#anyway mattresses: how to choose

[tj-crochets]

Okay I have had enough salt to be probably medically inadvisable for people without my particular health issues and am feeling moderately better*! I also have another question: How do you choose a mattress when you are buying one? I think I've only ever had hand-me-down mattresses from my siblings or mattresses my parents bought when I was little (idk, I just know I was uninvolved in the obtaining), and I am thinking a new mattress might help my Slept Wrong Injuries be at least less bad, if not stop them entirely, but idk how to choose one. My dad said I'd know when I laid on the mattress but my current mattress doesn't feel bad, but clearly is? So idk that I'll be able to tell *back to my usual "muscle issue flareup" level instead of "maybe it's worth seeing how bad muscle relaxers make my blood pressure" level lol

[vynlrecord]

♡ is the light sleeper in the room with us?

At first when you’d asked Simon to move in with you, he seemed excited or well, as excited as Simon allowed himself to show. Yet as it got closer and closer, you weren't so sure.

“You probably won’t ever get a good night’s sleep again. I'll constantly be disrupting it.”

"I have nightmares and night terrors, I’ll probably scare you-"

“I’m such a light sleeper, everything wakes me up and puts me in a panic."

It was almost like he was trying to dissuade you from sticking to your decision, giving you an out in case he was too difficult for you, you knew exactly how his brain worked.

But you loved him, and nothing he was saying was making you change your mind, not even close to it.

You prepared anyway, looked up everything you could with how to handle certain night terrors, best things to say or not say, whether you should wake him up if he’s having a nightmare, everything.

Then the first night came, and you were ready to be woken up at 3am, maybe to Simon shouting or crying or something and you pictured all the things you’d do to calm him down, grab him some tea, maybe gentle reassurances as you wiped his tears, whatever it took. 

But none of that happened.

The first night, he slept the whole way through, completely undisturbed and you would know because ironically you were the one who didn’t sleep the first night. You'd stayed awake, worrying, wanting to make sure he was okay, checking for even a slight twitch or a face of anguish but, nothing.

And then a few days later, on an early Sunday morning, your neighbour had decided to mow the grass. It was unbearably loud and you'd sat up, internally screaming because who chooses 7am to cut grass on a Sunday?

And Simon? Well he was completely out.

You looked at him, wondering if he was pretending for a moment, giving him a little nudge. He'd shuffled a little in his sleep before letting out a few soft snores, it was like he was on another planet completely.

And it kept happening. He'd sleep through alarms, and not just one or two but enough in a row that you had to turn them off yourself and tell him to wake up. Phone calls too, slept through every call, no matter the ringtone, no matter how loud. Your cat's 4am zoomies? Not even a flinch.

You were so confused, he'd worried constantly before moving in about ruining your sleep and now it was like sleeping was second nature to him, which you wouldn't have questioned if not for the repeated warnings of how light of a sleeper he was.

It made no sense, Simon couldn't understand it either, but you were quite happy with it of course, and so was he. Whenever you thought about it for too long, it actually made you smile, there was something sweet about it to you.

Perhaps it was your apartment, the fact that the space was yours, maybe your presence was helping him, you'd even joke it was your cat's soothing company. Or maybe it was the soft sheets, in a bedroom that felt cosy. A proper homely space, one that Simon wasn't quite used to in his old place, all bare walls and no decoration, not even a comfortable mattress. He'd never bothered with anything except the bare minimum, a vast difference to now.

Whatever it was, he was actually sleeping, peacefully for once, he couldn't remember the last time he was able to say that.

But what Simon did know, was that he felt completely safe with you and seeing him like this was the most beautiful thing to you.

[enh2pen]

change my mind - park sunghoon

1.9k - sunghoon x fem reader 💥 not proofread! mdni 😠🖕

pwp, kind of dom sh, dry humping turned piv 👅, unprotected sex (don't do that), oral sex (f), breast stuff, biting, dirty talk and begging, manhandling, slight choking.

an: choosing titles is such a pain in the ass like bitch wym change my mind 😂😂 and yeah sorry for taking so long work has been draining me and the piwon brainrot was mean! nasty even!! anyways have a good read <33 hope yall like it mwah mwah

the room was hot, sweat dripping down your forehead while sunghoon’s hands pushed you down by your waist. his hips bucking up to meet yours, dick hard through his pants roughly rubbing against your also clothed crotch. you held his shoulders to stabilize yourself, digging your nails into his skin and your knees into the bed.

sunghoon bit his lip, letting a groan out when you moved your hips against his, in slow circles then rolling them when you got used to the motion. he threw his head back, lips plump and glistening, eyes softly closed, cheeks slightly flushed — he looked pure, contrary to his body, with his arms flexing with how tense he was, veins on his neck popping out, hands holding you so tightly you couldn't even feel your skin anymore, dick pulsing against you, any detail of his could easily drive you crazy.

he pulled you for a kiss, hands going up to hold your cheeks and hold you closer to him, deepening the kiss. his tongue finding it’s way to your lips, parting them and sliding against yours. your hand went under his shirt, grazing your fingertips from his chest to his toned stomach, making you whimper against his lips at the feeling. sunghoon smiled at your reaction, then putting your bottom lip between his teeth, slightly biting and pulling it, breaking the kiss.

his hands quickly pulled your shirt off you, thumbs going straight to your nipples and circling them. he went forward to kiss your neck, trailing along the side to behind your ear, occasionally biting while traveling up and down, his sharp teeth leaving deep marks.

your hips stuttered at the overwhelm, knees shaking and strained moans leaving your mouth. it was intoxicating, being so close to him in such a compromising position, so close to what you wanted but it still felt like torture, you couldn't get enough. his fingers alternated between pulling and pinching your nipples, sending you over the edge.

the heat between your legs felt unbearable, the fabric of your clothes adding a delicious sensation to the friction while still being restraining, your underwear so damp you felt uncomfortable in it, just couldn't wait to take it off, the stuffy air inside the room making you feel the same about the clothes.

your hands went to remove his shirt, sweaty at the collar. the fabric felt heavy in your hands, and time seemed to pass so slowly, you couldn't stand to feel the cotton anymore. you tried to undo the ziper of his pants, but he grabbed both your wrists and pushed you into the bed, back hitting the mattress, pinning you down.

— not yet, pretty — sunghoon’s lips left a peck on yours, before moving to the skin right under your ear and lightly sucking the spot — want to hear you begging for it.

his hands let go of your wrists, gripping your waist tightly as he started rolling his hips right into your crotch, slow movements tortuously grazing just below your clit. your eyes went to the back of your head, you tried to buck your hips against his but his grip was too strong, restraining any movement from you.

your groan now was one of frustration, only earning a chuckle from sunghoon. he had so much fun with it, his stupid little games edging you until he got tired of it, sometimes bringing tears to your eyes, his face always with a cocky smirk on it. he could spend hours just seeing you beg, bringing his hand a little too close to where you needed him, fucking you a bit too shallowly, hands too loose on your breasts, he knew how to drive you crazy in the worst ways.

— please, hoon, i need it so bad — he smiled down at you, eyes scanning your whole body as he slowly ceased his movements — been thinking ‘bout your dick the whole day, want to feel it inside me, please.

he stopped to unzip his pants, just enough for his dick to be completely out of the rough fabric, though still covered by his underwear. the fabric of your pants was too thin, so he didn't feel like removing them.

your mouth watered of the sight of his covered dick in front of you, wet spot where the fabric was stretched the most, tip perfectly outlined, shaft fitting perfectly against your heat as he went back to grinding on you, faster this time. his left hand went back to your wrist, right one still on your waist.

— pretty girl can’t get enough of it? gotta fuck her brains out everyday? — he flipped you on the bed before you could even think of answering, making you lay on your stomach. he grabbed your hips and pulled you so his dick could graze perfectly from your covered pussy up to your ass — can’t spend a fuckin’ day without it.

sunghoon glued the front of his torso to your slightly bent back, putting his right arm around your neck, his hand resting on your left shoulder. his left hand held you in place by your ass, slightly pointy nails digging into your skin and making the bruise sting with the sweat.

he slowly rolled his hips into you, leaving kisses and bites on your shoulder and behind your neck. you’d buck your hips against his, trying to get more friction, your clothes still annoyingly in the way, but sunghoon would just hold you down, keeping you in place, letting out a small chuckle in your ear.

— you never learn, do you? — he whispered, your skin shivering with his voice right next to your ear. his thick arm around your neck pressing against it, restraining your breath — so fucking desperate. do i not fuck you enough?

your hand went to hold his arm, pushing it harder against your neck. with that, his hips were rougher against yours, jolting your whole body forward and back, and a smile appeared on his face. small moans from him either being muffled by the kisses he left on your shoulder or let out right beside your ear.

— s-shit, stop teasing, hoon, please — you plead, voice strained with the force he pressed on your neck, core bothered with how empty you felt. you turned your head to look at him, his eyes glued on your face — just fuck me already, can’t handle it anymore.

he pulled you for a kiss, his hips losing their rhythm until he stopped and just kept himself pressed to you, bucking his hips sometimes by instinct, your faint whimpers clashing with his.

he raised his torso and brought his hands to the band of your trousers, making you raise your hips so he could pull it off you, pulling your underwear at the same time. he flipped you by your waist, so you were laying on your back and facing him.

before removing the clothes left on his body, he brought his middle and ring fingers to your pussy, sliding them up and down, coating them in your arousal, and inserting them as he went down to circle his tongue around your clit, slightly flicking it.

you bit your hand to muffle the embarrassingly loud moans, eyes shut close and legs squirming around sunghoon’s head. his left hand cupping and squeezing his erection through his underwear, while yours held his head down by his hair, pulling the black locks whenever he hit your sweet spot with his fingers or licked you with just the right pressure.

all the stimulation from before had you on the edge of your orgasm, your legs shaking and moving around ridiculously, just encouraging him to hit his fingers deeper, even adding a third and pumping them in and out of you.

sweat dripped down the sides of your body onto the mattress, your head spinning and eyes rolling with the heat at the pit of your stomach. with a last curl of sunghoon’s fingers, your orgasm hit you in waves through your whole body while you gasped on your own moans, skin burning against his, his rough hands now gripping your thighs while his tongue still worked carefully on your clit.

your hold on his hair softened, quiet noises still leaving your lips as he moved up and kissed you, wetting your chin with his own. you reached down to his dick, stroking it a few times before directing it to your still pulsating hole, moving your body on the bed, putting it in yourself.

sunghoon hissed, left hand gripping your waist as he opened his eyes to meet yours, fucked out and silently begging for more. he smiled at you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he folded your legs by the back of your thighs and thrusted mercilessly into you, his grunts dissolving into your skin through his bites.

his movements slammed the bed against the wall, your body traveling up and down the mattress, almost escaping from his hold. your hands went to his biceps, digging your nails into his flesh, bruising the skin — something he knew you’d do when you wanted him to go harder.

sunghoon stopped his hips and removed himself from you, flipping you so you were laying on your stomach, before pulling you by your legs to the edge of the bed, leaving them hanging. before you could even turn to look at him, he put his dick back into you, earning a loud moan from you.

he had you almost screaming — with his right knee on the bed, slightly angling himself, he held your hips up and gave you what you had been begging for all day. each thrust coming earlier than the previous one, barely giving you time to moan or even breathe. his nails left deep marks on your hips, sweat dripped from his hair onto your back, dick ramming into you so hard your legs shook like they were going to fall off your body.

your voice was strained, brain barely computing what was going on, your neighbors’ peace long forgotten as sunghoon railed you. your knuckles turning white with how you gripped the sheets, barely grabbing them with how strongly he thrusted into you, hitting your spot almost every single time, making your eyes go to the back of your head.

— always so fuckin’ wet for me, so fuckin’ easy — his moans became louder and clearer as his hips sped up, mindlessly slamming into you, chasing his high — fuck, gonna fill you up so good.

you just hummed to his words, so fucked out you couldn't even answer him properly, you just called his name, hoping to feel his cum shooting inside of you, painting your walls white.

with one last snap of his hips and loud grunt, he threw his head back and gripped your ass as he came inside you, his dick pulsating and leaking so much, you thought it’d never stop. his hand went from your bottom to the small of your back, tracing his thumb up and down the lower part of your spine.

pulling out, he chuckled seeing his cum oozing out of your hole, collecting it with his thumb and putting it back inside you. he gave you a kiss on your shoulder and smack on your ass before collecting his clothes from around the room, getting you a glass of water to help you come back to your senses.

