"You know I do." You're not allowed to sound so smug, not while you're in the position you're in, but you are. It’s why he loves you. "That's what you were looking for."

"No, that's what you were looking for." He nips your ear, and you hear the smile in his voice when he bites down on it and murmurs a, "and that's why you're my favourite," into it.

"And you mine, Tommy."

2K notes · View notes

carlislefiles · 4 days ago

Text

arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento ╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words

a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3

fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, he’d list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came along—pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—it was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.

pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didn’t buy it—not fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.

you weren’t what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.

he’d met your father only once—gruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldn’t buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.

usually, he didn’t do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheck—a small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.

your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldn’t help but chuckle behind his back.

“you’re really off your game,” shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.

you stood there—calm, unshaken—like you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didn’t expect. “thanks for taking the job, fushiguro,” you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.

“toji,” he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasn’t fushiguro—not in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.

goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a woman—no, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didn’t flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.

toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartment—scanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.

but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.

after a few days, you’d nailed his preferences with unsettling precision—the exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you worked—it all chipped away at his resolve.

you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.

every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at arm’s length—refusing to drop the formal “fushiguro,” insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasn’t sure if you hated him, or just didn’t care.

nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didn’t sleep much either—likely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.

he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didn’t trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for money—risk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.

toji acted like he wanted nothing to do with you—cold, distant, biting in his sarcasm. he mocked your home décor, your pet cat, anything he could to needle you. it was a poor mask for his growing frustration. you took the jabs without flinching, without returning fire. you wore your stoicism like armor. you were thankful he was there—at least that much was true.

even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crocheted—something toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.

you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.

toji was the kind of man who’d lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way he’d sometimes devour leftovers—or refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.

to keep the act going, you’d introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.

toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. “I already quit my job,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my father’s luxury apartments.”

he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exterior—the kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. “‘forced’ to quit your job? poor thing,” he said dryly. “you act like that’s a punishment. I don’t get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”

you didn’t listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meant—that he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmer’s market came to life nearby. toji found you—not with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.

for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armor—something almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.

he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.

if either of you had been honest, you would’ve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the city—“to keep up appearances,” he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list.

slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of his…and that’s why, the morning you don’t wake up beside him, toji’s chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.

gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you asked—sometimes even insisted—that he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.

the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressed—not to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for toji’s grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didn’t hesitate—didn’t bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

toji didn’t have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you out—alive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.

when he finally found you—trembling, bruised, but breathing—everything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.

“put me down,” you tried, voice shaky but determined.

“no.” his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. “you’re not walking out of here on your own.”

you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. “I’m fine. really.”

he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “doesn’t matter if you’re fine or not. I thought you were dead.” he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cage—safe, fierce, unyielding. “I’m not letting go. not until you’re somewhere safe.” your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was.

the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. toji’s eyes were dark, wild—furious and scared, all at once. he wasn’t just angry. he was terrified.

back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with care—gentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.

“no,” he scoffed. “you’re not fine. you’re still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.”

that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawk—every blink, every shiver, every quiet breath—until exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didn’t leave.

“you don’t have to stay, toji. the guest room’s just twenty feet away.”

his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadn’t heard before. “yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twenty feet away when you got taken.” he sank into the chair you’d barely noticed before—one you kept mostly for decoration—and didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” no explanations. no promises. just presence.

after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriend—not just in name, but in every small gesture. you talked—really talked—for the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife he’d lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.

you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiled—rough, rare—and corrected your assessments.

“onigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. “make it again. please.” he’s teasing, but you don’t laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest.

he bought you little trinkets—simple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadn’t known you needed.

movie nights became a ritual—mostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.

the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called home—or whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.

but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.

and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhood—the quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to read—he cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. “I’m staying,” he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasn’t empty anymore.

there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.

at first, it amused him. the whispers that he’d never taken a woman before—never so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasn’t here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didn’t remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. no—rumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthy…well. that was bad for business.

his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didn’t need to be real—he just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associated—married—to someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.

so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just facts—but people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.

you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didn’t want to kidnap you—though, in a different life, that might’ve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.

so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didn’t know you’d win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatious—it was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you weren’t enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you weren’t trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.

he knew it wouldn’t last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his home—technically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.

you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about you—until it made him afraid you’d say no.

then, the night of a morale-boosting celebration—one of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investors—you showed up. you didn’t just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.

you approached him in full view of the gathering and—without asking—kissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: “I’ll accept your deal.” he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worse—attachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldn’t control.

he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriend—wife, if you corrected him, which you often did—with a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.

the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.

you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a lover’s grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didn’t ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.

where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.

and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something else—something enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?

it was late—close to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.

that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level follower—one of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow types—stood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.

“...he’s too harsh. too rigid,” the man sighed. “I’ll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.”

a pause. your reply came short, clipped. “thank you.” but then—colder. “that said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, he’d put on a softer face. but he doesn’t. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.”

geto froze. heart in his throat. you weren’t defending him out of obligation. you were…angry. angry on his behalf. “he’s not heartless,” you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. “he’s strategic. he’s smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. he’s a better man than you think.” something twisted in geto’s gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to you—too close, with a smile too familiar—it turned to a spark of rage.

“still,” the man murmured, “you could’ve done better than him.”

you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didn’t like this. you didn’t want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. “go home.” the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. geto’s presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: “don’t speak to my wife again.”

there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“you didn’t,” he replied. “I did.”

but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearances—but because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategy—just performance—had frayed completely.

from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didn’t understand but loved watching you describe—so alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.

he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft he’d become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.

you were the first good thing in years that didn’t ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple walls—still working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you weren’t ornamental, you weren’t submissive, and you weren’t easily impressed.

you just…were. and that was enough.

he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when he’d find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. he’d sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.

he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.

he loved you. he hadn’t said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.

your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you weren’t pretending anymore, and neither was he.

so it made perfect sense—though it still managed to break him completely—when one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than he’d ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.

geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long he’d waited.

“my wife,” he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.

now that you were his—truly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silence—geto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he became…possessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didn’t flaunt you. he didn’t drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didn’t need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.

he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamed—god, no—but because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.

his wife—and oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. “my wife,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. “my wife,” as he untied your apron in the kitchen. “my wife,” while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.

and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?

he tried to hide it, but one evening—when the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silver—he broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.

“I can let you go,” he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.

“if you want,” he added, slower now, like the words hurt. “you don’t owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leave—truly—I’ll make it safe for you. I’ll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.”

your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. “if I wanted to leave, suguru,” you murmured, “I would've.” silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” he didn’t reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.

but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaled—like the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.

satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterday’s trash. they’d long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.

they’d been pushing for a union for years—someone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu world—to him—felt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.

that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didn’t wield a flashy cursed technique. you didn’t brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.

he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosity—how you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasn’t any of that.

it was your kindness. you weren’t sweet in the obvious way. you weren’t a pushover. but there was something about you—gentle when you didn’t have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything you’d taught him during training, as if the other first years hadn’t been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way.

and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didn’t. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.

he hadn’t planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. “wouldn’t it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?” he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.

the elders pounced. unorthodox, yes—but at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wanted—fine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.

gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himself—swore to himself—that if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, he’d call it off immediately. but you didn’t. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. you’d never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skin—white and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly so—hands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didn’t want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.

the ceremony wasn’t for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because that’s what good sorcerers do. and gojo—well, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect.

then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadn’t been in for years.

“I forgot this one even existed,” he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. “seriously, I don’t know who’s been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.”

the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didn’t even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldn’t quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. you’d never had luxury before. never had ease.

he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe stark—but the potential shimmered. “I’ll fill it with anything you want,” he promised. “you want books? a piano? anything. say the word.”

you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.

you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchen—couldn’t shake the guilt—but satoru stopped you every time. “I hired them,” he said softly. “they’re paid very well. let them do it for you.” you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. you’d never had help before. never been allowed to relax.

but you still felt it—that looming question. why me? you weren’t from a notable clan. you weren’t docile. you didn’t bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you weren’t a perfect wife.

and yet, gojo couldn’t stop watching you. couldn’t stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.

“you look radiant today, wife.”

“you’re too good to these kids.”

“your students love you, y’know? but not as much as I do.”

every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. “come on,” he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. “let me take you out. one night. for real. if we’re gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?” you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurant…oh, it was a mistake.

the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. you’d checked the menu before leaving—it cost more than a month’s groceries. you were dolled up, but you didn’t feel like yourself. this wasn’t your world. this wasn’t you.

you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure he’d regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of you—eyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.

“you look stunning,” he said, not joking for once.

you flushed. “you don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not–I'm not saying it because I have to,” he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. “I’m saying it because I want to.” your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response.

dinner was…perfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just… as you.

you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrong—accidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuuji’s horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.

you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable you’d been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small you’d felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.

“goodnight…satoru.” and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.

from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for him—fully, totally, undeniably—it was real.

he’d fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself he’d wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thought—maybe, just maybe—you were starting to fall, too.

he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: “I’ll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. don’t wait up <3” but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavor—always yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.

gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. he’d been used, revered, feared—but never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.

he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of course—often too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where he’d tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.

big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines he’d get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, “does that feel better?” god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing he’d ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fast—and happily.

there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where he’d watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.

to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.

he asked questions constantly. what’s your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.

a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didn’t just read your favorite book—he devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.

you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but you’d stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didn’t encourage it exactly—didn’t clap your hands and beg for more—but you didn’t recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.

gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, he’d glow in the dark.

and maybe that’s why, on one chilly night, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.

then you turned to him, voice quiet. “thank you…for this life.” he froze. you kept going. “I know you could’ve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm not…” your voice cracked. you looked away. “I just hope I've been good enough.”

satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didn’t speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like he’d been starving for you—because he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.

when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. “I asked for you.” your breath caught.

“I asked them to pick you.” his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.” his words poured out in a rush. “I’m sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I just—I didn’t want to trick you, I just didn’t think I could ever actually deserve you. you’re so good. you make me feel—human. and I let you think you weren’t enough when really I'm the one who’s not—”

you didn’t let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you.

ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasn’t easy—especially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didn’t care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through children—preferably from the strongest, the best, the most ‘respectable’ clans.

it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldn’t deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wife—someone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didn’t matter. just a life—one that didn’t end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.

he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didn’t go to parties. didn’t have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didn’t go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.

so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didn’t fight it. maybe that should’ve bothered him more than it did. maybe it would’ve, if he hadn’t opened that folder and seen you.

just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasn’t much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasn’t sure if it was just the whole you’re gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but… you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and now—somehow—he was marrying you.

the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smart—really smart—according to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.

too perfect, he thought at first. like they’d just built you in a lab to be everything he’d ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didn’t want to get too excited—didn’t want to start imagining too much. but… it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe even…waking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadn’t even met you yet.

you didn’t meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasn’t dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, you—and nothing else.

your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tell—just from the way you kept your hands folded—that you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didn’t mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didn’t come. he didn’t ask why. he didn’t have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.

you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldn’t let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found his—light and gentle in his palm—he knew he already was.

the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.

it wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floors—but to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, “this is perfect.” and you meant it.

he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you… you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a wasp’s nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.

you already trusted him, somehow. that’s what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.

he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided they’d look better in the other room. he didn’t mind. in fact, he’d never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.

every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends.

you didn’t know it yet—but he was already in love with you. quietly, fully.

one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadn’t known what to expect from him. you’d been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that he’d treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. you’d been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didn’t say much more. you didn’t need to. ino didn’t say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.

first—guilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything he’d done, but because you’d been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like him—who wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enough—could be feared by someone like you. that someone must’ve made you believe you weren’t worth softness, safety, or kindness.

then—grief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing you’d walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that must’ve taught you that love came with conditions.

and finally—relief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than that—he wanted to be. you weren’t scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you weren’t afraid of anything at all.

you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didn’t speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless space—you relaxed. for the first time in your life.

and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didn’t always say the right thing, with you…he didn’t have to prove anything. he wasn’t just a sorcerer. he wasn’t just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing he’d ever be allowed to do.

things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time you’d stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while he’d practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.

this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hoped—naively, maybe stupidly—that being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that she’d mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcerer’s spouse. maybe she’d keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.

but then you came along—and takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didn’t think about sorcery at all. he didn’t think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits he’d banished in the last six months. none of that mattered.

all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that day—how he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didn’t even want to think about the consequences he’d face if you ever left him—professionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.

he didn’t want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldn’t go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldn’t stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.

and the wildest part? you didn’t live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. you’d come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but now…you were learning how to live.

you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmer’s markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like you’d never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of all—you never treated him like a sorcerer.

you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.

one evening, you told him—quietly, hesitantly—that you were thankful. that you didn’t know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasn’t like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybe…in a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldn’t have to be fake.

the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed you—not harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: “it was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isn’t that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.

……

the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadn’t even been mad.

because when he looked up and saw you—hair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your leg—he felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadn’t broken open yet.

this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. he’d never been so tired. he’d never been so happy.

takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but he’d been so, so wrong. this—this—wasn't a burden. this wasn’t something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wife—his wife—mattered more than any of it.

he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.

and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, she’s perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.

he’d once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.

“I ever tell you,” he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, “that this is all I ever wanted?”

you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. “every day,” you teased.

he grinned. “good. I’m not planning on shutting up about it.” and he meant it.

because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takuma—once a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something right—finally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.

choso was new to sorcery—but even newer to being human.

when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “they’re just bored aristocrats in robes.”

but choso hadn’t said no. not because he felt obligated—he barely recognized authority as it stood—but because…well, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

he wasn’t even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didn’t care to explore it. but still—if it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he’d get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe he’d get to try being romantic.

yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met you—quiet, trembling, kind—you shattered every cynical assumption they’d had. you weren’t from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.

choso didn’t say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.

and then there was you. he couldn’t look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didn’t know how to be subtle, so he didn’t even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. “she smells nice,” “her dress was soft-looking,” "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?” yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.

the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at you—then long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. you’d been raised in a home where men didn’t love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.

but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: “do I say something now?” then he turned and gave you a smile—shy, awkward, but genuine.

you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.

he talked a little that first night, though he wasn’t good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just… didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. you didn’t say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldn’t believe it. couldn’t believe that this wasn’t a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.

“kamo—” you started.

“call me choso,” he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. “please. I—I prefer that name.”

you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions. do you know what marriage means? do you know what you’re supposed to do with me? do you know what’s expected of you—and of me?

but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.

that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “yuuji once burned ramen,” he told you proudly. “he tried so hard. it was still crunchy.”

you laughed, just a little. you didn’t know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.

you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if you’d mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. “only if it’s not too inconvenient,” he’d say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didn’t answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didn’t like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him.

yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. “like a date. a real one. show her you like her.” choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantly—so instantly it felt like a reflex. “you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasn’t a monster waiting to strike. he wasn’t a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.

"I want to,” you said. and choso’s hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!” he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, “this is the best day ever.” you laughed, but he meant it.

the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by it—slouched at the stove, brows furrowed like he’d disappointed you. but you didn’t mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like you’d performed a miracle.

there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. “you’re so great,” he told you, with hearts in his eyes. “you’re so good at everything.” you flinch a little at the praise, like you’re not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw it—how your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong—but he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.

“are you…afraid of me?” he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. “why are you always so—careful?” the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasn’t an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didn’t understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.

you opened your mouth—but nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structure—but with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.

it didn’t come out like a confession. it wasn’t a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.

marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. you’d grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provide—bodies, labor, silence. you’d watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.

choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.

"I'm sorry,” you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didn’t even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feel…I don’t know—I just…” you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,” you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know it’s not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”

his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I don’t want you to be useful,” he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anything—anything—to make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.” a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”

the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticed—but choso sees it. it’s in the way your steps don’t hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when you’re nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now it’s something gentler. closer. unafraid.

you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thing—tender, breakable, sacred. he doesn’t take it lightly.

when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesn’t ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for him. because it is.

he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinner—ramen, sushi, pancakes at midnight—anything you want. it’s not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while he’s around.

you become friends—slowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesn’t drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.

he didn’t understand, not really, what the people meant when they said “marriage.” but now he does. it’s this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life.

he still has his quirks. he’s blunt to a fault—awkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesn’t come naturally to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. he compliments you like it’s as natural as breathing.

“you are so beautiful.” “you’re the prettiest girl I've ever seen.” "I love it when you smile.”

sometimes he’ll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while you’re brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but it’s not flattery to him. he doesn’t even register it that way.

choso doesn’t know how to flirt. he doesn’t realize there’s any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and that’s what gets you most of all—how sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.

you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.

he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmly—“no yelling.” he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.

you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like it’s a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him it’s nothing, that it’s the least you can do. he always disagrees. you don’t owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.

one day, you’re walking together through tokyo. it’s sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. you’re talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel it—his hand, slipping into yours. like it’s normal. like it’s always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps walking like it’s the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, “yuuji said couples do that.”

you laugh—a real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisper—“did yuuji tell you what kissing is?” choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.

marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasy—but a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easy—nothing ever had—but he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.

just…not like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.

he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojo—with his reckless, star-bright optimism—went through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. you’d both maintain your dignity. your distance.

it didn’t have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.

you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the word—but truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadn’t dared to admit he’d had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.

he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.

and then you spoke to him—softly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didn’t mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.

and nanami felt sick. not at you—never at you—but at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told you—firmly, perhaps too firmly—that he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.

because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.

you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didn’t think nanami liked you. that maybe you’d done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you don’t like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos she’s great."

"you’ve met her twice, gojo. and don’t talk about my wife." nanami’s voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. he’d wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow you’d taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldn’t let that stand.

so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didn’t get any closer physically—still maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at all—but his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.

still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didn’t want you to think that was all this was. he wouldn’t reduce you to something superficial. wouldn’t treat you like a trophy. wouldn’t make you feel small.

but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.

"you don’t have to do all this husband-y stuff," you’d mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didn’t understand—this wasn’t performance. he wasn’t playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.

so he started smaller. made it subtle.

not "I bought this for you,” but "I picked up this chocolate. couldn’t finish it all, if you want some.” (he could finish it. he didn’t even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,” but “there’s a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.”

you didn’t realize it was spoiling. it didn’t feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasn’t. nanami had a hand in everything—softly, quietly, never drawing attention—but always thinking of you. always.

and still, you didn’t see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you weren’t meant to be treasured.

that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didn’t look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one you’d insisted he didn’t need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothing—"I don’t really deserve any of this. you’re amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I mean…I'm nothing compared to you."

and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, “don’t say that again.” you blinked. unsure if you’d heard him right. “you deserve everything,” he said. “and if you’ll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.” you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,” he continued, softer now. “but you are. you’re real. to me.” and for once, you didn’t argue.

you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if you’ll just let him.

you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. you’re polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. like you’re afraid he’ll stop.

but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweets—how your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like it’s a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.

he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatherings—not because you have to, but because you want to.

you’re starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but now…he attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.

you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.

he’s never believed in much. but “my wife” becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners.

“my wife likes that brand of tea,” he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if it’s a credential that matters.

“my wife read that book,” he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and then—because he can’t help himself—adds, “she said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.”

he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.

my wife this. my wife that. my wife likes her soup just a little spicy. my wife hates when it rains and she doesn’t have an umbrella.

my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so we’re going. end of june.

he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a task—but because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world that’s never been kind.

gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesn’t care.

he’s proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.

it’s not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.

you start to accept this scary thing called love.

and then, maybe—maybe—you start to give it back.

it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojo’s absurd, over-the-top parties. you’d worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.

and nanami—poor, tired, utterly smitten nanami—was a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.

you’d said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didn’t even think. "you are so beautiful."

and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. “you think so?” you asked, quietly. like you didn’t believe it. like you couldn’t. "I thought…maybe you didn’t.” of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits him—how confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.

and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didn’t want to reduce you to that. I didn’t want you to think I married you for that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t— you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like you’ve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like he’ll never get another chance. like he’s finally, finally allowed to touch the thing he’s been revering from afar.

from then on, he’s yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didn’t know it. but now—now he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.

he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when you’re busy. he holds your hand like it’s second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no one’s looking.

he sleeps in your bed now. it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulder—and when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasn’t left since.

he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes it’s your name. sometimes it’s I love you. sometimes it’s just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.

he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shyly—he just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like he’s got all the time in the world. and he does. because he’s not going anywhere.

you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in name—you’re partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.

you belong to each other. that’s the difference. that’s what changed. it’s not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love you—he lets you love him. completely. and you do.

you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when he’s worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.

you don’t just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and this—this life you’re building together—it’s all either of you ever could’ve asked for.

619 notes · View notes

seungsluv · 1 month ago

Text

the way I loved you

── .✦ content warning : SMUT! MDI!! fem!reader; academic rivals; enemies with benefits; one bed trope; angry love confession in the rain; explicit sex; oral (f and m receiving); dry humping; unproteced sex; litgh degratation; public sex; kinda sub seung;

✮⋆˙ pairing: academic rival seungmin × fem!reader

✮⋆˙ word count: 14,4k

✮⋆˙ synopsis: “We were academic rivals — until we weren’t. Now I can’t tell if I want to outscore him or ride him until he begs.”

✮⋆˙ A/N: heyy!! I had so much fun writing this one cause I kinda reunited all my fav tropes together, so I hope you guys enjoyed it!! please reblog it and lmk what you think ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

I hated him. Absolutely hated.

Hated those stupid, wide puppy eyes that tricked everyone into thinking he was harmless. Hated the way his hair flopped perfectly over his forehead like he was in some damn shampoo commercial. Hated those stupid, plump lips that probably got away with too much just by existing.

But most of all — I hated that smile. That pretty, cocky smile he flashed like he knew something I didn’t.