[weeeyotch]

eager to please pt. 2 ღ r.r.

robert reynolds x f!reader

pt.1

synopsis: after eating you out for the first time, bob wants to take it one step further.

warnings: smut (18+ MDNI), oral (fem receiving), dacryphilia, manhandling, dom/sub dynamics, use of toys (vibrator), nipple play, tit worship, switch dynamics

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i wasn't expecting anyone to want a second part, but here you go anyways besties

His question hangs heavy in the air: "Could you try sitting on my face?"

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you almost forget how to breathe for a second. The hand that had been lovingly stroking his hair freezes, fingers tangled in his messy curls.

You glance down. Bob is still lying with his arms wrapped tightly around you, his eyes wide and glassy as they silently plead with you. The devotion in his gaze—equal parts worship and desperation—makes your thighs clench.

"Baby," you murmur, "are you sure you're ready for that? I don't want you to overwhelm yourself."

He nods, fervent. "I'm ready," he whispers, voice rough with need. "Please."

The raw hunger in his tones sends shivers down your spine. How lucky you were to be loved so fiercely by someone who could burn down the world, yet chooses to worship you instead. Seeing him there, so pliant and needy, made your heart swell with pride.

His fingers trail down your tummy and ghost along your thigh, dragging through the slick sheen on your skin like he was painting with it. It's deliberate and teasing, and you know that he's trying to rile you up again.

And he's doing it so well.

The sight of him like this—his gaze so pure and tender while his hands move in a quiet, unmistakable filth—ignites a fire in you. It's not just desire that blooms in your chest; it's white-hot, blinding power that thrums through your veins, urging you to claim him as yours.

"You want that?" you murmur, fingers tightening just enough in his hair to coax the tiniest gasp out of him. "You want me to use you like that?"

Bob lets out another sound, a cross between a whimper and a plea. He nods vigorously as he presses his lips into a tight line.

"Say it then," you say. "Say what you want, pretty boy."

"I want you to use me like that," he whispers, reverence and want dripping from his words. "I want you to sit on my face. I wanna taste you. I wanna worship you. Please. Please—"

The desperation in his voice snaps something inside you. With a swift motion, you tighten your grip on him and force him to roll over. You straddle him as he hits the mattress with a small ungh. The way he lets you man-handle him, knowing that he has enough strength to do whatever he wants to you, makes heat shoot through your blood like lightning.

It is hot. Wild. Impossible to ignore.

There is something feral taking over you, something that is thrilled at how easily he gave in; how someone so powerful could melt into obedience at your slightest touch.

"You like being tossed around like that?" you ask, low and commanding.

His chest heaves as he looks up at you, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. "Yes," he breathes, "only by you."

That answer unlocks something darker in you. Something primal—a desire to ruin him, to make him beg and scream without restraint.

You drag a finger down the side of his face to his neck, letting your nail dig in just enough to make him flinch. He twitches beneath you, his breath hitching. Your hand slides back up, and he braces, like he's expecting you to mark him. Instead, you grip his jaw and crash your lips against his.

It's messy and sticky, and tasting yourself on his mouth only stokes the fire in your belly even more.

One of his hands slides up your body to gently lift up your shirt, bunching it at your collarbone. His large, calloused palms find your breasts, cupping them. His thumbs brush over your nipples, slow and deliberate as he coaxes them to harden under his touch. You arch into his hands, craving more.

He rolls one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, a teasing pinch that draws a sharp moan from your lips. His other hand mirrors the motion.

You keen and arch your back further, breaking the kiss. A thin line of saliva stretches between you before snapping and landing on the corner of his mouth.

Bob wastes no time as your breasts are pushed into his face. He wraps his lips greedily around your nipple, sucking with reverence. His tongue kitten-licks your sensitive peak, mimicking the way he teased your clit earlier while his other hand kneads the other breast.

The sensation makes you collapse forward as your body trembles with need.

You couldn't wait anymore.

"I'll give you what you want, baby," you pant. "You're such a good boy. You deserve it."

He sighs contentedly at the pet name, letting his head relax back into the pillows as he drinks in your naked form. A small smile curves his lips, but is quickly replaced by something ravenous as you start to climb up his body.

He licks his lips like you are the first taste of salvation he has had in weeks.

"Tap my thigh if it's too much," you tell him.

Bob nods, eyes locked onto your pussy, pupils dark with desire. Slowly, you lower yourself, inch by inch; you were partly teasing him, and partly giving him a chance to back out.

But mostly to tease him.

The first brush of his lips against you pulls a small moan from your throat.

He groans in response, the sound vibrating deliciously against your core. Bob dives in with the same sloppy enthusiasm from before. Although now, you sense that there's a hunger to it—a need that feels borderline possessive.

His tongue moves in one long, slow stroke, taking forever to climb up your pussy and find your clit with precision. He starts to circle the swollen nub.

"Fuck, Bob," you gasp, gripping the headboard for balance.

Your hips jerk forward. He decides to repeat the movement, over and over, until each jerking of your hips effectively turns into you riding him. His quickening breath, warm against your core, and the scrape of his stubble, urge you on.

Eventually, he stops moving his head, sticking his tongue out so that you can take full control of the pleasure.

Bob's surrender sends power surging through your veins. The sight of him like this—eyes half-lidded, face glistening with your wetness—makes you grind faster against his pliant tongue. Each roll of your hips elicits a groan from deep within his chest, the vibrations shooting sparks of pleasure through your core.

"Good boy," you pant while gripping the headboard tighter. "So good for me, letting me use you like this. My perfect boy."

His eyes flutter close as he whines pathetically, and you can feel his hands tighten on your thighs. Not to guide you, but to anchor himself. You lean back slightly to take in the sight of him: trembling, messy curls sticking to his slick forehead, and completely at your mercy.

Then—

Three taps on your thigh.

Your heart leaps in your chest. The lust was replaced with panic in the blink of an eye.

I pushed him too far, you think. I should've waited. Should've told him no.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you? Was it too much? Are you oka—" you ramble, lifting off him.

Bob cuts you off with a small, sheepish smile and runs his hands soothingly up and down your hips. "I'm okay, I'm okay. I just wanted to ask if . . ."

He trails off, clearing his throat and darting his eyes away. A blush snakes its way up his round cheeks.

You lean down to brush the damp curls away from his forehead. "Ask what, baby? I need words."

With a nervous swallow, he whispers: "Can you use the vibrator on yourself? While I eat you out?"

Relief washes over you like a wave. You let out a grateful breath, heavy and trembling. A smile tugs at your lips as you stroke his hair, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against his temple. He nuzzles into your touch, sighing contentedly.

How could you ever say no to him?

"Anything you want, sweetheart."

You settle back over his face as his hands gently guide you into place. While you reach for your nightstand to find the vibrator, he busies himself by pressing delicate kisses against your swollen lips. Your fingers finally wrap around the toy that had been thrown underneath piles of clothes. Turning it on, a low hum fills the air, blending with the wet clicking sounds of Bob's mouth against you.

You press the toy lightly against your clit, just above where his tongue circles. The combined sensation rips a sharp gasp from you.

Your hips stutter and Bob moans, feeling you become wetter with every passing second. You rock against him, the steady hum of the vibrator amplifying every flick of his tongue, pushing you closer towards the edge.

But then you notice a subtle shift in his grip, in the way his hands tighten on your thighs.

His eyes, wet with tears and glassy with devotion, flicker with something bolder. Something commanding.

"Give it to me," he says, voice muffled against your core.

It's a demand—raw and unexpected. So unlike the man who, only a minute ago, was embarrassed about asking you to pleasure yourself with a vibrator while riding his face.

The sudden change sends a jolt of heat through you.

You raise an eyebrow, testing his dominance. "You think you can handle it, baby boy?"

He growls in response. "Now." The word is sharp, laced with a tone of authority that is so unlike his usual softness. It makes your breath catch.

One hand leaves your thigh and reaches up expectantly. You hand him the vibrator, intrigued by this new side of him.

Bob takes it with surprising confidence—no doubt after having watched you pleasure yourself with it dozens of times before—and adjusts the angle to press it firmly against your clit. You cry out at the painful precision, hips bucking.

His tongue dives back in. However, it's different than before. This time, he's lapping desperately at your entrance, pushing his tongue deep into your core. He slurps obscenely as he works at your gummy walls.

Then you realize: he's drinking you.

"Bob—fuck—I can't—" your voice breaks while he works you with ruthless efficiency.

He alternates the vibrator's pressure, pulling it back slightly to tease your clit then pressing it back with intensity. His tongue circles and flicks throughout your center, and the sensations are pushing you closer to oblivion.

He's determined to unravel you completely.

His free hand grips your thigh to hold you in place, a reminder of the strength he's choosing to restrain.

"Come for me," he growls, lips brushing against your dripping pussy. "I want it. Come for me."

It's the authority in his voice—thick and uncharacteristically possessive—that sends you spiraling.

The orgasm that crashes over you is sharp and all-consuming. Your hips jerk wildly, grinding against his mouth and the vibrator. A wail of his name echoes throughout the bedroom as your thighs clamp around his head, pleasure surging through you.

Bob keeps the vibrator pressed against you, albeit a little bit lighter now, drawing out every shudder, every whimper, every pulse, until you're a gasping and oversensitive mess.

Finally, he pulls back and switches off the toy, throwing it somewhere on the bed.

His face is a mess; his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and glistening, and his eyes are darkened with pride and hunger.

He gently eases you off, laying you on the pillow beside him. His lips quickly capture yours in a deep, messy kiss that tastes like you. While his usual tenderness lingers, it's laced with a new and possessive confidence.

"You're mine," he murmurs, pulling back just slightly. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you whisper.

Another kiss.

Then he retreats again, looking lovingly into your eyes. You notice his lips curve into a smile, its sweetness blending with a newfound bold satisfaction. This version of Bob was. . .different. But you couldn't say that you hated it.

You pull him closer and guide him to lie beside you, his head resting against your chest. Your fingers thread gently through his damp curls while his breathing slows.

Pressing soft kisses to his forehead, you whisper, "You were so good baby. So perfect for me."

He hums and nuzzles into your breast, finding comfort in the warm mound. "I just wanted to make you feel good."

His gaze flickers up at you, the confidence melting away back into his signature innocent, doe eyes. "Did I. . .did I make you feel good?"

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his tone.

"I felt incredible," you affirm. "I'm so proud of you."

But then, curiosity tugs at you. You smile, a teasing lilt in your voice as you ask, "Where'd that whole thing come from, though? You wanting to be in charge?"

Bob's cheeks flush, and he ducks his head back into your chest. "I-I don't know. . ." he says, barely above a whisper. "I just. . .seeing you like that—I got lost in it. I wanted to give you everything. I guess it just came out."

He pauses, eyes finding yours again. "Was it okay? Did I go too far?"

You laugh softly and cup his face. "Babe, it was more than okay. It was so hot."

Your thumb strokes over his cheek, brushing over the lingering slick. "I'd love it if you did that more."

Relief washes over him as he leans up to bury his face in your neck. "I'll do whatever you want me to. I'm all yours. Just wanna make you feel as good as you make me feel."

His words send a rush of warmth through you.

In the quiet aftermath, a realization settles deep in your chest. This man, with his unwavering devotion and gentle strength, gives you everything. You're struck by how rare it is to have someone who would shatter mountains for you, yet chooses to surrender his heart completely to you.

The thought makes you hold him tighter, gratitude swelling in your heart.

"You already do," you say, words thick with emotion as you press a kiss to his temple. "More than you know."

You start to ease off the bed, wanting to grab a washcloth from the bathroom to clean his face. But as you move, he whines and grips your waist tightly, stubbornly pulling you back.

"I'm only going to the bathroom, baby," you reassure him, brushing a kiss across his cheek. "Just getting a washcloth for you."

With a bratty huff, Bob lets you go and sits up with a pout as he watches you go. Being away from you now, even for a few seconds, was almost unbearable to him.

When you return with a warm, damp cloth, you stand over him and gently tilt his head up. You carefully wipe away the slick coating his face, his chin, and his neck. He closes his eyes and sighs under your careful ministrations.

"You're so beautiful like this," you murmur.

Bob's face somehow turns even redder.

Noticing his evergreen sweater is stained with your essence, you lift it up, and he raises his arms like a child as you peel it off. You toss it into the corner, rummaging around the nightstand for one of your shirts—his favorite; they smelled like you.

You help him slip it on, fabric draping over his broad, sculpted frame. He inhales deeply, humming contentedly.

Back on the bed, you pull the blankets over the both of you and tuck him against your side. You trace soothing circles on his back, and he basically melts into you.

"You okay?" you ask, still wanting to check in.

"Perfect," he mumbles, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. "I love you."

"Love you too."

You hold him close, your steady heartbeat lulling him into a peaceful sleep. As he nestles closer, you can't help but grin when a playful thought flickers through your mind.

"You know, you really are eager to please, aren't you?"

Bob chuckles. You can feel his smile widen into a grin against your skin.

"Always for you."

tag list: @theoraekenslover @alloboinga84

[bluukive]

Psychic Lover

summary - Toji was already a difficult man to live with. Now you gotta deal with his thoughts as well as yours after a horror story gone wrong.

content - MDNI, explicit content, Toji x fem!reader, reader and Toji form a mind link (they share the same physical and emotional behaviours), impulsive behaviour, self-injury (to test out the mind-link theory), brief grinding, masturbation, oral (f receiving), fingering, Toji embracing that he likes butt stuff, amateurish writing

wc - 3.4k

an - my little fic I wrote for 4k followers !! I'm still not comfortable with writing penetration T_T buuut hopefully I compensated lolol. Anyway, tysm again to everyone who interacts with my blog, or even just lurks and reads silently. I appreciate every single one of you :>

“I’m serious, Toji! The landlord said that the previous owners died mid-doggy,” you whispered, eyes widening for dramatic effect, “this place is haunted by the couple who are most definitely bound for eternity. And we’re sitting right here, on their couch, living in their apartment…”

But Toji wasn’t having it. It was warm, humid, and you had stupidly shoved a blanket over both of your heads so that you could ‘set the mood’ for a good horror story. Tonight out of all nights as well, where the wind blew hot air right back onto your face and sweat settled comfortably into every pore.

Toji shifted on the couch where you were sitting cross-legged, a damp palm curling into the blanket so that he could rip the blanket off of both of your heads with a scowl. The couch creaked loudly when your housemate got up, a likely reminder that you needed to replace it. “That’s fuckin’ ridiculous. I would have heard about it if it was true.”

“Well, maybe the landlord just wanted to make a quick buck!” you argued back, adjusting the strap of your black tank top which clung to you like a second skin. A large part of you ignored the way Toji’s eyes flickered down briefly, choosing instead to focus on how your body moved almost violently to the side once a pillow struck your temple. You groaned— hands scrambling to find a surface to steady yourself on. But alas, you fell onto the fuzzy rug with a muffled oof. 

You laid in a sad, sad pile on the floor, hips raised with your duck-printed pyjama shorts digging into the seam of your pert ass. It definitely wasn’t on purpose, note the sarcasm. You’ve been trying to get into this sleazy, hunk of a man's pants forever. But he just. Wouldn’t. Budge. 

“Get up and go to bed,” was all the older man said in a gruff manner before shuffling off to his bedroom. The tell-tale noise of the door clicking and a rather unflattering groan told you that the sound of his heinous snoring would soon disrupt the silence that had settled over your shared apartment. 

As the fan in the corner continued spinning uselessly, you rolled onto your back on the floor and grunted in fatigue. One hand dragged across your forehead in an attempt to wipe it, but somehow, your skin only got wetter. 

Fuck this heat, you mumbled, peeling yourself off of the rug. Fuck your stupid duck shorts too. Most importantly, fuck that thick-skinned jerk with no sense of humour. 

Your body appeared to move on autopilot, body hunched as you switched off the fan and dragged yourself to your own room. It was cooler there by only a fraction, but a fraction nonetheless. The heavy duvet was tossed onto the floor since there wasn’t any part of you wanting to spend a single moment under it.

You finally flopped onto the mattress, one arm settling behind your head and one leg bent at the knee. 

One of your hands slid down, settling on your hip. You didn’t do that intentionally— not at first. But your hand did shift to your lower belly, moving down until your fingers were able to slip under the waistband of your panties. Across the hallway, Toji had rolled over onto his stomach. His hips rolled down agonisingly slow. A low grunt rumbled in his chest. A weird rush of arousal hit you both. 

Neither of you knew why you were doing this. 

But both of you thought it was your own idea to do so.

═══════

A pained howl left your lips the following morning, right when you stubbed your big toe of your left foot against the doorframe. A loud clatter resonated throughout the kitchen when your phone landed on the titles. The screen was definitely cracked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you hopped around with a hiss. 

Throb after throb, Toji came out of his room with a pained expression marring his angular face. It was rather comical seeing the oversized man limping out of his room and down the corridor, where he was met with the sight of you curled up onto the cold tiles. You were clutching your foot, face scrunched up with a knee to your chest. 

“WHY are you always on the floor? Get up before I step on you,” Toji hissed, nudging your shin with his good foot, “then again, you’re probably into that.” Rude.

His eyes landed on your foot, toe clearly hurting. Toji flexed his own foot, brows furrowing. Weird. The pain was real, and apparently shared. 

Toji's brow furrowed deeply as he leaned down to examine the limb, his own toe throbbing in sync. "This is fuckin' weird," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Why the hell can I feel your pain too?" He looked up at you, his eyes reflecting a mix of confusion and exasperation. "Did you do something to me?"

He was right to suspect foul play on your end. After all, you’ve got a ouija board hiding under your bed— which he’s caught you using before to ask the supposed ghosts around you if you were destined to be single your entire life (the ghosts said yes. Rude). 

But this time? You weren’t entirely at fault. 

Only mostly.

How were you meant to know that making Toji aware of the fate of the previous owners— and their mid-doggy death— would actually tether you to him, dooming you to the same intimate bond that they shared?

…

That wasn’t in the rental agreement. 

“Woah, wait. I didn’t do anything actually— YEOWCH-” You screamed, abruptly sitting upright with a new searing pain across your tender palm. A noise of muted discomfort from behind you followed. 

You could always count on Toji to act without thinking, and what did he just do? He had turned on the cooker to test whether or not there was a supernatural force toying with you both. 

You whip around, cradling your trembling hand with a face full of barely-restrained fury. “Did you seriously just burn yourself to test out some shitty ghost theory?!” 

Your housemate simply shrugged in response, waving around his hand casually as if he wasn’t the cause of shared second-degree trauma. “Worked, no? I don’t see why you’re bitchin’ when we clearly have other shit to worry about.”

“Like what, exactly? I feel like my hand’s about to melt off, you prick.”

“The fact that, I don’t know, I’m tied to your annoying ass?” He leans against the counter, scorched palm against the cool marble. Toji stared you down as you winced at the phantom sensation, head cocked in amusement. He felt bad for you. Almost. But that didn’t stop him from straightening up and flexing his thick fingers. It stung, and you let out another pained hiss when the sensation bloomed across your entire palm like there was literal fire intertwined with your nerves. 

“I didn’t ask for this to happen, y’know,” you muttered, standing up and thanking the stars that your foot felt marginally better than before. 

A scornful glance was shot Toji’s way, prompting him to flare his nostrils and look to the side. “Don’t look at me like that. Not like I wanted this either.”

You both stood there in silence for a minute.

“...you think it works both ways?”

“I swear to God—”

And then you tugged at your own ear, one eye crinkling shut as the other watched Toji’s head swerve to the right. He tutted and flicked at his own forehead, making you gasp. 

A slap on the thigh.

A mean pull of the hair.

This prompted you to tweak your own nipple through your t-shirt. All you could do was watch in mild fascination when the man before you turned a deep shade of pink embarrassingly quick and covered his broad chest with a scowl. 

Well, this was interesting. “Guess you can feel everything, huh? Not just pain,” you mused out loud, tapping a finger on your lip. But then you froze, realisation dawning upon you both like a bucket of ice cold water.

“Is that why I felt like my ass was being fingered last night?”

“I felt like I had carpet burn on my pussy. What the hell were you doing?” You shot back, rubbing your face in your hands in utter shame. Had you known Toji could feel it all— the way you were pleasuring yourself last night— you wouldn’t have dared inch your hand that close to your cunt. 

“Let's agree not to touch ourselves for the time being. Please.”

“Deal.”

═══════

It was never as easy as you thought it would be.

The first week was simple enough— if you ignore how Toji overexerted himself during his workout sessions just to piss you off. You could only retaliate by eating the few extra scoops of ice cream or scoffing down an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting, throwing off the man's diet plan completely. 

Toji was fed up. And so were you. 

Another problem slowly became more prevalent the longer time went by. The aches and pains were easy to ignore. The arousal wasn’t. Not being able to get yourselves off was starting to wear both of you down. Toji became more easily frustrated, getting hard whenever he could sense the slow, slick heat curling up in your gut. It became a common occurrence for you to lay in bed at night, attempting to alleviate some of the ache you felt in your pussy by clenching your thighs together. 

But every single time without fail, the same voice rang in your ears.

“Don’t.”

His voice came out from across the hallway, gravelly and thick with need.

You froze.

“I can feel it. I can feel you,” Toji warned. “And if you keep going… I swear to fuckin’ God, so will I.”

═══════

Week two must have been even worse. 

One night, you dreamt about your housemate. Toji was everywhere. His voice was rough as he brought his lips to your ear, hands settling on your waist from behind. 

“Been waitin’ for this cute cunt for ages,” Dream Toji seemed to whisper, thumbs rubbing treacherously over your perked nipples once he had firmly grasped both full breasts into his hefty palms. He squeezed once, twice, a jaded eye twinkling as he watched you shake your head bashfully. 

“You… uh, y-you knew, then? Been holding up on me, Toji.” Your words were punctuated with your rear bumping eagerly against Toji’s sizable erection, the length vividly throbbing against you. 

You were both so terribly breathless, unconscious and disorientated until you were both panting in sync.

Then you both woke up. 

Oh, you were so fucked. Truly fucked if you were dreaming about each other like this.

Your subconscious was betraying you that very moment, revealing all of your hidden desires. 

You sat up groggily, pushing the blanket that was sagged around your legs onto the wooden floorboards below your bed. Surely Toji was bluffing with his past comments about taking matters into his own hands if you got yourself off? Though, maybe you wanted him to…

You bit your lower lip, eyes lit up once the idea of testing his patience became more appealing. Your hand didn’t move— not right away, but the delicious ache down below pulsed hard and mean. 

Just a little touch. That’s all.

Your hips lifted up, allowing you to slip your pyjama shorts and panties off in one fell swoop. You melted with a purr once your hand met your soaked pussy, body slouching comfortably against the headboard of the bed with one tingling leg kicking out weakly. Two fingers skirted around your clit, the digits skimming over with a feather-light touch, all whilst your hole clenched and dripped dewy slick onto the mattress below your bare lower half. You couldn’t stop the soft gasps leaving your parted lips when you dipped the tips of two of your fingers just barely inside. 

And then—

SLAM. 

The wooden door of your bedroom flew open, practically splintering and creating a deep indent onto the side of your poorly painted wall. An unflattering yelp left your lips, heart lurching as you quickly grabbed your blanket so that you weren’t as exposed to your fiendish housemate. But the damage was already done.

A very shirtless Toji stood at the doorway, hair a sweaty mess and chest heaving. His eyes were wild, and his jaw was clenched tightly shut. As if he’d been holding himself back for far too long. 

“You think I’m playin’?” Toji’s voice was incredibly strained. Ragged. 

Unable to answer, you simply gawked at Toji, who was now stalking further into your bedroom. Ever so perceptive, you see the way he’s limping, the way his black boxers are tented in a manner so vulgar. But the limp was what had your attention. 

You had a hunch as to why that happened. One finger went back down, sinking deep into your pussy with a lewd squelch and curling juuuust right. With a full-body shudder, you fought the urge to shut your eyes, keeping them on the man in front of you as he flinched and reached around to grab his ass with both hands. His asshole clenched tight, as if he was the one to have a finger slide into the foreign orifice. 

Toji shouldn’t have wanted this. But every single time your pussy clenched, his entire body felt it.