Every time he looked at me with that skeptical little tilt of his head, the one that screamed “I'm better than you haha” — yes, I could hear the cartoon villain laugh — I knew, deep in my soul, that I could strangle him.

Still debating tho if I’d prefer to do it with my hands or my thighs.

The worst part? It wasn’t just rage pooling low in my stomach.

It pissed me off how he could make me hate him and want him at the same time.

Fucking disgusting.

When Professor Lee handed back our essays and Seungmin’s stupid name was sitting pretty at the top with a shiny gold “A+”, I didn’t even think.

I whipped my head around, caught his eyes across the lecture hall, and mouthed: “Rigged.”

His mouth curved into that slow, infuriating smirk, the kind that crawled under my skin and set it on fire.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head like he owned the goddamn place, and mouthed back, exaggerated and slow: “Don't be mad just because you’re second best, sweetheart.”

Complete with a wink.

A goddamn wink.

I could feel the heat rising from my chest to my ears. Rage. Or something dangerously close to it.

Seungmin tilted his head, still watching me like I was a particularly amusing science experiment. His eyes glinted, and I knew — I knew — he wasn’t going to let this go.

When class ended, I shoved my notebook into my bag and bolted for the door, hoping he’d get the hint. Of course he didn’t.

He caught up easily, his steps lazy, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets like he hadn’t just declared academic war ten minutes ago.

“Rough day, princess?” he asked, voice dripping mock-sympathy.

I didn’t even look at him. “Bite me, Seungmin.”

“Careful,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “Might take that as an invitation.”

I stopped walking and turned to him so fast he almost collided with me. He did collide, his chest bumping into mine with a low thud that made both of us stiffen on reflex.

For a second — a stupid, reckless second — we just stood there. Breathing the same air. Close enough that I could see the tiny mole in the middle of the bridge of his nose. Close enough that I could smell the faint hint of mint gum and something warm and boyish underneath.

His eyes flickered down to my mouth — fast, involuntary. My heart hammered against my ribs. Not from fear. From something far worse. He caught himself a beat too late and pulled back a step, but it was already too late.

I smirked.

“Problem?” he asked, trying to sound bored, but his voice was rougher now. Edgier.

“You wish,” I snapped, shoving his chest lightly with my hand.

It wasn’t enough to move him, but it made him smile — that crooked, infuriating, I-know-you-want-me smile. I wanted to punch him. Or grab him by the hoodie strings and crash our mouths together. Maybe both.

“Tell you what,” he said, hands sliding casually into his pockets, pretending like his pulse wasn’t visible on his throat. “Winner of the next project challenge picks a punishment for the loser. No rules.”

I raised an eyebrow, chest still rising and falling too fast. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, slow, like daring me to back down. “Afraid to lose?” he teased, voice pure poison wrapped in honey.

I narrowed my eyes. “You're on.”

His smirk stretched wider — a flash of sharp teeth and gleaming mischief. “Try not to cry when you lose, princess.”

“Worry about your own dignity first, loser.”

He stepped closer again — not touching, but close enough that my body registered the heat pouring off him. “Oh, princess…” he murmured, low and deliberate. “You’ll be begging me for mercy by the end of it.”

Then, without waiting for my reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling some stupid upbeat tune like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb between us.

I stood there, heart pounding, palms sweating, fists clenched at my sides. Already plotting how I was going to destroy him.

Or how I was going to let him destroy me.

Maybe both.

If working in the same room as Seungmin was supposed to be a punishment from hell, it was starting to feel a lot more like slow torture.

The worst kind. The kind where you like it.

We weren’t even officially working together — our articles were separate — but somehow, like roaches or debt collectors, he always managed to appear wherever I was: library, café, empty classrooms.

And every time, the same thing: Provocations. Smirks. Stupid bets.

We sat across from each other now, laptops open, papers strewn everywhere. My screen glowed under the cheap library lights, reflecting the blank document I hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

Because Seungmin was there. Existing. Breathing. Tapping his stupid pen against his stupid mouth like he had no idea how distracting he was.

I chewed the end of my pencil, glaring at my thesis statement like it was all its fault.

“Need help, princess?” he drawled, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I'd rather set myself on fire,” I muttered, not looking up.

He chuckled under his breath — that soft, infuriating laugh that always made my skin prickle.

I refused to glance at him. Refused to notice the way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, veins visible on his forearms. Refused to notice how he tapped his pen in an unconscious rhythm that somehow matched the way my heart stuttered when he leaned back and stretched like a smug little shit.

Focus. Focus.

I bent lower over my keyboard, typing harder than necessary.

He reached across the table to steal my highlighter, and his fingers brushed mine — quick, electric. My body jolted before my brain could catch up.

He smirked. Saw it. Filed it away for later.

I hated him. Absolutely hated.

If hating him included wondering what his hands would feel like pressed somewhere else, well — that was between me and my rapidly deteriorating sanity.

Three hours, five insults, and two coffee runs later, we submitted our articles

I stood stiffly at the front of the lecture hall, arms crossed, waiting for the verdict. Seungmin stood next to me, too close. His shoulder brushed mine once. I moved. He moved closer again.

Asshole.

Professor Lee shuffled through the papers, humming thoughtfully.

Finally, he smiled — a slow, proud smile. “Excellent work from both of you.”

I exhaled. Barely.

“But…” He held up one article.

And I saw it. My name. Bold. Clear. Victorious. I blinked. Once. Twice. I won.

The shock punched through me, followed by something molten and dizzying: triumph. I turned slowly to Seungmin, ready to gloat.

His face was unreadable — that blank, impassive mask he wore when he didn’t want anyone to know he was losing his shit inside. Which meant he was furious.

I smiled sweetly. Sickeningly. “Aw. Better luck next time, loser.”

He tilted his head, mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk.

“Don’t get too cocky. One win doesn’t make you better.”

“No, but it makes you worse.”

He stepped closer, enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin again.

His eyes dropped to my mouth — quick, instinctive — and I hated how it made my pulse jump.

Before either of us could say something, even dumber, Professor Lee cleared his throat. “Both of you — a word, please.”

We turned, startled, as if remembering there was a whole room watching.

He led us to his desk, his expression serious.

“You two have been selected to represent our department at the International Academic Congress next weekend.” He paused for effect. “An honor. Only given to our best.”

My brain blanked.

Congress? An entire weekend?

With Seungmin?

I felt my stomach flip in the worst way.

Beside me, Seungmin shoved his hands in his pockets, feigning boredom — but I caught the twitch of his jaw. He hated surprises. Almost as much as I hated liking the idea of being trapped with him somewhere far from rules and reputations.

“You’ll be presenting your articles separately, of course,” Professor Lee continued. “But you’ll be traveling together. Hotel accommodations are arranged.”

I nodded, tight, pretending not to panic.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seungmin turn his head, studying me carefully. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Like he was already plotting how to use this against me.

I gritted my teeth and forced a tight smile. Seungmin smirked, slow and lethal.

This was war.

And I was already losing.

The conference was supposed to be an exciting opportunity. At least, that’s what I told myself when I boarded the plane. A few days away from the usual routine, presenting my research for relevant people, making connections—sounds like a dream, right? In theory. The reality? Well, the idea of spending two days in close proximity to Seungmin was a little less appealing. But hey, I was here for the experience. And because I didn’t have much of a choice.

The flight was long, and Seungmin had already made himself an expert at finding ways to annoy me.

He sat one row behind me, but naturally, he ended up next to me when the seatbelt sign was switched off. Classic Seungmin move. “Mind if I join you?” he asked as if I had a say in the matter.

I didn’t even bother to look at him. “Please, make yourself at home.” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

Seungmin didn’t waste any time. He slid into the seat beside me like we’d been lifelong friends, his shoulder brushing mine in the process. "You know,” he said, stretching his legs out a little too far into my space, “I actually enjoy these long flights. So much time to read, think, or just bother you.”

I pretended to focus on the screen in front of me, but it was hard to ignore him when he practically moved in. “Lucky me,” I muttered, trying my best to be invisible.

He grinned, clearly unfazed. “You could at least pretend to enjoy my company. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” I said dryly.

Seungmin leaned in closer, like he was about to share a deeply profound thought. “I think you’re just afraid of my charm.”

“I’m not afraid of your charm,” I said flatly. “I’m just trying to survive the flight without having to throw you out of the window.”

“You'd kill all of these people if you opened that window, you know that, right?”

Of course I knew, who whe thought I was?

I could practically hear him smirking, even though I refused to look at him. He was annoyingly good at finding ways to make my blood pressure rise with minimal effort.

By the time we landed, I was exhausted—not from the flight, but from keeping my cool around him. The conference itself? That was going to be cakewalk compared to this.

We finally made it through the airport and to the hotel. The city was exactly what I expected: bigger, louder, and more chaotic than I needed. I then with that all my excitement died and I was so ready to be done with everything.

The lobby was eerily quiet, the kind of place where every sound felt exaggerated. When we approached the reception desk, the receptionist greeted us with a smile so practiced it almost looked fake. I wasn’t in the mood for polite exchanges. The way she glanced at Seungmin—almost too interested—made my skin crawl.

She typed something on her keyboard while keeping her eyes on the screen, then lifted her gaze to us with that same, professional smile. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

I stepped up first, handing over my conference credential with a formality I didn’t really feel but was trying to project. It made me look like I had my life together, something that wasn’t going to be ruined by an unexpected trip with my academic rival.

“Hi, we’re from the Department of Social Sciences at National University. We're here for the research congress.”

She glanced at the screen for a moment longer, tapping away before meeting our eyes again. “Ah, of course. Everything’s set for you.” She grabbed a key from behind the desk, placing it on the counter with that same pleasant smile. “Here’s your key. You’ll be in room 325.”

I grabbed the key, but something felt off. The way she handed it to us made me stop, the words almost caught in my throat.

“Just one key?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping the confusion I was feeling didn’t show too obviously. It didn’t make sense that she was giving us a single key for both of us, especially since I knew the rooms were supposed to be separate.

The receptionist looked at me like my question was perfectly normal. “Yes, one key for each couple of participants.”

I blinked, mouth slightly open. A couple? Did she just assume…? I glanced over at Seungmin, who was casually leaning against the counter, an eyebrow raised.

He caught my look and immediately let out a low chuckle. Of course, he found this funny. “What? You didn’t think we were a couple?” He gave me a wink, his voice dripping with that infuriating confidence.

I felt my face flush with a mix of annoyance and… something else. I wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand, but honestly, why was the receptionist so sure of that? Was I really giving off those kinds of vibes?

I couldn’t suppress my irritation.

“We’re not a couple,” I snapped, a little too harshly. “We’re just… two students who happened to be presenting at the same event.”

The receptionist merely nodded, completely unfazed. She didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary about the situation. “Oh, I see. Well, the rooms are all prepared. Would you like me to change the key?”

Before I could open my mouth to say anything, Seungmin was quicker. He grabbed the key off the counter with an air of ease that only made me more frustrated. He was enjoying this, I could tell.

“No, it's okay,” he said smoothly, his eyes flicking to me with that self-satisfied gleam. “We’re fine with it.”

He turned to me, the smugness on his face practically radiating. Of course, this would be his idea of a good time.

I shot him a death glare but said nothing. He was always so quick to take charge of situations that were inconvenient for me. It annoyed the hell out of me.

The receptionist, apparently oblivious to the tension, gave us a polite nod. “Enjoy your stay!”

I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I grabbed my bag and turned away, trying my hardest to ignore Seungmin’s amused expression as I walked to the elevator.

“I can’t believe you’re okay with this,” I muttered under my breath, trying to sound angry, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Seungmin followed behind me, taking his time.

The elevator ride up to the third floor was a quiet one, and as we stepped out into the hallway, I could already feel the weight of the situation sinking in. The reality of having to share a room with Seungmin was a lot less fun when you were actually facing it.

Seungmin, still as calm as ever, walked ahead of me toward room 325. His hand was already on the doorknob when I caught up.

I hesitated, then turned to him. “I seriously don’t think this is a good idea.”

Seungmin paused, his back to me, then slowly glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. For a second, there was no hint of a smirk. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked quietly.

I wanted to answer— everything —but he was already opening the door.

The door swung open, and I stepped inside, Seungmin trailing right behind me. The room was… fine. Clean, neat — boring in the way all conference hotels were. But then my gaze hit the bed.

One. Single. Bed.

A king-size, sure. But still — one bed. No second mattress tucked in a corner. No pull-out couch. Just that massive betrayal sitting right in the middle of the room like it knew exactly what it was doing.

I froze, dread pooling in my stomach.

Seungmin bumped into me from behind and cursed under his breath. “Wait. Are you fucking serious?” His voice was low, disbelieving.

I didn’t even look at him. I just stared at the bed like it had personally betrayed me.

I turned to him slowly, my face blank with disbelief. “Well, unless you’re planning on summoning another bed out of thin air, yeah, we’re serious.” I waved my hand dramatically toward the offending mattress.

Seungmin stepped around me, eyeing the bed like it had personally insulted his family. “They expect us to sleep in the same bed?” he asked, incredulous.

“Apparently ‘academic excellence’ comes with complimentary sexual tension. Maybe they'll even throw in some rose petals and a bottle of champagne while we're at it too.” I muttered, folding my arms.

He snorted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“No shit. You think I did?” I snapped. The sarcasm was practically a second language between us at this point.

The room already felt too small, the air too charged.

He looked at me, his expression sharpening into something defensive. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I’d rather cuddle a cactus.”

I gave him a slow, sarcastic smile. “Cute. I was about to say you could sleep outside with the stray dogs. You’d fit right in.”

He threw me a sideways look, half a smirk playing on his lips. “If it’s that unbearable, I can sleep on the floor. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep over me.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my brain. “The floor’s probably cleaner than whatever germs you’re carrying anyway.”

The tension crackled between us — electric, unbearable. We both stood there, stubbornly glaring at the bed, as if sheer willpower would make it disappear.

Seungmin shook his head, glancing once more at the cursed bed like it might suddenly sprout another mattress. “This is unbelievable. Who the hell organizes a conference like this?”

“Maybe it's a new academic technique.” I deadpanned. “See who survives forced proximity without committing murder.”

He actually snorted at that, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He shook his head, still clearly pissed off. “This is ridiculous. What’s next, sharing a toothbrush?”

I snapped back, my sarcasm sharp as a knife. “Oh, I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going to happen. They’ll give us matching PJs next, too.”

We stood there for another long, heavy beat, neither of us moving.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Seungmin exhaled sharply and said: “We’re not gonna survive this if we keep acting like kids.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Screw it. We'll put a damn pillow wall in the middle. Switzerland rules: you stay on your side, I stay on mine.”

“Fine. But if you snore, I’m suffocating you with a pillow.”

“If you steal the covers, I’m kicking you onto the floor.” I shot back.

He met my glare with one of his own, but there was something else beneath it now.

Something heavier. Thicker. Neither of us said it, but we both felt it. The heat. The pull.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, already moving toward the door. “Let's just get through the conference first. We'll deal with... this trainwreck later.”

Seungmin didn’t argue this time. He just muttered under his breath, low enough that I almost missed it: “Yeah... easier said than done.”

We step off the elevator and into a wide, polished corridor leading to the conference rooms. The air smells faintly of burnt coffee, new carpet, and desperation. The walls are covered in generic modern art — squares inside of other squares — like they were trying very hard to seem sophisticated without actually having a soul. I already feel the weight of expectation pressing down on me like a headache.

Seungmin walks beside me, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking unimpressed with life itself. His hair falls messily into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. Typical.

His eyes dart around the hallway, scanning faces like he’s already categorizing who’s worth ignoring. “Ready to pretend we care?” he mutters, voice pitched low enough just for me.

“Thrilled,” I deadpan, not even glancing at him. “Can’t wait to have my brain melted by endless talks about sustainable quinoa farming.”

He snorts, biting back a laugh. “Sounds like your dream date.”

“Yup. Right up there with tax seminars and dental surgery.”

We keep walking, moving with the flow of the crowd. I can see the bright lights of the conference rooms ahead, and it's all I can do to not roll my eyes at the sheer formality of it all. The event feels more like a display of ‘look how important we are’ than anything else.

He grins — a real one, small and crooked — before drifting off toward a group near the front, already blending in like a professional social chameleon. I roll my eyes and slink toward the back, sinking into an empty chair, pulling out my phone just to avoid making small talk with strangers who all think they’re smarter than everyone else.

The speaker drones on about something to do with regenerative soil or whatever. I zone out, letting the words wash over me like white noise.

That’s when I notice him — a guy standing near the refreshment table, dressed casually enough to look out of place among all the tight blazers and forced smiles. He’s got a lazy grin, a coffee cup in one hand, and the vibe of someone who definitely isn’t taking this seriously.

Our eyes meet by accident. I immediately look away, pretending to be fascinated by my own shoes.

Too late.

Footsteps approach, and a moment later, he’s there, leaning on the back of the chair next to mine like he owns the place, like he’s got nothing better to do.

“Hey.” he says when he’s standing in front of me, offering a slight, disarming grin. “I don’t know if you’re as bored as I am, but I swear this place feels like a corporate zombie apocalypse.”

I glance up at him. His voice is light, teasing, and there's a mischievous glint in his eye that reminds me — alarmingly — of someone else I know. He's charming, but not in the typical, obnoxious way.

I can’t help a small smirk. “I’m pretty sure zombies would be more interesting. At least they’d be honest about their intentions.”

“You look about as thrilled as I feel,” he says with a grin.

“Is it that obvious?” I say, tilting my head. “I thought I was hiding it so well.”

“Subtle as a brick to the face,” he deadpans, smiling wider.

I snort before I can stop myself. Okay, he's funny. Dangerous.

“Chan,” he says, holding out a hand like we’re not at the most painfully formal event on earth.

“Y/N,” I reply, shaking his hand briefly before pulling back.

Chan smirks. “So, Y/N... what's your poison? Boring keynote speeches or awkward networking attempts?”

I fake think about it. “Mmm... death by boredom sounds slightly less painful.”

He chuckles. “Agreed. I’m just here for the free coffee and questionable snack trays.”

“You’re brave. I think those pastries have been alive longer than some of the speakers.”

He laughs — a real, full laugh — and leans closer like we’re already conspirators. “Survival of the fittest. Or the most caffeinated.”

I smirk, feeling a little lighter despite myself.

“Guess I’ll see you at the coffee table battlefield later, then.”

“Only if you’re prepared to fight dirty.” He winks. “I swear, if they put any more bland hors d'oeuvres out there, I might start questioning why I even left my house for this.”

I can’t help it—I actually laugh at that. “Yeah, I’d rather be at home, in my pajamas, eating cereal. At least I know it’s not going to taste like cardboard.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, so you're one of those people. Respect.”

There's a beat of silence, and for a moment, we just stand there, awkward in the best way. But I don’t mind it. It's kind of refreshing to talk to someone who isn’t immediately making small talk about "networking."

Chan shrugs, his eyes glinting with a bit of humor. “So, what’s your take on all of this? The conference, I mean. I’m assuming you’re not here for the food production knowledge either.”

I think about it for a moment before responding. “Honestly? It’s not exactly what I expected. I thought it’d be more... engaging, that I'd have a great opportunity to talk about my research, but it’s mostly just people trying to sound important.”

Chan nods knowingly, looking amused. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the vibe I’m getting too.”

I’m about to fire back something sarcastic when the temperature of the room shifts. I feel it before I see him — that tightening sensation in the air.

I turn slightly, and there he is.

Seungmin.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders rigid. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but it’s his eyes — sharp, dark — that give him away.

He's staring at Chan like he’s a mosquito buzzing too close.

Chan notices too, casting a casual glance over his shoulder. “Didn’t realize you had company,” Chan says easily, raising an eyebrow at Seungmin.

Seungmin’s smile is a weapon — all teeth, no warmth. “Yeah. She’s with me.”

She’s with me.

My eyebrows shoot up, but I say nothing.

Seungmin’s jaw clenches, and he steps forward, his gaze still fixed on me, but the edge to his voice has softened slightly as he addresses me. “Y/N, we should go.”

Chan shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “Right. I’ll catch you later, Y/N.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, feeling the weight of Seungmin’s presence beside me. “Later.”

He flashes me one last grin before wandering off, utterly unbothered.

The second he’s gone, Seungmin steps closer, his body language screaming tension. His glare burns into me, his jaw flexing as if he’s chewing on all the words he can’t say out loud.

The air between us is thick, but I can’t help it. I need to poke at him, need to let him know that I see right through his little act.

I cross my arms, matching his posture. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to start a bar fight?” I ask sweetly.

He huffs through his nose, looking anywhere but at me.

We head back toward the front, the noise of the conference around us feeling a hundred times louder. The tension doesn’t seem to let up, and I know this is just the beginning of whatever this is between us, the silence between us thick enough to choke on.

I can’t help myself.

“You know,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “you’re acting like I committed a crime by talking to someone with a better haircut than you.” I lied, Chans's haircut isn't better than his long bangs that falls onto his eyes.

Seungmin’s jaw tightens, his eyes flickering toward me, but he says nothing. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, and the way his fingers flex against his crossed arms doesn’t escape me. He’s annoyed.

I grin to myself, enjoying this just a little too much. “I mean, it’s not like I invited him to a romantic dinner or anything,” I continue, my tone teasing. “But I did notice your death stare. If looks could kill, I think I’d be six feet under right now.”

Seungmin's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” I tease. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked a lot like jealousy. Like… borderline ‘punch a guy over a coffee joke’ levels of jealousy.”

He stops walking abruptly, forcing me to stop too. He steps closer — too close — and lowers his voice so only I can hear.

“I’m not jealous.”

I tilt my head, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really? Because it kind of seemed like you were about to challenge him to a duel or something.”