Your housemate regained his wits, clearly unamused with the way he was staring you down. Intimidation didn’t work on you… most of the time. You sheepishly slipped out the drenched finger, noting how pitiful of a shield your blanket made. It shook in one of your fists when Toji came closer, towering over you as his boxers strained even further. The blanket was tossed to the side yet again. Perhaps there was no use in it. Not anymore. 

“You’re fixing this shit, by the way.” His voice dropped dangerously low as he held eye contact with you. A simple silver chain dangled in your face, the dim light of your lamp causing it to glint back at you. “You’re gonna let me fuck the ache out of us both, right?”

Toji’s callused palm slid up your thigh, hot and heavy. Your breath caught, and so did his. He can feel how sensitive you are down there, and his eyes darkened just a fraction. 

“Can you see that? How I can feel everything your slutty body is giving me?”

You nodded, swallowing as Toji lugged his hulking body onto your bed. It took him no effort to spread your legs wide with practised ease. His padded thumb reached low, brushing languidly across the slick seam of your folds. His own hips jerked in response.

“Hahhh, shiiit. This is going to be so, so messy. You filthy girl.”

Fucking finally, you thought, causing Toji to slap your thigh with a shake of his head. Oh, right. He could still sense the impatience radiating off of you. But it’s not like he’s any better. His fattened cock was pulsing eagerly in his boxers, the sensation only heightened when he stroked your quivering slit with two fingers. Your hips jerked involuntarily, causing the man to groan lowly. 

Toji was incredibly conflicted, and you could tell. On one hand, he was finally satiating that need for desire he had been feeling for weeks now. But on the other hand, he was venturing into uncharted territory. Every touch to your pussy led to his own hole winking open and shut repeatedly. It was completely humiliating, the sensation completely foreign to him. However, you could both sense the growing part of him that enjoyed whatever he was feeling down below. 

“Lose the grin,” Toji choked out once he dropped his body down low enough. He was eye to eye with your weeping cunt, eyes greedy as he inhaled the raw scent you were emitting. Your nose crinkled, hand shooting out to grab him by the scalp as you took in the pussydrunk expression on his flushed face. Toji hadn’t even done anything yet, and he was already this far gone. 

A hot, thick tongue drags slowly over your throbbing clit, the cluster of nerves vibrating once he moans into your pussy. The pleasure loops back onto Toji, causing a broken gasp to rip out of his throat— like he’s being touched too. “Sh-shit. Not a fuckin’ word about this, you hear me?”

You couldn’t reply. Not when your very manly housemate shucked off his dampened boxers and allowed his back to settle into a nasty arch. Honestly? It put yours to shame. 

A measured suck to your clit brought you out of your envious thoughts. Toji’s lips were sealed tightly around you, like he’s trying to get himself off through you. A squeal left you once the abundance of sensations hit you all at once, causing your legs to lock around his broad shoulders. A wickedly erotic thrill shot through you both when his hips grinded deeply into the mattress under you both— cock dripping helplessly with precum whilst his back remained arched.

“Fuck, fuck— she’s clenchin’ around me,” he pants out, nose pressed hard against your mound. And he was right— you were clenching down onto his face since his mouth refused to give you any mercy. Toji’s own rim twitches, causing him to fist the sheets into his hand as he uses his entire mouth to eat you out. The sensations ricochet between you both, and a heady taste fills your mouth. 

You cry out, hips fucking up onto your housemates face like you were in heat.

“Toji… Toji, I can— I can taste myself.” Your voice came out all high and garbled, saliva pooling in your mouth. You swallow greedily, the taboo nature of the act causing you to grow even wetter. You could positively feel how good he thought you tasted as well. 

“So, s-so sweet…!”

He spits onto your cunt, feral eyes watching the way it slid down to your own puckered hole. Before it could disappear, Toji glides his tongue from your asshole to your pussy, slurping up the mess before sucking your clit into his mouth once more. His cheeks hollow whilst you watch with increasingly bleary eyes, little oh’s of delight leaving you once he’s able to tongue-fuck you in slow, desperate strokes. You shuddered in harmony, climaxes inevitably drawing closer, like there was a taut rope connecting you both that was just ready to snap.

Your moans were downright pornographic now— raw, hungry, and increasing in pitch as the desperation grew to a point that neither of you had ever felt before. 

“No, w-wait—”

Your voice broke, cracked in a way that made you sound inhuman. Your entire body seized, and that was all it took for Toji to spurt thick ropes of warm cum from his cock. It was as if you had been electrocuted, the way your thighs had him in a tight chokehold whilst your cunt spasmed uncontrollably around his tongue. You orgasmed, your fluids gushing down Toji’s chin freely and soaking the sharp curve of your jaw. 

Toji’s back arched hard once the force of both of your orgasms hit you both. His cock convulsed, untouched and marred with full veins as you felt each twitch like it was yours too. You swore you blacked out, unsure as to where your orgasm ended and his began. Feverish moans blended into gruff grunts, two distinct voices melding into one singular sigh of ecstasy. 

Through it all, you both kept feeling each other. A set of comforting hands kneaded your hips as Toji reluctantly detached himself from your pussy. A low whine left you at the loss of contact, cool air mixing with the fluids etched into your skin. But the sight of how wrecked Toji looked made up for it.

His pointed chin was glazed with a sheen of slick, parted lips swollen and eyes unfocused. Droplets of sweat coated his body, plastering his jet-black hair onto his forehead. A wobbly hand of his laid flat on the heaving muscles of his chest, wiping the residual moisture away to no avail. You watched as he sat back on his heels, cock still jerking where it laid thick and leaking against the muscle of one of his bulky thighs. 

A half-laugh left you, a delirious look in your eyes as you nestled against the damp pillow behind you. Your entire body trembled as you shut your eyes, trying to stop your head from spinning too much.

“You think we should try actually fucking, ‘ji?”

“And feel my asshole get impaled? No thanks."

[starryjake]

thinking about toxic situationship!heeseung :(

you’re by far his favorite out of all the girls he fucks but he’s too cocky to let you know that. in the back of your mind, though, you know. you can’t imagine that he takes his other girls out for late night ramen or lets them sit on his lap and watch him play video games.

you can’t imagine he’s as gentle and sweet during aftercare with anyone else. in fact, you really hope he isn’t. you hope he kicks out all the other girls he sleeps with as soon as he’s done with them. you hope that he doesn’t let them spend the night like he does with you, even going as far as to make you breakfast or take you out the next day.

every time he’s with another girl, he can’t stop thinking about fucking annoying they are and can’t help himself from comparing them to you. he knows you would be so much better: better at sucking his dick, better at riding him, just your pussy in general was better.

he’d text you when he was hanging out with other girls, not even waiting for them to leave the room but doing it right next to them. he didn’t care if they could see, even when he was texting you about how bad they were and how he wished he were with you instead.

heeseung: this blows

y/n: whys that?

heeseung: bc she isn’t you baby

y/n: you could always leave and come over :)

heeseung: aww my girl wants me to ditch this chick and come fuck her instead? is that what you want, little princess?

y/n: fuck hee…please :(

he could not say no to you. 10 minutes later and he’s ditched the random girl he was with and was instead pounding you into your mattress, grunting loudly as you clenched around him.

“fuck yeah, baby,” he moaned, hips drilling into you. “you’re such a good girl. so much fucking better than anyone else.”

and you took it so well, eating up every last word.

he also loved that you didn’t talk to any other guys. you just wanted him and only him so, so badly, and maybe if he did relationships, he would choose you to be his girlfriend. but, he didn’t date and he made sure you were aware of that from the start your situationship. but the point was, he loved that you were still loyal to him, not even wanting to talk to another guy because they just weren’t heeseung. no one did it like him.

no one ate you out until you were squirting everywhere and shaking like he did. no one fucked you until your eyes were rolling into the back of your head and drooling onto his sheets like he did. no one made you feel like passing out from intense pleasure like heeseung.

you liked him. you were probably in love with him. you hated knowing he saw other girls and he loved knowing it made you upset. he loved knowing that you liked him enough to get so jealous of other girls.

again, he would never tell you that he couldn’t give less of a shit about the other girls. in fact, he would purposely use them just to make you jealous, fucking them for the sole reason of knowing you would hate it. your jealousy was what got him off because it showed that you cared about him, that you wanted him all to yourself.

he thought about you every time he thrusted his cock inside another girl’s pussy. he thought about how much tighter you were than them. how much warmer, wetter, and more delicious you were.

heeseung liked you a lot too. he was also probably in love with you and he realized that when he was finishing on the tits of someone else and moaned out your name instead of theirs.

-

like sorry i just needed to get this off my chest bc heeseung is FUCKING WITH ME TODAY!!

anyway how are y’all? :3

[ilovemarvel97]

Written in Our Souls - Part 8

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda starts to ignore Y/N…again.

Word Count: 5,696

Warnings: angst, fluff

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

Y/N's POV

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her hands running through her hair as her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. The room still buzzed with Wanda’s presence—her scent lingering in the sheets, the warmth of her touch ghosting across Y/N’s skin, the taste of her still burning on her lips.

What the hell did I do?

She hadn’t meant for it to go that far. Not tonight. Not like that. But the bond—God, the bond had been screaming. Louder than ever. It was like being possessed, swept up in something ancient and magnetic and all-consuming. When Wanda kissed her back, when her hands touched Y/N like she needed her, it had undone every bit of control she’d built since the day they met.

She could still feel the moment Wanda had trembled under her palms. How her shirt had risen beneath Y/N’s fingers, soft skin exposed inch by inch—and Y/N hadn’t stopped. Not until Wanda’s breath had hitched and she’d yanked the fabric back down like she’d been burned.

And maybe she had been.

Y/N closed her eyes, guilt swelling in her chest. I should have stopped. She should have read the signs, backed off, given Wanda space. But when Wanda looked at her with that kind of want, with those desperate eyes that mirrored her own, how was she supposed to pull away?

She didn’t want to admit how much of her had hoped—selfishly, foolishly—that maybe Wanda was finally choosing her. That this moment would tip the scale. That they would finally stop pretending.

But instead, she’d run.

Back to him. 

Y/N’s hands curled into fists on her knees. The ache in her chest wasn’t just physical. It was that same pain the bond always delivered—a gnawing hollowness, made worse when the distance between them grew. Tonight, it was worse than usual. It was searing. 

She stared at the door Wanda had slipped through, still slightly ajar, as if she’d hesitated before leaving.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “What have I done?”

And yet… even as the guilt settled deep in her bones, her body still pulsed with the memory of Wanda’s hands, her mouth, her breathy little gasps. Y/N swallowed hard, trying to shove the feelings down, but it was too late.

She couldn’t stop.

Not her thoughts. Not her heart. Not the bond that tugged relentlessly toward a girl who belonged to someone else.

A girl who had just kissed her like she never wanted to stop.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda slipped back into her room like a ghost, the door clicking shut behind her with an unsettling finality. The darkness inside did little to soothe her—it felt heavier now, thicker somehow, like it knew what she’d done.

Vision lay where she had left him, motionless in rest mode, unaware. Peaceful.

She moved mechanically, crawling into bed beside him, her limbs leaden with guilt and confusion. The mattress shifted beneath her weight, but he didn’t stir. That should’ve comforted her, but it didn’t.

As she laid her head on the pillow, a sharp pain bloomed in her chest—deep and suffocating. It wasn’t new. The bond always ached when she tried to suppress it. When she lied to it. But tonight, it was worse. Tonight, it felt like punishment.

She curled toward Vision, trying to find something familiar, something grounding. But the moment her gaze settled on his face, her stomach turned.

He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know that you kissed her. That you wanted to let her—

Wanda shut her eyes tightly, but it was useless. The memories came anyway.

Y/N’s lips. Gentle, hungry, reverent. The warmth of her hands, how they fit so perfectly against her waist. The breathless sounds that slipped from her throat before she could stop them. And God—her scent. Her taste. Her skin beneath Wanda’s fingers.

Wanda’s heart pounded harder just thinking about it.

She turned her head, staring at the ceiling. What’s wrong with me?

She had kissed Y/N like she meant it. Because she did. She had wanted to feel that connection fully, wanted to fall into it and let it take her somewhere real. Somewhere she didn’t have to pretend.

But now she was here. Lying next to the man she had promised to build a life with.

And all she could think about… was another.