Seungmin glances at me, his expression unreadable, but I can tell he’s getting more irritated by the second. He stops walking again, and his eyes narrow in that way he does when he’s not sure whether to get sarcastic or serious. “I don’t care, okay?” he finally says, voice sharp. “But you could’ve at least told me you were—whatever—you know, talking to him.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, so I’m supposed to run my social interactions past you now? Got it, boss.”

Seungmin’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about, exactly?” I prod, stepping closer to him. “You sure you’re not feeling a little... territorial?”

“Territorial?” He glares at me, clearly trying to keep his cool. “What, like some caveman marking his territory?”

I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “More like a chihuahua, actually.”

Seungmin glares, his ears pinking. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable when you’re angry,” I shoot back, my grin widening.

He lets out a short, frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Keep pushing, princess. See what happens.”

I arch an eyebrow, leaning closer, letting my shoulder brush his for just a second longer than necessary. “Maybe I’m counting on it.”

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other — the conference noise fading into the background — locked in this stupid, electric standoff.

Then he huffs, muttering under his breath as he turns to walk ahead of me: “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

I smile, slow and wicked, before following him back into the crowd.

The second the door to the hotel room clicked shut behind us, the weight of reality hit again — one bed.

Still just one.

I sighed loudly, dropping my bag near the dresser.

Seungmin tossed his hoodie onto a chair and stretched his arms above his head, way too nonchalant for someone about to sleep three inches away from their mortal enemy.

“Guess we’re really doing this,” I muttered, staring at the bed like it was a battlefield.

“What’s wrong, princess? Afraid you won’t survive one night without jumping me?” he teased, kicking off his shoes.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

“Please. I’m more worried about you crying because I stole all the covers.”

He laughed, short and sharp. “In your dreams.”

We stood there for a second, facing the bed like it killed someone of our family.

“Truce?” I offered reluctantly, lifting a pillow.

“Temporary ceasefire.” He smirked. “Until you start snoring and ruin my life.”

I flipped him off without ceremony and started building a pathetic little wall of pillows down the middle of the mattress.

He watched, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “Very professional. I feel safer already.”

“Good. Now if you so much as breathe on my side, I’m kicking you out.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I grabbed my pajamas and locked myself in the bathroom before I could throw something at his smug face. Changing into my satin slip felt almost ridiculous. It wasn’t even that revealing — thin straps, low neckline, cut just short enough to be a problem if you looked too long — but somehow, the second I caught my reflection, I hesitated.

Why the hell did it feel like I was getting ready for something? I shook off the thought and stepped out.

Seungmin was sprawled across his side of the bed, now wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants, no shirt. His skin caught the soft hotel lighting, warm and distracting. He was tapping away at his phone, pretending not to notice me.

He looked up when he heard the door click.

And froze.

Just for a second.

Eyes raking over me in one quick, betraying sweep before he schooled his face back into something vaguely unimpressed. “Nice pajamas,” he said casually. “Planning to seduce the minibar?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Planning to murder you in your sleep, actually.”

He grinned — wide, wolfish. “Kinky.”

I gave him my middle finger again and climbed into my side of the bed, tugging the covers up to my chest like armor.

Seungmin tossed his phone onto the nightstand and settled against the pillows, arms behind his head. The faint glow of the bedside lamp carved shadows down his chest, and I hated — *hated* — that my eyes kept betraying me, sliding over the lines of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach.

I turned off the light with an aggressive click. The darkness didn’t help.

We lay there, stiff, silent, breathing the same charged air. The pillow barrier might as well have been made of tissue paper.

Minutes stretched. The kind of minutes where you feel everything — the brush of fabric, the shift of weight, the tiny creaks of the bed under him.

I couldn’t sleep.

Neither could he.

I could hear his breathing, shallow and uneven. The bed felt too big and too small all at once.

The shitty pillow wall between us was a joke now — some flimsy excuse to pretend there was still a line we hadn’t crossed.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. The air was thick. Every shallow breath I took, I swore I could taste him on my tongue. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was tense. Ticking. Waiting.

I couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, but I could feel him — every shift of weight on the mattress, every small movement that jolted straight through my body like static.

Finally, Seungmin’s voice broke the stillness — low, rough around the edges: “You keep fidgeting.”

I scoffed quietly, turning onto my side to face the vague outline of his body. “Maybe because I’m stuck sharing a bed with my worst enemy.”

“You flatter yourself,” he muttered, and even in the dark, I could imagine that insufferable smirk of his. “You’re the one who built a wall of pillows like I’m going to jump on you or something.”

He shifted closer, just enough that the mattress dipped between us, erasing another inch of space.

“Well, I've heard of your uncontrollable violent behavior, Kim Seungmin.” I lied, I heard nothing, but anything, now I might just witness it.

He laughed under his breath, sharp and derisive. “You're so full of yourself, it’s a miracle your head fits in this room.”

He didn’t say anything else immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch — heavy, charged — until I was practically vibrating from it.

Then, almost too casually: “Bet you think about it though.”

I blinked, my heart stuttering. “Think about what?” I asked, my voice coming out sharper than I meant.

“This,” he said simply. “Us. Fighting, fucking... whatever.”

I opened my mouth to snap back — some scathing insult on the tip of my tongue — but nothing came out.

Because the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

The silence between us roared.

Seungmin shifted again, close enough now that the heat of his body seeped through the covers. “What’s the matter, princess?” he teased, voice dangerously low. “Cat got your tongue?”

I hated him. I hated how my skin burned under his words. I hated how badly I wanted to wipe that smug tone off his mouth — preferably with my own.

I swallowed thickly. “You’re delusional.” I said, but it lacked bite.

He laughed quietly, a deep, rumbling sound that curled low in my stomach. “Am I?” he challenged, voice pure sin.

Then, the tension snapped.

I pushed the stupid pillow barrier away with one aggressive swipe, grabbed a fistful of his face and yanked him toward me.

Our mouths crashed together like a fucking car wreck — brutal, messy, unstoppable. We kissed like we were trying to prove something. Or maybe like we were trying to forget something.

He groaned into the kiss, grabbing my waist like he’d been waiting for permission he was never going to ask for.

I gasped when he rolled over me, pinning me down into the mattress, his hips pressing between my thighs with a hunger that sent a shudder straight through me.

His mouth was everywhere — jaw, neck, collarbone — as if kissing me could somehow make up for all the weeks of tension we’d spent pretending we didn’t want this. His hands gripped my thighs, my waist, like he couldn’t decide where he needed me most.

His hips pressed down, slow and firm, and I felt the friction hit just right — enough to make me gasp into his mouth. He did it again. Purposefully this time. Pressing against me like he wanted me to feel just how hard he was. Like he needed me to know what I was doing to him.

Then he started grinding.

Desperately.

There was nothing careful about it. It was all friction and hunger, his sweatpants dragging against my panties, the pressure building every time our hips met. He was breathing heavily now, panting into my neck, his hands gripping my waist like he was trying to keep himself from losing it completely.

I arched against him instinctively, my hands sliding up his back, under his shirt, nails digging in just a little when our hips met again. The fabric between us was too much and not enough at the same time — the pressure maddening, delicious, torturous. Heat pooled low in my stomach, and I hated how easily he made me feel like I was unraveling — so I did what I always did when I felt too much.

I smirked. “Wow.” I whispered, my voice low and venomous as my lips brushed his ear. “I couldn’t imagine grinding was your way of begging.”

He groaned — like the sound had been ripped out of him — and ground harder, sharper, until I could feel all of him pressing against me.

Hard. So fucking hard.

And that’s when I laughed — breathless and wicked — dragging my nails down his back just enough to make him hiss. His breath was shaky against my collarbone, his lips dragging a trail of heat along my skin. He was already panting, his hips grinding into mine like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed the friction just to stay sane. I felt him — hard, throbbing against my center — and it only made the smirk on my lips grow sharper.

“You’re really down bad, huh?” I murmured against his ear, dragging my nails slowly up his back. “You barely touched me and you're already losing it.”

He groaned, a sound that came from deep in his chest, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. “You’re not helping.” he muttered, grinding against me again, slower now, desperate.

“Then beg better.” I whispered, my voice deliberately calm, teasing. “Maybe I’ll take pity on you.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at me, eyes wild, jaw tight, completely wrecked.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, his voice a growl now. “You think I can fucking control myself when you're like this?”

“No.” I whispered, rolling my hips up slowly, deliberately. “That’s the fun part.”

Something snapped in him after that. He thrust against me again, this time rougher, more desperate, and I swallowed a moan as his mouth found mine once more. I felt him everywhere — in the way his body moved, in the way his hands clutched at me like I was something he couldn’t hold onto fast enough, in the way our hips met again and again, friction making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but feel.

My fingers slipped into his hair, yanking just enough to make him hiss, and I couldn’t help the smug little grin that curled at my lips. He pulled back just enough to look at me, flushed and breathless, pupils blown wide.

“You're dangerous.” he whispered, his voice low and reverent.

“You love it.” I shot back.

He crushed his mouth back onto mine, swallowing my gasp, and his hand slipped down between us to pull at my panties like he couldn’t stand one more second without being inside me. The kiss deepened, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, hands roaming recklessly.

Seungmin kissed like he fought — relentless, stubborn, like he had something to prove.

And fuck, I loved it.

His hands slid under my nightgown, fingertips dragging up my sides, rough and needy. I arched into him, desperate for more contact, for anything to ground me against the chaos exploding under my skin.

He pulled back just enough to mutter, breathless: “Still think I'm delusional?”

“Shut up.” I gasped, dragging him back down to me.

He grinned against my mouth — cocky, victorious — and then kissed me even harder.

“This is purely academic.” I said, smirking into the dark. “Data collection. Stress relief. Killing time.”

“What, like a science experiment?”

“Exactly.”

“Uh-hum, of course.” he agreed mock-seriously.

Clothes became obstacles. His hands found the hem of my slip, pushing it up, bunching the silky fabric at my waist.

He kissed down my neck, slower this time, like he was trying to savor every inch of skin. My shame was long gone, and so were the layers of sarcasm I wore like armor. His mouth trailed lower, over my chest, down my stomach — and when he reached the waistband of my panties, he paused. Looked up. Eyes dark. Lips swollen. Breath unsteady. Like he was about to kneel at an altar. And I was the altar.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I muttered, trying to hold onto some control.

“Like what?” he said, voice low, his fingers already sliding down my panties.

“Like I’m the answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.”

He smirked — not his usual cocky kind, but softer, full of want.

He kissed down my stomach slowly, like he wanted to memorize every inch of skin. There was something almost reverent in the way he did it — not rushed, not greedy — just hungry, in a quiet, desperate kind of way.

When his fingers hooked under my panties and slid them down, he didn’t say a word. But his eyes — God, his eyes were wrecked. Like he’d been waiting for this since the day we met and couldn't believe it was finally happening.

I let my head fall back against the pillows, biting my lip, trying to stay composed. But the second I felt his breath on my inner thigh, I knew I was in trouble.

And then his mouth found me.

The first lick was slow. Soft. Testing.

He groaned like he was the one being touched, and the vibration made me shiver.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair on instinct, trying to ground myself. He didn’t stop.