Y/N

Her lips tingled where they’d been kissed. Her skin still flushed with phantom touches. And the pain—God, the pain—throbbed in her chest like an open wound.

Wanda turned onto her side, facing away from Vision, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

She had never felt more lost.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting pale gold across Wanda’s face, but it felt cold—distant. She’d barely slept. Her body had been still, curled tight beside Vision, but her mind had been anything but quiet. The ache in her chest lingered, heavier now, wrapped in shame.

Vision stirred beside her with a content hum, the kind she hadn’t heard in weeks.

“You stayed,” he said softly, a smile forming as he turned to face her.

Wanda forced a small nod, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall just beyond him. “Yeah.”

She didn’t see the full smile that bloomed on his face, or the way his hand reached toward her before pausing, uncertain. She couldn’t. Because her mind was elsewhere.

It was still in Y/N’s room.

On the feel of Y/N’s mouth, her breath, her hands, the heat that had built so fast between them it had scared her. The bond had flared up like wildfire, and she hadn’t been strong enough to resist. Not until it was almost too late.

She’d pulled away only at the last second, yanked her shirt back down like she was trying to bury what happened, hide it from her own heart.

And now? Now all she could do was run.

She didn’t join the others for breakfast. Didn’t go near the gym or the training rooms. Every time she heard footsteps approaching, her stomach dropped—terrified it was Y/N. And even more terrified it wasn’t. 

Because even as she tried to avoid her, Wanda felt her. Through the bond, tugging at her like a current pulling her out to sea. And it hurt to ignore it. It burned like a lie scraped against open skin.

And yet, when Y/N finally found her—at the far end of the compound hallway, near the windows—Wanda didn’t stop. Y/N had called her name once, softly, hopefully.

“Wanda.”

But she kept walking. Faster. Shoulders tense, jaw clenched. She didn’t look back.

She couldn’t.

Not after what she’d almost let happen. Not with Vision smiling at her that morning like he still had a chance.

She told herself it was guilt keeping her away.

But deep down, she knew the truth.

It was fear. Fear of how much she wanted Y/N. Fear that she’d already made her choice... and it wasn’t the one she was pretending to live.

---

That night, Wanda lay in her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if it could offer answers—or forgiveness.

Vision lay beside her, his breathing calm, his arm draped loosely around her waist. He’d fallen asleep quickly, content in her presence. He didn’t know she hadn’t come willingly. That she wasn’t really there. 

Her body was frozen, every muscle taut, as if moving even slightly would shatter the fragile mask she wore. Her thoughts screamed. Loud. Inescapable.

Y/N.

Her lips still burned from the kiss. Her skin tingled where Y/N’s hands had been. The memory of the way her shirt had slid up, how she hadn’t even noticed at first, how natural it had felt to be touched by her soulmate—it haunted her. It wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper, something rooted in her very soul. A call she couldn’t keep denying.

And yet… here she was. Lying beside the man she had once thought she could love, the man she had committed herself to out of duty, out of trying to be good. 

The guilt was suffocating.

She hadn’t even gone to say goodnight to Y/N. Hadn’t looked her in the eye. Hadn’t allowed herself near her room, though every part of her body screamed to go. Every breath she took felt like betrayal—either to Vision, or to herself.

The bond was stinging as if telling her to go.

Wanda blinked back tears, unable to stop the overwhelming weight on her chest. She didn’t sleep. Not a single minute. Because how could she?

How could she close her eyes and not see Y/N?

How could she sleep when the arms around her felt wrong.

---

Y/N’s POV

Y/N lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the soft glow of the hallway light creeping in beneath the door. The clock beside her blinked 3:08 AM.

She waited.

The sheets were cool without her. Her arms ached from the absence of weight, from the missing warmth they’d grown so used to. Every night for weeks, Wanda had found her way here. Quiet steps. A soft knock or none at all. Then that subtle breath of air when the door creaked open, followed by the hush of Wanda crawling into bed like she belonged there.

Because she did. God, she did.

But tonight, nothing.

No knock. No creak. No warmth. Just silence.

Y/N blinked slowly, trying to will her heart to beat softer. It was too loud in the quiet. Too desperate.

She’d felt the bond roaring earlier. All that kissing, all that touching—they’d crossed a line, and neither of them had wanted to stop. She didn’t even remember pulling Wanda’s shirt up until it was already bunched around her ribs, until her lips were trailing down soft, heated skin. She only remembered the way Wanda tasted, the way her breath caught, the way she let it happen—until she didn’t.

Y/N had barely registered the panic in Wanda’s eyes before she’d pulled her shirt down, muttering about Vision, guilt and fear taking over. And then… she was gone.

Y/N had half-expected her to come back. To sneak in like she always did. To lay in her arms, even if they didn’t talk. Even if it hurt.

But the door never opened.

Not even a whisper of footsteps outside.

And so Y/N just stared at the ceiling, trying to forget the smell of her, the feel of her skin, the way her lips had trembled.

She wasn’t angry. Not really.

But she was hurting. Quietly. Deeply.

Because her soulmate didn’t come tonight.

---

Wanda’s POV

That night, Wanda’s guilt had grown into something monstrous.

She’d avoided Y/N all day—ducked behind corners, left rooms too quickly, pretended she hadn’t heard her voice. Every time Y/N tried to talk to her, to even look at her, Wanda acted like nothing had happened. Like they were nothing.

But they were everything. 

And that was the problem.

Because even while ignoring her, all Wanda could think about was Y/N. The kiss. The way her lips felt on her neck, down her chest. The way her body reacted instinctively—hungrily. She ached for more. For all of her. And that terrified her.

She thought going back to Vision would help. That it would re-center her. Remind her who she was supposed to love. Who she’d chosen. 

So when they lay in bed that night, and Vision—sweet, gentle Vision—turned to her with a hopeful gaze, Wanda didn’t stop him.

She let him touch her.

They had done this before—awkward, clinical attempts at intimacy. She had always chalked the discomfort up to his nature, to her nerves. But tonight?

Tonight felt wrong from the first moment.

Vision’s lips were soft on hers, but they didn’t burn. His hands touched her waist, but they didn’t leave fire in their wake. When he moved to lift her shirt—just like Y/N had done—her stomach lurched violently.

“No—wait,” she said, panicked, her voice barely more than a gasp.

Vision blinked in confusion. “Wanda?”

She shoved his hand away and bolted from the bed, stumbling into their bathroom. Her knees hit the cold tile and she barely made it to the toilet before she began vomiting.

Everything came up. Everything she’d eaten. Every lie she’d told herself.

Vision was behind her in seconds, kneeling, reaching out, concern all over his synthetic face. “Wanda, what’s happening? You’re sick—”

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, her voice hoarse between heaves.

She tried to breathe through the nausea, but his hand on her back only made it worse. She wrenched away from him, dry heaving again, shoulders shaking.

His touch didn’t soothe her. It repulsed her.

And that’s when the truth hit her, raw and unrelenting:

It wasn’t just the bond with Y/N.

It wasn’t just guilt.

It was her heart—completely, irrevocably—choosing someone else.

And her body, her soul, refusing to betray it.

Wanda didn’t answer. Her body lurched forward again, another wave of nausea crashing over her as she vomited into the toilet, her hands shaking against the porcelain. The force of it left her breathless, trembling, her throat raw and her stomach aching.

Vision froze for a second, visibly startled, then moved beside her with quiet urgency. “Wanda—”

Another dry heave cut him off, her body rejecting everything left in her. She couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think. The only thing she could feel was the wrongness clawing through her skin. Everything about this night—about what she almost let happen—felt sickening. Violating.

“Wanda, your system is clearly—”

She gagged again, barely hearing him through the ringing in her ears. Tears streamed down her face, but they weren’t from the vomiting—they were from shame. From the taste of Y/N still on her lips. From the memory of Y/N's hands on her body, the pull of the bond so strong she couldn’t think straight.

Vision moved to place a steady hand on her back.

“Don’t,” she choked out between breaths. “Please… don’t touch me.”

But even as she said it, another wave of nausea wracked her body and she collapsed forward again, emptying the last contents of her stomach. Her limbs were shaking, her soul splintered.

Vision didn’t move. He just watched, helpless, quiet—his synthetic face tight with worry.

The frantic knock echoed through the room, cutting through the tension like a knife. Wanda barely had the strength to lift her head from the toilet, her body still trembling from the violent waves of nausea. Vision was already moving to the door, his confusion palpable as he glanced back at Wanda before stepping to the side.

He opened it just a crack, his mechanical frame blocking most of the doorway. “Y/N?”

Before he could say anything else, Y/N brushed past him with a speed that left him no time to react. She didn’t even pause to acknowledge Vision, her eyes locked onto Wanda the moment she stepped into the room. Without hesitation, Y/N rushed to her side, pulling Wanda into her arms, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Wanda’s body, trembling and wracked with emotion, collapsed against her. She gripped Y/N desperately, her arms around her neck as if holding onto the only thing that could anchor her in this chaos. She buried her face in Y/N’s shoulder, letting the familiar scent of her comfort her, grounding her. Her breaths came in sharp gasps, the pressure in her chest finally starting to ease. The nausea, the suffocating weight of guilt, and the tangled mess of emotions that had been suffocating her since that moment with Y/N all seemed to dissolve in her embrace.

Her tears were hot, a release that she didn’t even know she needed until she felt them falling. And all the while, Y/N held her tighter, murmuring something soft into her ear—words that Wanda couldn’t quite catch through the fog of her own thoughts. All she could focus on was Y/N’s warmth and the relief that slowly flooded her chest.

"Shh... I've got you," Y/N whispered, pressing her forehead to Wanda's, holding her close. "You're safe, Wanda. I'm right here."

Wanda clung to her even tighter, her heart hammering with a strange mixture of grief and overwhelming relief. She didn’t want to be anywhere else, with anyone else. It was only Y/N. Always only Y/N.

As the moment stretched on, Vision watched silently from the door, the confusion still clear on his face. But Y/N wasn’t concerned with him now—she only had eyes for Wanda, offering her the comfort she so desperately needed.

"I should've known you were in pain," Y/N murmured. "I should’ve been here sooner. I’m sorry."

Wanda’s trembling slowly eased as her breathing settled, the tension in her limbs giving way to utter exhaustion. Curled tightly in Y/N’s arms on the bathroom floor, she finally began to drift—her body giving out after days of guilt, denial, and the unbearable weight of everything she was feeling.

Y/N stayed still, holding her protectively, her fingers brushing lightly through Wanda’s hair, whispering quiet reassurances even as her own chest ached. Eventually, Wanda fell asleep in her arms, her tear-streaked face pressed softly against Y/N’s collarbone.

With careful, practiced movements, Y/N shifted to lift Wanda into her arms. She carried her gently to the bed, laying her down with a tenderness that made her chest ache even more. She brushed a strand of hair from Wanda’s face, staring at her for just a second too long—wanting, aching to stay.

But then she remembered where they were.

This wasn’t her room.

And Vision was still there, standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable, quiet but observant.

Y/N straightened, swallowing down the instinct to reach for Wanda again. She glanced over at him, feeling the question in his silence even before he opened his mouth.

“What’s going on?” Vision finally asked, voice low, not confrontational but certainly filled with concern.

Y/N exhaled slowly, keeping her tone casual. “I… I was just passing by and heard her vomiting,” she said, looking away quickly. “And your voice—sounded worried. I was coming back from movie night with Nat...”

A lie. One she had to tell. For Wanda.

She didn’t wait to see if he believed her—just offered a soft smile and a nod toward Wanda. “She just needs rest.”

Vision looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to piece together something he couldn’t quite grasp. But he nodded eventually.

Y/N gave one last glance at Wanda—sleeping peacefully now, her hand curled near her chest like she was still searching for comfort—before turning and quietly slipping out the door. The moment it shut behind her, it felt like something inside her cracked open.

She didn’t look back. But God, she wanted to.

---

Few hours later, Wanda shot upright in bed, a strangled gasp caught in her throat. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as her eyes darted wildly across the dark room. The nightmare still clung to her—flashes of pain, of Y/N walking away, of a void she couldn’t fill. The sheets stuck to her skin with cold sweat, her heart thundering as if she’d run a marathon.

Vision stirred beside her, sitting up immediately. “Wanda?” he said softly, placing a hand on her back. “You were dreaming. Are you alright?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her body was trembling, her mind disoriented—not because of the nightmare, but because the arms she craved, the scent she needed to calm her, weren’t here.

They weren’t Y/N’s.

She pulled her knees to her chest slowly, grounding herself. Finally, she turned to Vision, forcing her expression into something calmer, more composed. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice raw. “Just… a bad dream.”

He looked at her with concern, his hand still on her back. “Wanda… last night—you were ill. You were terrified. Then Y/N came…What happened?”

Wanda’s breath hitched subtly. She felt the lie forming even as she spoke. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “It was probably just something I ate. I guess I panicked. And Y/N just happened to hear. That’s all.”

Vision didn’t seem convinced, not fully, but he nodded slowly, accepting it for now. “If it happens again, you should see Bruce. Or at least let me help you…you didn’t even let me tou-“

“I will,” she whispered, already turning her face away—because if he looked at her too long, he might see it. The truth. The longing. The lie.

But all she could think about was how it wasn’t him who pulled her out of the dark.

It was Y/N. Again. Always.

---

Wanda felt like she was unraveling.

She avoided Y/N at every turn—ducking out of rooms, changing her training schedule, pretending to be busy whenever Y/N’s eyes found her across the compound. But now, it wasn’t just Y/N she was running from.

It was Vision too.

She hadn’t let him touch her since that night. Not his hand on hers, not his arm around her shoulders. Every time he reached out, her body stiffened, her stomach turned, and the phantom sensation of Y/N's lips on her skin would return like a curse. She was terrified of feeling that wrong again. Terrified of hurting him. Terrified of the truth.

But more than anything, she was confused—torn between guilt, duty, and a bond that burned through her chest no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

And it wasn’t getting better.

In fact, everything was falling apart.

The nightmares had returned with a vengeance. Every night she woke in a cold sweat, gasping, reaching out for someone who wasn’t there. And when she wasn’t dreaming, she was lying wide awake, eyes open in the dark, aching for the peace she’d only ever found in one place—Y/N’s arms.

Her powers, once quiet and calm, had begun to lash out again. Small accidents at first. A cracked mirror. A flicker of red when she didn’t mean to summon anything. But then, it escalated—books flying off shelves, mugs shattering, lights bursting above her head when she startled. Her magic had always been tied to her emotions, and right now, she was a storm barely contained.

She told herself she needed more time. That it would settle. That she could fix it.

But deep down, Wanda knew the truth: she was losing control, and the only person who made her feel safe was the one she kept pushing away.

---

Today Y/N went on a mission.

She tried to talk to Wanda, but just like the other days, Wanda avoided her. 

That week without Y/N was supposed to be a reset. That’s what Wanda told herself.

Y/N would be gone on a mission, so the bond should quiet down. Her guilt should quiet down.

She thought with space, everything would quiet down.

But it didn’t.

It got worse.

Each night Wanda was plagued by nightmares—worse than before. Not faceless threats or childhood echoes, but vivid, gut-wrenching visions of Y/N dying. She watched her fall in battle, scream in agony, disappear into smoke. Wanda would wake up screaming, her sheets soaked in sweat, her heart racing, hands glowing red and shaking.

By the fourth night, the nightmares weren’t just dreams anymore. Her powers lashed out uncontrollably, slamming books off shelves, blowing the lights in her room, fracturing the mirror. 

Vision tried to talk to her but she avoided him too.

Then, during one of the training, she nearly obliterated the entire combat simulation with a burst of chaos magic. It left the room charred, twisted. Steve had to pull her out before anyone else got hurt.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t explain.

Her body trembled, her eyes wild—and instead of going to her room with Vision, she ran.

Before she knew it, her feet had taken her to Y/N’s door. Her hands shook as she opened it, her breath catching the moment she stepped inside. It still smelled like her—clean, warm, comforting. Her scent wrapped around Wanda like a safety net she didn’t deserve.

She didn’t hesitate.

Wanda climbed into the bed, curling into the pillow Y/N always used, gripping the blanket like it was a lifeline. Her body finally stopped shaking. Her magic settled under her skin, the storm easing into a whisper. And for the first time in a week, Wanda felt a sliver of calm.

Not peace. Never peace. Not without her.

But stillness.

And in that stillness, Wanda buried her face into the pillow and let herself cry quietly, aching for the girl she kept trying to forget, the one her soul refused to let go.

---

Steve’s POV

Steve found Vision in the common area late that afternoon, seated stiffly with a book in his hand he hadn’t turned a page of in nearly fifteen minutes.

Steve sat across from him without invitation, his voice low but firm. “Vision,” he said, “what’s going on with Wanda?”

Vision blinked as if startled, then straightened his shoulders. “I… am not sure.”

Steve frowned. “You’re with her every day. You share a room. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed anything.”

Vision hesitated. “She is… distant. More than usual. She doesn’t sleep well. She flinches when I reach for her, and she avoids speaking unless necessary.”

“That’s not just ‘distant,’ Vision. That’s falling apart,” Steve said carefully. “Her powers are out of control again. She nearly destroyed the training room yesterday. That doesn’t happen unless she’s in serious distress.”

Vision’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the book. “She claims she’s just tired. I’ve tried to speak with her, but she insists everything is fine.”

Steve leaned forward. “She’s not fine. And if you’ve noticed it, others have too.”

Vision nodded slowly, voice low. “Something changed. Around the time Y/N left for her mission… it got worse. But even before that, I noticed Wanda would be gone some nights. She wouldn’t be in our room, and I never knew where she went.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “Gone at night?”

“Yes,” Vision confirmed. “Then suddenly, she stopped. And ever since, she’s been more… unstable. Emotional. Restless. Especially when Y/N is around.”

Steve leaned back, his expression darkening with realization. “So this isn’t new. Something was going on before. And now Y/N’s away, and it’s all coming undone.”

Vision nodded slowly. “A week ago… I tried to be intimate with her. We’ve done so before, cause I assume the human body needs that kind of affection. But this time—she pushed me away. She panicked. She ran to the bathroom and vomited. I tried to help her, but even touching her made it worse.”

Steve’s eyes widened slightly. “Jesus.”

Vision’s voice dropped. “Then Y/N came. Out of nowhere. Uninvited. She didn’t ask questions. She went straight to Wanda, like she already knew where she’d be. And Wanda… she clung to her. Like she was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.”

Steve sat silently for a long moment, then said, “And she just showed up, like that?”

Vision nodded. “She said she heard Wanda being sick as she passed the door on the way back from movie night with Romanoff.”

“You believe her?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Vision admitted. “But it felt… wrong. Familiar, somehow. Like it wasn’t the first time.”

Steve's jaw clenched. “Vision… you don’t think they—?”

“I don’t know,” Vision cut in. “There’s no record. I checked. Nothing shows Wanda ever left the room at night. The logs are clean. Too clean.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “So someone wiped the footage.”

They exchanged a look.

Vision finally said, “I fear… there’s something between them neither of them is speaking about. And whatever it is—it’s destroying her.”

Steve exhaled, quiet and heavy. “Then someone needs to speak up. Because she’s not going to make it through this much longer.”

---

Y/N’s POV

Y/N had never known a pain like this.

Not on the battlefield. Not in any mission gone sideways. Nothing compared to the aching pull in her chest that had haunted her the entire week she was away. The deeper she got into the mission, the heavier it became—like something inside her was withering.

Every night she lay awake in her bunk, staring at the ceiling of the temporary outpost, Wanda’s face burned behind her eyes. Her lips. Her voice. Her skin. The memory of her in Y/N’s arms, trembling and breathless and warm. And then gone.

Clint noticed by the second day.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said bluntly over breakfast rations.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He didn’t bite. “Is it the bond?”

Y/N looked at him sharply, and that was all the answer he needed.

“You’re in pain,” he said, voice quieter this time. “That’s not good, Y/N. You two were already skating on the edge.”

“I didn’t choose this,” she snapped before she could stop herself. “I’ve been trying to talk to her. She’s the one avoiding me. She left.”

Clint softened. “I know. But when you get back… you can’t keep letting her run. You’ve gotta try again. Before this eats you both alive.”

Y/N didn’t reply.

But she promised herself she’d find Wanda the second she got home.

One more day.

---

Wanda’s POV

As Wanda lay curled in Y/N’s bed, her face buried deep in the pillow that still held the trace of her scent, the soft hiss of the door opening made her heart leap.

She looked up quickly, hopeful. “Y/N?”

But it wasn’t her.

It was Vision.

He stepped inside with a strange coldness, eyes scanning the room—the messy sheets, the obvious indentation where Wanda lay, the pillow she clutched like a lifeline.

His voice was sharper than usual. “What are you doing here, Wanda?”

She sat up slowly, flustered, her magic twitching faintly at her fingertips. “I… I couldn’t sleep. I just needed— I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to sleep in her bed?” Vision interrupted, stepping closer. “To bury yourself in her scent like some phantom lover? Wanda, are you cheating on me?”

Wanda froze, eyes wide.

His tone hardened. “Answer me.”

Her lips parted, but the words stuck in her throat. Her pulse pounded. “I… I’m not… It’s not like that—”

“Wanda.”

She flinched. “We kissed.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Vision’s head tilted slightly, as if trying to recalculate reality. “When?”

She swallowed thickly. “2 weeks ago… I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“But it did.” His voice trembled—not with sadness, but anger. “And you kept sleeping in my bed like nothing changed.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “I was scared. I told myself it didn’t mean anything. But it did. I—”

“You cheated, Wanda.”

She stood abruptly. “It wasn’t like that! I didn’t plan it, I—”

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked coldly. “Her kiss?”

She stared at him, stricken. “...Yes.”

That was all it took.

In a flash, Vision’s hand closed around her wrist—not violently, but with force she couldn’t ignore.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, dragging her toward the door.

“Vision—” she gasped, stumbling after him. “Please—”

“We’re not doing this here. You’re going to our room. Now.”

She didn’t fight him.

Her body trembled, tears streaming silently down her cheeks as she was pulled out of Y/N’s sanctuary and into the sterile hallway, leaving behind the only place her heart had felt steady in days.

But in the back of her mind, one thought rang louder than any guilt.

Y/N would be home tomorrow.

And Wanda didn’t know how to face her now.

---

Y/N’s POV

The quinjet had barely landed when she was off it, backpack slung half open, boots still caked with dirt. She went straight to the tower—straight to her room first, but it was still cold and untouched, Wanda nowhere in sight. Her next stop was the one she hated: Wanda and Vision’s shared room.

She barely made it to the hallway when the door opened—and Vision stepped out.

His expression darkened the moment he saw her.

“I need to see Wanda,” Y/N said quickly.

“You need to stay away from her,” Vision said sharply, stepping forward and blocking the doorway.

Y/N��s jaw clenched. “She’s in pain. I can feel it—”

“She’s sick because of you.”

That stopped her cold.

Vision’s tone cracked for the first time. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what you’ve done to her. But ever since you came into her life, she’s been getting worse. She doesn’t sleep, she cries, she flinches when I touch her. She vomited when I tried to comfort her. You think I don’t notice?”

Y/N’s voice dropped. “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t care,” Vision snapped. “She was better before you. And now… she’s unraveling.”

Y/N’s chest burned. “Then let me help her.”

“No,” he said coldly. “Whatever this is—it’s your fault. And I won’t let you near her.”

The door clicked shut between them.

And Y/N stood there in the hallway, jaw tight, heart breaking all over again.

---

The next day, the tower felt colder than usual.

Y/N tried again to see Wanda. She barely slept the night before, haunted by the image of Vision’s furious face and the weight of being turned away from the one person she ached for. But when she went to the training floor, Steve was already waiting.

“You’re not joining the session today,” he said.

Y/N frowned. “What? Why?”

“You just got back. You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, too fast. “I need to train. I need—”

“Y/N.” His voice was firmer. “That’s an order.”

She didn’t argue further. Not because she agreed, but because she saw the way he avoided her gaze. Something was off.

She wandered the halls like a ghost, every part of her tense. Her chest had only gotten worse overnight, her stomach a pit of dread. Something was wrong. Something is wrong. 

And then it happened.

As Y/N felt a sharp pain on her wrist, thunderclap of power cracked through the tower like lightning at the same time. 

An alarm blared overhead—Containment breach. Power surge. Floor lockdown initiated.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She ran. 