His tongue moved in careful, messy circles, as if he was learning me — like every stroke was a question and every moan was an answer. He sucked gently, then harder, switching rhythms like he wanted to see what would make me break first.

I hated how good it felt. Hated how easy it was to melt under his mouth.

So I did the only thing I could do — I mocked him. “You’re really putting your whole heart into this, huh?” I breathed, voice shaky but laced with sarcasm.

He pulled back just enough to look up at me, lips already wet, face flushed. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the first time you yelled at me in chem lab.” he said, voice rough. “So yeah. I’m not fucking around.”

Then he went back in, hungrier than before. His hands slid under my thighs, pushing them further apart. He moaned into me like I was something he couldn’t get enough of — and maybe he couldn’t.

I gasped without thinking, barely able to form the words. He looked up at me with a crooked grin and shook his head before diving back in. And I couldn’t stop myself anymore. My hips rocked against his face. My hands tangled in his hair. My breath stuttered and caught.

My body arched. My breath stuttered. My control cracked. “Fuck—” I gasped, rolling my hips into his face. “You’re gonna make me—”

He sucked harder. His tongue flicked just right. And I did. I came with a whimper I tried to swallow, thighs trembling around his head.

Still, he didn’t move — didn’t stop — not until I was squirming away from the overstimulation, dragging him up by the hair and breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He looked wrecked. And so fucking proud of himself. “You should’ve insulted me earlier.” he whispered, kissing the inside of my knee. “I think I’m kinda into it.”

“Shut up.” I said, pulling him into a kiss.

I pulled him up by the hair, still panting, and crashed my mouth into his. Tasting myself on his lips only made it worse.

My hands roamed his bare back — warm, solid, lean muscles flexing under my touch — and I scratched lightly down his spine, earning a low, broken noise from deep in his throat.

He retaliated by sucking a bruise into the hollow of my throat, making me gasp and tangle my fingers in his hair, yanking just hard enough to hear him groan again.

Somehow, he managed to shove his sweatpants down just enough, the condom appearing – from God knows where – clumsily between kisses, torn open with shaky fingers. Even stoned on adrenaline and lust, we managed — barely.

When he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Raw.

We both gasped — harsh, ragged — the sudden connection knocking the breath out of our lungs. Seungmin pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard.

“Fuck.” he whispered. “You're gonna be the death of me.”

I laughed — sharp and breathless — grabbing his hips and rolling mine up to meet him, forcing a groan from his mouth.

He moved inside me — slow at first, testing, then harder, deeper, each thrust sending little shocks of pleasure ripping through me. I clutched at him, nails digging into his shoulders, my body meeting his rhythm without hesitation.

The world blurred around the edges, just his breath against my neck, the creak of the mattress, the wet, filthy sound of skin on skin.

The tension in my stomach coiled tighter with every rough drag of his hips, every filthy word he muttered against my skin when he thought I couldn’t hear.

“So fucking tight.”

“So good like this.”

“Mine tonight.”

I whimpered, burying my face against his shoulder, biting down just enough to make him hiss and drive into me harder. The buildup was brutal, slow and fast at the same time, until I was clinging to him, gasping his name like a curse.

He felt it too, I could tell — the way his thrusts became uneven, ragged, the way he cursed under his breath when my nails raked down his back.

I shoved him away, straddling him. “Lie down.” I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, letting my thighs press against his bare skin.

He looked wrecked — eyes glazed, mouth parted, like he couldn’t believe this was real. He obeyed instantly. Hair a mess, chest heaving, lips red. Completely at my mercy. He lifted his head, eyes wild, pupils blown, lips parted. He looked at me like he didn’t know whether to kiss me or cry.

“Please.” he said, barely a breath. “I need you." He whimpered. “You're so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, almost like he hated himself for saying it. “Like a dream I shouldn’t be allowed to have.” His fingers brushing my hair.

The words made something flutter in my chest, but I ignored it. Instead, I pushed him down by the shoulders, forcing him to lie back on the mattress. He obeyed instantly.

“That's right, pretty boy.” I said, straddling his hips slowly, my fingers dragging over his chest.

His breath hitched at the praise.

I leaned down, lips brushing over his ear. “You’re gonna keep your hands to yourself.” I said softly. “Just for a while. Got it?”

He nodded quickly. Too quickly. His restraint was paper thin.

I rolled my hips down against his again, this time without any barrier. His sweatpants were already low on his hips, and I could feel how badly he wanted it, the way his whole body arched up, chasing friction, chasing me.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, trying so hard not to move.

I shifted down slowly, kissing along his stomach, watching the muscles tense under my lips. When I reached the waistband of his boxers, I heard him whisper my name again, like a prayer. Desperate. Soft. Shaky.

But instead of going lower, I came back up, hovering over him again. His hands clenched at his sides. He was trembling. He looked like he was losing his mind.

And I loved it.

“You want me to fuck you?” I asked, voice still soft, like I was offering something sacred. He nodded again, eyes locked on mine. “No, Seungmin.” I said, smile sharp. “I want to hear it.”

He swallowed hard. “I want you.” he said. “Please. I want you so fucking bad.”

Only then did I slide down onto him — slow, torturously slow. We both gasped. His hands flew to my hips on instinct, gripping tight, but he didn’t move, like he remembered my words. His head fell back. A sound tore from his throat — low, desperate, guttural. “Fucking hell…”

I started moving, hips rolling in deep, slow circles. He looked drunk — eyes fluttering, head tilted back, mouth open. “Shit.” he choked out. “You’re gonna kill me.”

I leaned down, brushing my lips over his. “You’re lucky I like you needy.”

He grabbed my wrist, eyes locking with mine again, glassy, overwhelmed. “You’re in fact a dream.” he whispered. “You’re a fucking dream, I don’t wanna wake up.”

He was completely under me, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, needy. I rode him slow and deep. He reached up, fingers trembling as they gripped my thighs. “Fuck… you’re unreal.”

I leaned forward, dragging my lips down his jaw. And I kept going. Until he couldn’t speak. Until he was all moans and gasps and praise whispered into my skin. Until the only thing either of us knew was this — us — messy, out of control, too much and never enough.

And this time, I didn’t tease. I kissed him, slow and deep, as I kept moving, feeling him tremble beneath me, completely undone

It hit me like a wave — hot, violent, overwhelming.

I came with a cry I couldn't bite back, my body clenching around him so hard it ripped a guttural moan from his mouth. A few more frantic, desperate grinds and he followed, coming with a rough, broken sound against my ear.

We collapsed together, sweaty, shaking, our bodies tangled messily in the sheets and in each other.

For a long moment, we just lay there — breathing hard, the air heavy with sex and everything we weren't saying.

He didn't move away.

Neither did I.

I woke up tangled in the sheets, the faint light from the window cutting through the darkness of the room.

The room was cold, but the heat of his body next to mine made it almost unbearable.

I shifted under the covers, blinking against the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains.

Seungmin was lying on his side, facing me. His hair a mess, his mouth slightly open, his arm carelessly thrown over the invisible line that we had so dramatically ignored the night before. He looked criminally good for someone who had completely ruined my ability to think straight.

For a second, I just stared at him. At the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. At the faint scratch marks I’d left on his skin.

It should’ve made me feel guilty.

It didn’t. It made my stomach flip in a way I refused to name.

I shifted under the covers, careful not to wake him. Not because I cared. Because I didn’t feel like dealing with the smugness that would explode across his stupidly handsome face when he realized he had officially broken my sanity.

But of course, the bed creaked, and his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked slowly at me, his mouth curling into a lazy, dangerous smirk. “Good morning, sunshine.”

I rolled my eyes hard enough to sprain something. “You drooled on my pillow.”

“You moaned on my neck.” He said it so casually I almost threw the remaining pillow at his face.

I rolled over with an exaggerated huff, pulling the blanket up to my neck.

The bed shifted a second later, and a raspy voice muttered: “You're staring. Creepy.”

I snorted without turning. “Dreaming. About how much I regret this.”

“Sure.” He stretched, the covers sliding lower on his body, revealing way too much bare skin for a casual glance.

I refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I tossed a pillow at his head.

It hit him square in the face. He grunted. “Assault. That's how you say good morning?”

“You should thank me. I could’ve done worse.”

He laughed, low and rough. God, that laugh should be illegal before 9 a.m.

“You already did worse last night.” he teased, flashing that stupid grin that made my chest tight for no good reason.

“Delusional much?” I snapped, pushing the blankets away and standing up, my satin slip sticking to my thighs.

His eyes dropped — quickly, involuntarily — and when he realized, he immediately smirked wider.

“If I'm delusional, at least it's a nice view.”

I threw another pillow at his face and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door harder than necessary.

Behind me, his laugh chased me like smoke under the door.

The last day of the conference loomed over me like a thundercloud. People buzzed around the lobby and corridors, all polished shoes and stiff blazers, pretending not to be nervous while clutching folders a little too tightly.

I sat at the back of the auditorium, my hands cold and clammy around my notes. My stomach twisted itself into knots. My brain, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish and heavy.

What if I mess up?

What if they laugh at me?

What if I open my mouth and nothing comes out?

A quiet nudge at my side snapped me out of my spiral. I turned sharply — already defensive — only to find Seungmin sliding into the seat next to mine, a crooked grin on his face. “You look like you're about to pass out” he said under his breath, eyes glinting with amusement.

I scowled. “Thanks for the support, Seungmin.”

He smirked, unbothered. His arm brushed mine as he leaned back casually, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Meanwhile, I was over here two seconds away from vomiting.

He studied my face for a moment, his smile fading slightly. “You’re gonna kill it.” he said, voice lower, more serious.

I blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Wow. High praise coming from my archnemesis.” I said, raising an eyebrow.

Seungmin snorted. “Don’t get used to it.” He tapped my folder with the back of his hand. “But seriously. You’re smarter than half the people in this room. Probably smarter than me, too. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.”

My chest tightened strangely at that. I tried to cover it with sarcasm. “Aw, how cute. If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually cared.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Don't flatter yourself. I just don't want to be associated with someone who faints mid-presentation.”

I let out a shaky laugh despite myself, some of the weight on my chest easing. I glanced at him sideways, heart hammering for a different reason now. “You think I can really do it?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

Seungmin’s gaze softened. He didn’t tease this time. He didn’t smirk.

He just nodded once, firm and certain. “I know you can.”

Something in me cracked a little at that. Before I could embarrass myself further by actually tearing up or something equally pathetic, the coordinator called my name.

I stood up too fast, my knees almost buckling. Seungmin reached out instinctively, grabbing my wrist lightly to steady me. His touch was brief, casual — but it set my skin on fire.

“Go show them why you scare the shit out of me.” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

I managed a breathless laugh, clutching my notes like a shield as I walked toward the stage.

His gaze followed me the whole way. I could feel it — hot and unwavering, like a tether pulling at me even across the room.

And somehow, because of him, my hands steadied. My voice, when I finally spoke, didn’t shake.

When I finished my presentation and stepped off the stage, heart still hammering, my eyes found his immediately.