Her feet carried her on instinct alone, her chest seizing tighter with every step as her bond screamed in her bloodstream. Wanda.

---

Bear a little with me 😅

[retiredteabag]

Wishful Thinking - chapter 5

arranged marriage Nanami with a people-pleasing reader

last chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

You had gone to bed that night expecting the man by your side to inadvertently keep you awake. Only a few feet from you, you couldn't help focusing on his breathing. Consciously aware of his presence.

Memories of the first night at your shared home filled you with embarrassment as you had pulled on a comfortable fleece pajama set that evening.

Nanami changed in the bedroom whilst you were calming yourself in the bathroom; and when you came back to your bed, he was sat up on his mattress in a crewneck and a loose pair of pants. Just the sight to him brought reminders of when he had come into the master bedroom that first night after the ceremony.

You flush at the memory once more. Turning to crawl into bed, he told you about some ideas for your first day in Kuala Lumpur. You knew, of course, that he was looking for you to choose the excursion yourself. Something you were not looking forward to.

You were just able to slip out of that responsibility by feigning tiredness. He crossed his arms in a way that definitely was not supposed to catch your attention, but it most certainly did, and gave you a disbelieving look.

"I'm sure you'll be ready in the morning after a good night's sleep." He raised a brow.

"Surly." You drag out the word, though you weren't sure at all which option he would prefer you pick. And that aside, you had no intention of getting any restful sleep with him so close to you anyway.

Despite this, the subtle rattling of the train lulled you into sleep far quicker than you would've expected, and when morning came, you felt more rested than you had in months.

When you turned to sit up, you saw that Nanami was already awake, his back was against his headboard, a book in his hand. He looked over at you and smiled.

Nanami appeared so large in the twin bed. It was an interesting image to see once you've woken up. A kettle was placed on the table between your mattresses and he pulled out a saucer for you as you rubbed your eyes.

"We'll arrive at the capital in about two hours."

My God. His voice...

You cleared your throat, "Thank you." and reached for the teacup he had passed you to pour a drink into it.

As comfortable as you were beginning to grow with the man, there was still a sense of awkwardness mingling within the air. You decided not to waste any time and tiptoed to the bathroom with your tea.

Once you arrived, you almost smacked yourself with grief. The pajamas, the hair, you looked...well... you looked like you had just woken up.

Who cares? You thought for a moment. Your appearance was not really of any consequence; there wasn't a reason to feel ashamed. especially since Nanami was just a legally bonded...friend? But you couldn't help but feel frustrated at how put together he looked in the morning.

You turn on the sink and sigh.

--

What you did not see was that Nanami Kento had arisen hours before you had. He tried to go back to sleep when he noticed your form cuddled up with a pillow. He even had tried closing his eyes and matching your breathing, but it was all too much for him.

He was too aware now of the other presence by his side and knew he would not be able to dispel that knowledge from his brain. So he arose and massaged the back of his neck, busying himself with a brochure of Malaysia, averting his eyes to the curtains where peeks of sunlight occasionally lapped in through the passing trees.

He checked his watch and decided he might grab some breakfast for you both. He made his bed and wondered if you would enjoy breakfast in bed or if you were of the opinion that it was messy. After some consideration, he figured you wouldn't tell him either way.

When he arrived back at the bedroom suite door, he felt a wave of anxiety, wondering if you would be awake by his return. After some inspection, however, you had hardly moved. It was still early morning.

He settled the tray on the bedside table and went to go groom his appearance. Truth be told, he was altogether glad you had not awoken to see him before he was ready for you to.

When he came back to the bedroom, he oscillated awkwardly between pretending to be asleep again and pulling out a book he had packed. There was a small part of him that thought it might be disingenuous to pretend so he settled himself back in bed and tried to read.

And repeated the same page over and over.

When he saw you stretching beneath the sheets, he sat up, straightened his sweatshirt and slowed his breathing.

You were unbearably cute when you awoke.

How unfair.

--

The train had not arrived in Kuala Lamper for longer than a quarter of an hour before you and Nanami were dressed and ready to spend a day out in the city.

In your youth, you had not been given the opportunity to see the world. Your life before these moments had been confined to your clan estate and the Kyoto School. There was a thrilling warmth carried within you as you strode out of the station with your husband in toe. But do not be mistaken, the lead-up to this exciting moment was exactly as pleasant as you had anticipated it being the night prior.

That was to say, not at all.

The two of you had been sharing breakfast, still in the quiet of the morning, after a few moments of silence and standard eye contact you would laugh and look back to your lap.

He would grin and continue to eat, only before you would look at him once more and giggle.

Turning to you he joined along, "What? What is it?"

"This is just so ridiculous!" You laughed. "I can't believe this is happening."

He seemed confused, but smiled nonetheless, "It is strange to think...we're on our honeymoon." He shrugged a shoulder at you.

You hadn't even been thinking about that. Only that you were going to experience the world for the first time, and that waking up next to, eating breakfast alongside, and sharing silence together was so intimate. You hardly knew this man, but he was wholly yours.

Is that not a strange notion? He was your closest confidant, a gentlemanly friend. Another human legally bound to you.

And he was right, this was your honeymoon.

But you don't want to alter this moment, so you just grin a little more and try to take a sip of your tea.

After some time, you could tell by the shifting of his posture that he was subtly attempting to gain your attention. Looking your way, setting down his cup, and finally, leaning back, arms crossed.

No longer interested in identifying his body language from your periphery, you turned to look at him. Between his right thumb and forefinger was the brochure from the previous night. He was tilting it every which way between his fingers, the thin paper bending, making its way toward you.

"The scenery is... lovely!" You pointed out, turning to the window.

"A fine try." He chuckled and handed you the pamphlet.

You picked it from the space between you and used it to cover your face. "Must we do this?"

"We must." He closed his eyes dramatically as if he really were sad to say it.

"I think I would have a much better time if we just randomized our options..." You knew it was silly, but you couldn't help the all-encompassing fear that you might want to do something that perhaps he held no interest in. And thereby ruin his vacation, his honeymoon. The fear that you might waste his time.

"I'm afraid that's not one of your options." He whispered.

You only gave him an unamused look and skimmed over the leaflet.

A Tour of Batu Caves, Waterfalls, and Hot Springs Genting Highlands Day Trip with Skyway Cable Car Culinary Travel Tour Historical Sights Day Tour Private Excursion of Elephant Sanctuary

You were starting to get overwhelmed by all the options. You knew you would be visiting the beach on the last day of the trip, so perhaps he wouldn't want to go to the hot springs as well.

Or maybe he was a water-loving guy? You weren't sure, how would you know? The cable car seemed to be a nice option as well, the pictures included in the catalog depicted lush greenery and gorgeous views.

But it was a day trip... what if he became tired of the travel? Or worse, what if he was scared of heights and hated the entire thing?

It seemed that he hadn't taken his eyes from you since handing over the brochure. He would look at you over the rim of his teacup while you read over your options before he spoke up next to you, all low and quiet.

"I would love any of these options, just so you're sure." He tilted his cup to you in a greeting gesture but his words did nothing to ease the torture of your decision.

The pause continued as you mulled over the options, he seemed like the type to enjoy classic tourism, perhaps he would like to witness the historical sights.

"And if there was an option I really didn't like," He came in close, just then, almost looking over at the paper. "I would tell you. As I would hope you to do." You could feel the warmth of his skin although he never touched you.

Stumbling over the suddenness of the electric shock his nearness gave you, you pulled away and quickly spoke, "Do you like cooking?"

He didn't respond immediately, holding eye contact for quite a while before he smirked, "I would love," he emphasized, "any of these options." Running his finger up the pack of the sheet in your hands, he continued, "Didn't I just tell you as much?"

You yanked the paper back, "I was just checking."

He lifted a brow, teasing, "Would you like that? The Culinary Class? Is that something that interests you?"

You consider it a moment. You had seen Nanami in the kitchen, he enjoyed food and preparing meals. And you certainly liked the idea of a hands-on cooking class. Having been kicked from the estate kitchens any time you had wandered into them as a child. The maids would bring you treats every so often but you always wanted to help them.

"I think it's a good option." You smiled. Hoping that would be enough. Hoping he would sway himself one way or the other with words such as 'I would pick that too.' or 'I'm not so interested.'

But of course, he would never say those things. He liked making your life more challenging. So, ever the patient man, he lifted his ankle over to his other knee and shifted to face you completely. "It is. Is that the option you prefer? Or is it just a good option?"

Wasn't calling it so confirmation enough? Even just stating, 'I want this' or 'I like that' felt so unnatural to you. Making a preference known seemed almost exclusionary to your husband. But he did not seem to view it that way.

"Well?" Still smiling, he clinked his empty teacup to the saucer with a look that said 'I can wait you out all day if that's what you'd like.'

You sat up straight and steeled yourself. "It is." You nod, "The option I-I like best."

With a swiftness you had not yet seen from the man, he came close to your face, plucked the pamphlet from you, and hummed. "Very good."

He stood to his full height and reached to put on his watch. "Don't worry about anything else now." He grabbed the teapot and platter to set outside the bedroom door for the stewardess. "I'll work out all the other details."

--

And work out the other details, he did. Nanami did not lie when he told you that the hard part was over. He arranged everything, the transportation, the schedule, and of course, the payment. He even helped you put on your apron when the two of you arrived at your destination.

The kitchen structure was pristine, with a dozen stations lined up in rows. Fresh ingredients were decadently laid out for you on racks that you passed by to enter the kitchen. Gloves and pinafores were set aside at your disposal.

Several people from other groups would be joining the two of you, they included a group of friends on break together, a family of four interested in a cooking lesson, and another couple who were on their ten-year anniversary.

Each member introduced themselves to the chef and everyone began getting to know one another as you all washed your hands. Your husband had taken the liberty to grab a pair of aprons for you both and once you began drying off your hands, he grabbed the trash that the paper towels had left and started to tie the pinafore around your neck.

He could not see his hands at work but he made a conscious effort to not pull your hair, gently tucking the strands into a comfortable knot.

"This isn't too tight, is it?"

You had long since looked away from the man directly before you, his stature made for an intimidating visual and as you stared at your station's sink you swallowed and hummed out, "No, it's alright." He had stepped back and you immediately felt yourself reach up to touch at the simple tie he had left there. "Here," You came forward, "let me get yours."

Nanami laughed, "Not quite." And with the lightest of touches to your wrist, he turned you slightly to the side so he might tie your waist.

It was not an unusual sensation. In fact, you were quite accustomed to being dressed by someone other than yourself, but there was something different about this, something so tender. He patted the small of your back softly before circling to your front and asking for your assistance.

Your heart thumped and you fiddled with the strips of fabric, knotting it loosely at his back. You wondered if this was something you would do for a friend that would result in such a bodily response, and if it was, why did you feel so giddy at the action?

--

The culinary class was intended to take up several hours. You would be preparing a meal together with the instruction of a professional chef. To start, you would make ready your Roti Canai, a popular flatbread dish. And while the dough rested, you would put together your Kari Ayam, a simple chicken curry.

You had been somewhat nervous as the class was getting started, but as everyone went in a circle, introducing themselves, there began to grow a sort of camaraderie within your group. It was easy to converse as you collected your mise en place from the stocked shelves that surrounded the room.

You had just begun the process of combining the ingredients for your unleavened bread when Nanami came around the corner of an inventory shelf with some garlic, shallots, and chilis in hand for your curry. He was laughing at the joke of another man across the kitchen. The man made a pointing motion at Nanami and seemed to be asking for one of the peppers. Nanami tossed it to him with ease.

When he turned to see you, he settled his ingredients on the counter and came around behind you.

You felt so unsure in every aspect of life, even something as simple as breadmaking, but Nanami seemed so well adjusted, he was steady as his hands came around to mimic yours, kneading the dough you had been working on.

"This looks good." he was grinning, you couldn't see his face but you knew anyway. He spoke up suddenly, "Our's will be much better than that man's." He nodded to the gentleman from before and you all laughed. The chef even circled around and praised your sections of dough as they proofed on the counter.

Nanami turned to look at you, a smile on his face as he raised a brow in response to the praise. It was fun.

Nanami insisted on weighing out the ingredients for you and settling each of them in their own bowl. You had tried to tell him that he didn't have to go to the trouble but he simply waved you off.