Seungmin sat casually slouched in his seat, arms crossed, looking every bit the cocky bastard he always was. But when he caught my gaze, he gave me the smallest nod. Barely there. But it hit harder than a standing ovation.

I looked away quickly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. I shouldn’t have cared. But fuck — I did. More than I wanted to admit.

By the end of the last presentation, I was vibrating with tension from the happenings of today and yesterday. I couldn't help myself but let my eyes wander to him every second.

Then suddenly, Chan — the guy from the day before — found me again, appearing with a crooked smile and two cups of coffee. “We really survived it, huh?” he said, handing me a cup. "Yeah..." I took it automatically, forcing a smile.

But my eyes weren’t on him. They were locked across the crowd, watching Seungmin sling his backpack over one shoulder, heading toward the exit without even glancing back.

Something inside me twisted violently.

I barely heard Chan say something else. I just shoved the coffee back at him with a muttered excuse and slipped into the crowd, my body moving on instinct.

I followed Seungmin. Out of the conference center. Down the hall. Toward the elevators.

He didn’t turn when he heard my footsteps. He just stepped inside the elevator. Waited.

When I caught up, panting slightly, I saw the look in his eyes. Tense. Dark. Dangerous.

He hit the button for our floor, and the doors slid closed with a soft ding. The elevator was filled with nothing but heavy breathing and electricity.

Neither of us spoke. Neither of us had to. As soon as the room door closed, I acted on pure instinct. I shoved him. Hard.

Seungmin stumbled back against the wall, his eyes widening in shock — and something hotter — before narrowing with a slow, dangerous smile.

I didn't wait. I closed the distance, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and yanked him into a kiss.

This wasn’t soft. It was furious, messy, teeth and tongue clashing as I pressed him back harder against the wall, claiming him. He grabbed my hips, hauling me closer, but I was faster — shoving him backward until he hit the bed.

I pushed him down, climbing on top of him with a wicked grin.

He stared up at me, breathless, pupils blown wide.

“You like being bossed around, huh?” I teased, grinding down on him mercilessly.

“Only when it’s you.” he rasped, his hands gripping my thighs like he was seconds from losing it completely.

Fury and need and regret crashing together in a way that didn’t make sense but at the same time felt like the only thing that did.

Campus looked the same. Gray, busy, loud.

But everything felt different.

We didn’t talk about what happened. We didn’t even look at each other.

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend we weren’t carrying around the memory of each other’s bodies burned into our skin

In class, he sat two rows behind me. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back, searing a path down my spine. Every. Single. Second. By the end of the lecture, I was practically shaking with frustration.

I grabbed my notebook, marched out into the hallway — and waited.

When he passed, I grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the nearest empty classroom, slamming the door shut.

For a second, we just stood there, staring at each other, the tension so thick it felt like drowning.

“Problem, princess?” he asked, mock-innocent.

I shoved him lightly. “Yeah. You're breathing again. What the hell is your problem?” I hissed, arms crossed.

Seungmin leaned against the wall, lazy, unbothered, like this was amusing. “Problem? I don't have a problem.”

I stepped closer, glaring. “You stare at me like you want to burn me alive and then act like nothing happened.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I do want to burn you alive.”

I shoved him hard. He didn’t even flinch.

Just smiled — slow, infuriating — and let his eyes drag down to my mouth.

My chest heaved with fury. “Stop looking at me like that!” I snapped.

“Like what?” he said innocently, gaze dropping to my lips again.

I groaned and rolled my eyes before grabbing the front of his hoodie and kissed him.

Hard.

He responded immediately, hands sliding to my hips, slamming me back against the door.

The kiss was brutal, messy, full of months — maybe years — of frustration detonating all at once. Starved. Wild.

We stumbled back against the teacher’s desk, knocking over papers and god-knows-what, neither of us caring.

When we finally broke apart, panting, he whispered against my mouth: “You’re fucking annoying.”

“Takes one to know one.” I whispered back, yanking him down for another kiss.

And somehow...

It became a habit.

It wasn’t supposed to become a habit. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But suddenly, he was everywhere. In my bed. On his bed. In the backseat of his shitty old car, the windows fogged, the gearshift digging into my thigh as he moved inside me, rough and desperate. In the abandoned book storage, under a dusty skylight, where he bent me over an old desk and muffled my moans with his mouth. And now, in the farthest corner of the library.

He had me pinned against a bookshelf, one hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair as he fucked me from behind. The worn wooden shelf rattled with every thrust, the sound obscene in the silent library.

My skirt was bunched up around my waist, panties forgotten somewhere on the floor. His jeans pooled around his ankles.

I couldn’t hold back a shaky moan when he lifted my leg higher, the new angle making me see stars.

His mouth was pressed to my shoulder, muffling his moans against my skin, teeth grazing whenever I clenched around him. He grabbed my wrist, guiding it to his mouth, biting the heel of my palm, making me gasp, as he fucked me harder.

Seungmin growled low in his throat, and I smirked wickedly, whispering breathless: “Can't handle it, can you, baby?”

He growled low in response, fucking into me harder, faster, more desperate, making it clear who was really in control.

And it wasn’t him.

The orgasm hit so fast it almost knocked the breath out of me, my forehead pressed against the dusty shelf to stay standing.

He followed a second later, groaning my name like a curse, collapsing against my back for a few shuddering breaths before pulling out, carefully, his hands trembling slightly as he tucked himself back into his jeans.

We straightened ourselves quickly — or as quickly as two wrecked, sweaty people could in the middle of a goddamn library.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder like nothing had happened. I smoothed my skirt down, pretending my legs weren’t shaking.

As we walked out of the library, Seungmin shoved his hands into his pockets and said, almost casually: “I... bought that soju you said you liked once.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Was thinking... maybe you could come over. Study. Drink a little. Then…” He shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “You know.”

I blinked at him, caught off-guard.

“Wait. That soju? How the hell did you even find it?”

He scowled, defensive. “I just found it, alright?” he muttered, like he hadn’t spent two hours scouring online stores for it.

I raised an eyebrow. “You scoured the internet for it, didn’t you?”

He rolled his eyes, ears pink. “Whatever. Just... if you want to come over later. Study. Drink. Maybe…” He shrugged.

I grinned wickedly. “I'd love to drink myself into a coma with you.”

He grumbled something under his breath but didn’t hide the way the corner of his mouth tilted up.

And maybe...

Maybe I was already too far gone to care

When I stepped into Seungmin’s apartment, a gust of cold air followed me inside, swirling around my ankles and raising goosebumps along my arms. The windows rattled faintly, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the low rumble of thunder, soft but persistent, like a warning. The faint smell of clean laundry and takeout lingering in the air.

It was neat, tidy — almost aggressively so, like he had scrubbed it just to have something to do with his hands.

Seungmin closed the door behind me a little too quickly, shutting out the cold — but not the tension that immediately filled the room.

He didn’t even bother with his usual sarcasm. He just moved toward the kitchen, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders stiff. In that brief moment, I could tell something was off.

I kicked off my shoes and shook the chill off my skin, frowning slightly as I watched him.

Something was wrong. Something more than the storm brewing outside.

“Hey.” I said, having him help me take off my coat and eyeing him suspiciously.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgment and motioned toward the living room, where the bottle of soju sat already open on the coffee table.

We moved to the couch, cracking open our notebooks, pretending we were actually there to study. At first, we did — sort of.

I read over a few pages. He pretended to make notes. We sipped soju in between, the alcohol smoothing the edges of the tension, but not erasing it.

It only grew heavier, thicker. He barely looked at me. His jaw clenched every time I shifted closer.

After nearly half an hour of fake studying and awkward silences, I slammed my pen down dramatically.

“Okay.” I said, turning fully to face him. “Spill it. What the hell is going on with you?”

He didn't answer immediately. Just scribbled something meaningless in his notebook, avoiding my eyes like they were lethal weapons.

“Nothing” he muttered.

I snorted. “Bullshit. Come on, Min. You’re a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them.”

I reached across, closed his notebook slowly, deliberately, and stared him down.

“You’re acting like someone kicked your puppy. You’re moody. You’re stiff. And not even in the good way.”

His lips twitched slightly at that, but he still didn’t meet my gaze. “I said it's nothing.” he repeated stubbornly, but his tone cracked halfway through.

It was almost adorable.

Almost.

I leaned in closer, so close that our knees bumped. “You’re not getting away with it.” I said in a mock-sweet voice. “Not tonight.”

I let my hand trail up his thigh slowly, watching the way his breath hitched. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t move.

“If you're not going to talk…” I murmured, holding his gaze, sliding off the couch and kneeling between his legs, “then I'll just have to loosen you up another way.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he still didn’t say a word — stubborn even now.

I tugged the drawstring of his sweatpants loose, my fingers moving with slow, calculated intent. He was already half-hard — a clear sign that no matter how much he was pretending to be unaffected, his body wasn’t lying.

I freed him with a slow, deliberate motion, my hand wrapping around him. He groaned, low and desperate, his head falling back against the couch.

I leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the sensitive tip, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. He shuddered, his hand immediately sliding into my hair, not pushing, just... anchoring.

When I took him into my mouth, slow and deep, his head fell back against the couch with a broken groan.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, voice already wrecked.

I set a slow, torturous rhythm, hollowing my cheeks, dragging my tongue along every inch of him, savoring every helpless sound he made. His thighs trembled under my palms, and the way his hand tightened in my hair made me smirk against his skin.

His free hand came up, brushing the hair gently away from my face so he could see me — see everything. And then, in the middle of a particularly deep stroke, he whispered it — raw, desperate.

“I saw you…” he rasped, pushing the hair gently away from my face, his thumb brushing my temple tenderly. “At the library... talking with that asshole… laughing… looking so fucking pretty”

I hummed around him, and he let out a strangled sound, his hips bucking slightly.

“Fuck, Y/N... I hated it, it made me crazy.” he admitted, his voice cracking as he stroked my cheek. “Wanted to punch him.” he gasped. “Wanted to drag you away... claim you…”

The words sent a sharp pulse of heat through me. I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my hand stroking him lazily. My heart pounded at his raw honesty, but I didn’t let up. If anything, I doubled down — moving faster, stroking the base with one hand while my mouth worked him expertly.

He was unraveling. Completely. And he didn't even try to hide it anymore.

“Fucking jealous.” he muttered, his head tipping back, exposing the long line of his throat.

I felt him tense, his thighs trembling slightly. Before he could lose it completely, he tugged me up by the shoulders, pulling me into his lap with a growl.

“Get up here” he ordered, voice rough, desperate.

Without another word, he pulled me up by the arms, yanking me onto his lap. I straddled him, sliding my body against his, feeling the heat of his skin under my fingers. Our faces inches apart, both breathing hard.

The soju had given him a slight flush — his cheeks pink, his chest heaving — and it made him look almost innocent. Almost. He wasn't.

I could feel his eyes on me, his gaze dark and filled with something I wasn’t sure I was ready to acknowledge. His hands were on my hips, gripping me so tightly it almost hurt, and for a moment, I let myself savor that — the way he was barely holding on, like if he let go, I might slip away from him.

I pulled my sweater off slowly, teasing him with every inch of skin that was exposed, the fabric sliding over my shoulders and down my arms, before I tossed it carelessly aside. His breath caught when my bra followed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes devoured me, like he was trying to memorize it, the hunger in them making my pulse race.

I stood up, feeling his gaze track every movement as I slowly unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my lace panties. Seungmin was breathless now, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as he reached out to touch me, his fingers brushing against my bare thighs, reverent, sending a wave of shivers through me.

“Fuck, you're killing me…” he whispered, voice hoarse.

I leaned in, kissing him slow and deep, feeling the desperation vibrating through him. Without breaking the kiss I slid my hand between us, guiding him to my entrance, and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I sank down onto him.

The feeling of him inside me was overwhelming — I could feel every inch of him, stretching me, filling me completely. Both of us gasped at the same time, my body shaking slightly from the intensity of it.

I stayed still for a moment, letting the sensation settle, trying to focus on the way his hands gripped my waist, his fingers digging into my skin as if he was trying to keep me grounded.

“You feel so fucking good.” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “I can’t even…”

His hands moved from my waist to my hips, his thumbs pressing against the sides of my ribs, and then he helped me move, his body matching the rhythm I set. I leaned back slightly, letting him fill me deeper with every movement, my hands resting on his chest for balance as I rocked against him. He reached up, running his hands over my waist, my stomach, my breasts, like he couldn't get enough.

His eyes never left me, watching the way my body moved over his, the way I controlled the pace, the way I made him feel like he was losing his mind. I leaned down, kissing him hard, desperate, letting him taste the hunger that had been building between us.

His hands slid up my back, pushing my hair away from my neck, and he kissed me there — soft at first, then with more urgency. The contrast between his gentleness and the rawness of our bodies crashing together made my breath catch.

“You’re fucking perfect.” he muttered, his lips against my skin. “God, you feel so perfect.”

I increased the pace, rolling my hips faster, harder, the friction between us driving both of us to the edge. He was moaning now, his hands moving to my breasts, squeezing and massaging them as I continued to ride him.

I could feel him getting closer — his movements more frantic, more desperate — and I loved the way he was losing himself in me.

“Y/N... Fuck, you’re incredible…” he groaned, his hands slid under my ass, guiding me, helping me move faster, deeper.

I felt my own orgasm building — the pressure, the heat, the way our bodies were in perfect sync, like we were both caught in the same storm.

I leaned down, kissing him again, this time slower, more tender, as I continued to move on top of him. He pulled me closer, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me into him as if he couldn’t get close enough.

“God, you’re beautiful.” he praised me again, his voice cracking. “You're a fucking dream, Y/N.”

That broke me. The words, the way he said them with such vulnerability, the way he couldn’t hide how much he cared — it was too much.

I came first, my body shaking as the pleasure coursed through me, and Seungmin followed right after, his whole body tensing beneath me as he groaned my name.

We collapsed together, both of us gasping for air, trembling from the intensity of it all.

Seungmin’s hand found my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he pulled me into a slow kiss, still out of breath but somehow still wanting more. He pulled back after a moment, his forehead resting against mine as we both tried to catch our breath.

I smiled, my fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as I looked down at him.

The slow kiss between us deepened, his forehead pressed against mine, so close I could feel the soft flutter of his eyelashes against my skin, his arms still cradling my waist, his body still warm and heavy inside me. Seungmin's hand traced slow, lazy circles along my spine, as if he had no intention of letting me go.

As if I belonged there.

With him.

The world outside blurred into nothing — just the soft rumble of thunder far away and the faint tremble of Seungmin's breath against my lips.

And somewhere, in the middle of all that… my heart stuttered violently. But it wasn’t like before — not the rush of lust, not the usual reckless thrill.

It hurt.

A sharp, aching kind of pain that made my chest tighten and my lungs forget how to breathe.

And that was when it hit me.

I loved him.

The realization knocked the air out of me, heavier than the storm clouds gathering outside the window. Panic flared instantly in my chest, hotter than anything I had felt that night. The thought sliced through me with terrifying clarity.

I tried to breathe, tried to ground myself, but my mind betrayed me — flooding with every moment, every memory that led me here.

The way he encouraged me before the presentation and said — in the most nonchalant way possible — “You’re gonna kill it.” and “You’re smarter than half the people in this room.” Like it was the most normal thing to say to the girl you're supposed to hate.

The way he used to sit across from me in the library for hours, flicking tiny crumpled paper balls at my forehead every time I started to lose focus, pretending it was just to annoy me — but never leaving until I finished every last page.

The way, after the first time at his house we crossed the line, he wordlessly pulled me up from the messy bed, his arms steady and sure, carrying me straight to the bathroom. No teasing, no smirking — just warm hands steadying me under the shower spray, his fingers gently untangling my hair like I was something precious.

The way he disappeared into the kitchen afterward, reappearing fifteen minutes later with a grilled cheese — tragically burnt, awful grilled cheese — because he thought I might be hungry.

The way he always had some sarcastic comment ready to throw at me — just to see me roll my eyes and smile.

The way that when we were alone his fingers always found my wrist, my waist, the small of my back — little touches so casual they could have been accidental, but they never were. Like he needed the reassurance that I was real and still there.

The way he never once made me feel like I owed him anything in return.

The way he just... stayed.

All of it crashed into me at once, a kaleidoscope of moments that I hadn't realized mattered so much until now.

I opened my eyes, searching his face. He looked so peaceful. So real. His hair messy from my fingers, lips swollen from my kisses, a faint pinkness staining his cheeks from the soju we’d shared earlier. He looked like something I could never deserve but stupidly still wanted. No — needed.

The love sat heavy in my chest, raw and suffocating.

I love him.

I loved his stupid sarcasm. I loved his soft touches hidden behind gruff words. I loved his messy hair, his crooked smile, his smartass mouth. I love his little mole on the bridge of his nose. I loved the way he fought me, pushed me, infuriated me — and still made me feel seen in ways no one else ever had.

Panic clawed at my throat. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

No.

No, no, no.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this. I wasn’t supposed to love Seungmin.

Reality slammed back into me.

I shifted slightly, pulling away just enough for the space between us to feel vast again. Seungmin's brows furrowed, his hand tightening instinctively on my waist.

Leaning away from him, my body trembling as I scrambled off his lap. I could feel the sudden chill on my bare skin as I grabbed my discarded clothes, pulling my sweater over my head with frantic, clumsy hands, avoiding his confused, sleepy gaze.

“Y/N?” he called softly, his voice was thick, confused, still hoarse from our kisses. “Where are you–”

I didn't answer. I grabbed my skirt, slipping it back on quickly, reaching for my bag like the room was on fire.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing up, his brows furrowing.

I didn’t even look at him. I needed to get out. Out of that room, out of the weight pressing down on my chest. I needed to breathe.

Before I did something irreversible. Before I begged him to love me back.

He moved toward the window and then froze. Outside, it had started to pour — sheets of rain hammering against the glass, the sky flashing briefly with distant lightning.

“It’s's raining.” he said, voice cautious. “Why don't you just... stay tonight?”

I shook my head frantically, shoving my feet into my shoes, my fingers trembling. “I can't.” I choked out, barely able to breathe, my throat closing.

He reached for me but I bolted, slamming the door behind me, running down the hallway, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the walls, my heart breaking with every step.

I ran down the stairwell, skipping steps as I sprinted downward, my heart racing, my vision blurring. The sound of rain getting louder, closer, until I burst through the front doors into the storm.

The moment I pushed the exit door open, the cold rain hit me like a wall, instantly soaking me to the bone — I had forgotten my coat —. I stumbled forward blindly, tears and raindrops blurring together on my face.

I barely made it a few steps before I heard him.

“Y/N!”

His voice, sharp, desperate, cutting through the downpour.

I ignored it. Kept walking. And then suddenly —A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me back, spinning me around.

Seungmin stood there, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he had just run a marathon, anger and hurt twisting his face into something almost unrecognizable.

His other hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back slightly so I had to look at him. We were soaked, trembling, our breaths steaming in the cold night air.

His face was wild with frustration, with something deeper, something raw and terrified. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, his voice cracking with anger and something else — fear.

I shoved him. Hard.

My hands slamming against his chest, tears spilling from my eyes. “This is your fault!” I screamed, my voice raw, breaking. “Your stupid hair– your fucking smile– your goddamn eyes–”

I shoved him again, sobbing now, my fists hitting his chest uselessly. “I wasn't supposed to feel this! I wasn’t supposed to love you!”

Seungmin grabbed my wrists, holding them tightly, forcing me to stop hitting him. His hands were rough but not cruel — desperate. “You think this was easy for me?!” he shouted back, his voice cracking. “You think it didn’t fucking kill me to see you every day and pretend you weren't everything I wanted?!”

I struggled against him, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the rain.

“You think I didn’t want to scream every time someone else looked at you like you weren't mine?!” he gasped, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he had been holding back. “I wanted to tell everyone. I wanted to grab you and say— she’s fucking mine.”

The rain pounded harder, soaking through our clothes, making our bodies slick against each other.

I tried to pull away again, but he gripped my shoulders tighter, pulling me closer, locking his burning eyes to mine. “You felt it too.” he whispered fiercely. “Tell me you felt it too, Y/N.”

I shook my head weakly, trying to pull away from him, the rain blinding me, my heart pounding so loud I couldn’t think. “I can't–” I gasped, my voice barely audible.

But he didn’t let me go. He stepped closer, almost shaking with the effort of keeping himself together. “Look at me.” he demanded. “Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me it wasn’t real. Tell me you don’t feel anything. Tell me you don’t love me.”

I opened my mouth. Tried to speak. Tried to lie.

Nothing came out, not a single curse or remark. Nothing except a broken sob.

“Tell me you don't feel it, Y/N.”he shouted. “Tell me you don't love me.” His voice broke on the last word, and for a second, the world around us went silent except for the rain pounding against the pavement.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat closed up, the words stuck somewhere between terror and heartbreak. “I don't– I–” I tried, but I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t lie.

The pain on his face when I faltered nearly broke me in half. He saw the truth in my eyes before I could even say it.

We crashed into each other. The kiss was brutal, angry, full of tears and frustration and all the love we were too scared to admit. Full of every unspoken word, every feeling we were too terrified to say out loud.

His hands tangled in my hair, yanking me closer, desperate, like he needed me to breathe. My fists clutched his soaked shirt, pulling him down to me as if I could tear him apart and rebuild him at the same time.

Tears mixed with the rain on both of our faces, the salty taste of heartbreak on our lips as we clung to each other in the storm, drowning in everything we had tried so hard to deny.

We kissed like we were drowning. Because maybe we were.

We were soaked. We were shaking. We were real. And for the first time, we weren't hiding anymore.

He pressed his forehead against mine, rain soaking us, his hand trembling on my waist, his breath was shaky against my lips.

“You're messy, infuriating, impossible — no one never would wreck me the way you do. But I'd let you, a thousand times over, cause that's the way i love you.

644 notes · View notes