Eventually, he even began to assemble the spice paste. With the respite between dishes, you felt as though he was pulling more weight than you were. Though it was true he was not clan-born, it was something of an embarrassment that your husband was doing what felt to you as all the work

Sheepish, you tried to pull the bowl from him, "I can do that-" but he kept a finger looped on the side, tugging it back, "there's really no need-" you tried again.

"If you keep saying that, I'll get the impression that you don't like my company very much." He whispered, turning to you now.

He steadied himself a moment before laughing and gently brushing some flour off of your cheekbone. And there was that erratic thumping again.

You laugh at his comment but it wasn't out of discomfort or a desire to change the discussion, no, this was the type of laugh that caused you to feel silly and included. Like you once had during your time in school.

While the dough rested on the counter, and the curry simmered, the chef re-entered the kitchen with a treat. Ais Kacang, or shaved ice was offered to the class in little glass bowls. He encouraged you all to sit and enjoy a break.

You all decided to pull away from the kitchen stations and opted to sit in the foyer of the building. Sitting next to you on the left was the man and wife who were on their anniversary trip. The man was the one whom Nanami had been joking with before. The man's wife bent forward to look over at you,

"So, you're here on your honeymoon?" She asked.

You set the dessert in your lap for a moment and smiled pleasantly, "That's right." Shifting the conversation to her you ask, "And you mentioned before this was your ten-year anniversary?"

The woman's husband swung his arm over her shoulders and kissed her cheek, "Yup! Can hardly believe it." It was clear that he was head over heels for the woman, and even though she huffed in annoyance, anyone could see it was pretend.

His wife pushed his chest back good-naturedly, and laughed, "That must be exciting. I remember hardly being able to wait for my honeymoon."

Your smile never wavered, but you considered how your circumstances were likely very different from her own. Before you could respond, the man reached a hand behind you to your right and tapped Nanami on his shoulder. "So, when did you know?"

Not privy to the conversation at hand, Nanami pulled the spoon from his mouth and made a questioning, "hmm?" sound, looking down at you for direction.

The woman turned to you again, rolling her eyes. "He loves to ask this question," She shifted her neck to glance at him, "I think it's because we both took so long to realize we were in love."

You wanted to ask her for more details but the man was already booping his wife's nose. "Noooo, if I remember correctly, and I always do, it was you who was completely oblivious to my pining." He turns to you and Nanami, shaking a faux-sullen face, "Very sad."

You all laugh and he squared Nanami once more, "So, when was it? When did you know she was the one?"

Your laugh falls short and suddenly you're a bit sick to your stomach. They were so romantic together, so natural. They were real. And there was nothing to even say about your proposal because it had all been manufactured. You were just about to interject something to deter the conversation, a muted, "Oh-" coming out when,

"The moment I met her."

You turn to him, befuddled by the ease with which he spoke. You expected to share a moment with him, a silent embarrassed glace but Nanami just smiled at you, not in a teasing way, he was always so very genuine.

The couple made cute little "aweeeee~~" sounds but you were focused on Nanami.

The thudding resounded evermore and you were grateful when you could stand, brushing off imaginary dust as the chef announced it was time to prepare for the plating.

--

The sun shone brightly into midday as you walked the busy city streets.

"Our first meal together..." Nanami sighed contentedly, looking your way.

You consider him, "That wasn't our first meal together?" you say, squinting up at him. He had pulled you slightly away from the bustling pavement, walking on the curbside of the street now.

"Maybe not..." He looked thoughtful, "But that was the first meal we actually made together."

You think about it, he was right, and although it seemed silly, it had been nice to enjoy something the two of you had made. The sun was bright and you turned away from him to speak, "It was delicious, and now I'll be able to make it once we're back." You had almost said 'home' but the word seemed too familiar, romantic even. What a silly notion.

A hand came up to your face, and you flinched back for a moment only to find that Nanami was simply blocking the sun from your face.

"I had a wonderful time with you. I'll have to make an effort to remember all those ingredients."

As you came closer and closer to the tracks where the station lay, Nanami checked his watch. You had some time left before dinner would be served and you were not all too hungry after such a fulfilling meal.

He suggested shopping, and although there was not a thing you could have asked for, you would never turn down the request of company. Surprisingly enough, Nanami didn't ask you where or what you would like to go, do, or buy. He simply asks, "How about here?" When you come upon a gift shop.

The truth remained, you did not want anything from the decadent stores, you know your husband well enough now to know he would insist upon paying for whatever you glanced at for too long, so you made an effort to look inconspicuous as you followed behind him.

The store had an open front so any passer-by could see within. Colorful spices, intricately crafted clothing, souvenirs and toys, a wide array of postcards, and loads of candy. Nanami was slowly walking past a glass case of jewelry, eyeing what was held inside when the sales lady came to ask what it was the two of you were looking for.

She was boisterous and bubbly. Such a vibrant energy came from her as she excitedly greeted you both.

Upon her arrival, it was as if a switch flipped on in your brain. You couldn't help yourself from straightening your posture and smiling back at her. Throughout the interaction you tried your best to match her personality, your body language became more open and you attempted to respond reactively to her sales pitch.

You felt slightly embarrassed by the volume of your own voice as you replied to her questions. Even your laugh was different, leaving artificial pauses so she could point out other items in her shop.

After having you smell her array of perfumes, you could tell she liked you. It eased any shame you felt about your sudden extroversion. You had succeeded, you might have even made her day with how well you matched her in the interaction.

Through all of this, Nanami watched. Every so often he would include an anecdote about your trip or the item in the owner's hands. But his eyes rarely strayed from you. He was analyzing you in a way you weren't aware of, too focused on pleasing the women.

Pleasure simmered in your chest at how pleased you seemed to make the woman.

--

Though you had come into the shop without the intention to purchase anything, you found yourself trailing beside Nanami as he carried a bag full of local confections.

At some point in the gift shop, Nanami had to check his watch and announce that you two would need to head back to the train for dinner soon.

Once the afternoon air hit your face, you felt yourself relax some.

The man at your side spoke up, "I can't believe I can watch you do it." He reached into the bag and handed you a candy that the lady had spent some time explaining to you both.

She had put an entire handful of the chews into your hands, the outside had a cute white rabbit on the packaging and she insisted you must eat the candy whole. Wrapper and all.

You let Nanami drop the sweet into your palm and give it a try. "Do what?" You warble over the milk candy.

Nanami chuckles at your voice, "That thing! You know, turn yourself off and on."

You stop chewing for a moment, catching his eye, your pace even halted slightly, the station was within sight. Your eyebrows stitch together, "What do you mean?" A hand comes up to cover your mouth and you try to swallow down what you had been eating.

"You completely changed yourself just now, I watched you do it." He reached into the bag and fished out a treat for himself.

"I... didn't change myself..." You mumble, shocked he had said a word about it. "She seemed happy, I don't think there's anything wrong with that." You try and think back, attempting to recall a moment when someone else had noticed your behaviors.

It had become so natural to you, you had no idea it was visible to others.

"But it's not you." And Nanami calls your name, "You morph yourself into something else in nearly every interaction with others."

You try and wave his accusation off, marching onward to the train, "There's nothing wrong with wanting her to like me."

But he stops suddenly on the pavement, "Are you doing it to me as well?" He squints at you then, and he doesn't look pleased, "Are you turning yourself into what I want? Are you making yourself into something you're not just to please me?"

You pause for a moment, you even give it some thought, but the issue was that you knew that couldn't be the case. You had tried, but you just couldn't figure him out.

"How could I? I never know what you want."

--

Nanami seemed happy to know you couldn't pinpoint what he liked to hear. Which was altogether peevish. Looking so accomplished as your misfortune.

When the two of you made it back to the train, the sun was almost beginning to set as you started on your way to the suite. Your shoulders gently rubbed against one another while walking to the room in the narrow halls.

In good humor, Nanami leaned into your side, tilting into you jovially. You looked up at him in mock offense, leaning harder into him. He seemed to find it very funny.

When you made it back into the room, you watched as he pulled out a button-up and some slacks from his duffel. You sat on the desk and plucked a candy from the bag there.

"I can change in here," He nods to you, "You're free to use the bathroom."

You straighten up, "Oh, I thought you would want to use the shower." He had mentioned cleaning up before dinner.

"Oh, please, ladies first." He draws up the chair at your side, reaching into your shared bag for a piece of gum.

"No, no, seriously, I can wait." You toss your hands in the direction of the bathroom, fawning him in that direction.

He says nothing, only grins.

"Nanami." You groan.

"Ah, I see." He rises, "I must stink." Nodding, he walks in the direction away from you, "You must think I smell bad, alright then, I'll be on my way."

That was most certainly not what you meant and he knew it. You knew he knew it. He only ever smelled pleasant but you still scampered after him, distressed, "No! No, no, no, that isn't it."

"Really?" He whips around and stops you short, tilts his head down to look at you, "good, then you go first."

Huffing, annoyed, you snatch the dress you had laid out from your bed's banister.

Just as you're about to close the door, you hear him call out to you, "And take all the time you like!"

--

After dinner that night, the two of you practically raced back to the room to dress in pajamas. Halfway through the meal, the train had departed from the Kuala Lumpur station and started its journey to the next location.

Despite the grandeur of the whole trip, you felt, now far from home, that you could relax. Nanami was nothing but a poor influence as he called for sparkling juice and more sweets. You both thought about going to the observation car, but decided to say in your room.

You tucked your feet into the blanket of your bed and laid your back against the wall.

Since early morning, you had decided you would try and get to know your husband on this trip. Though you had been thinking of him as a friend, you knew deep down, that was a bit of a shallow assumption.

Neither of you knew hardly anything about the other. At one point, you had thought him a bit of a daydreaming, irresponsible, fool. But that had been years ago now, when you both were barely adults. And despite his words about sorcery, you knew that he was anything but irresponsible.

Eventually, your late-night snacks arrived at your room and your husband set them on the nightstand between your mattresses.

You almost wanted to speak up, 'Tell me about yourself' but that seemed too informal, too odd to say to your spouse. On the other hand, you were presently dressed in your jammies, tucked into a duvet on a twin bed, a day into your honeymoon with the man. Informal was just about as accurate as it could get.

Just as you were about to suggest a game you had learned in your first year at the Kyoto school, Nanami beat you to it.

"You know, I've been thinking about it." He hands you a glass of something clearly non-alcoholic, held within an entirely too fancy glass for the occasion.

"Mmm?" You look up at him, hoping he would proceed as he lowered himself into his bed.

"I think you ought to call me by my first name." He tilts his glass at you, and continues, "It might be a little odd for my wife to be calling to me in such a way."

You hadn't even noticed, in fact, you felt a pang of sadness at the struggle it even was to recall your partner's given title. You push that aside and sip the carbonated juice. "Maybe I'm just happy to share the name." You tease.

It was clear he hadn't been expecting that as your response. His mouth twitches as he tries to concoct a reply and his ears grow a subtle pink. "Well, Mrs. Nanami, I can't help but find it strange that you don't call me Kento."

You smile, "Kento." You try it out, it feels right, it suits him.

He says your name and after a brief pause, you both laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Kento," You begin again and he gives you a soft, "hmm?" Before you continue.

"How did you feel about getting married?"

It was a question you had been wanting to ask, and also something you never thought you would. Had you married a normal man, it would have never crossed your lips. This whole arrangement was not uncommon among clan families, you had been presented with the names of many young boys for as long as you could remember, but you knew this setting was unusual, even to many other sorcerers.

This matrimony was proving to be an experience that granted you more peace and enjoyment than half the things you had been taught to enjoy. You couldn't help the awareness that Nanami was likely not feeling the same, however.

From your previous discussions, you knew that Kento had lived a more full life than you could imagine. Having even left sorcery at one point. Did he feel chained down now? Did he feel as though he lost freedom in the same way that you had gained it? Did he feel pressured, forced even? Would he even tell you if he did?

"I always wanted to be married." He took a moment to respond, almost looking ashamed at his reply. His eyes followed the corner of the room to its inevitable end at the ceiling.

"Did you?" Your interest is certainly piqued. At Kyoto, you had heard the groans of boys and men alike at the prospect of marriage, of having to settle down and continue the bloodline.

Kento did not stutter, though, looking almost surprised at your interest, "Of course..." He considers your tone, "I suppose, for you, marriage was viewed differently." He frowns now and sets his glass down to give you his full attention. "Were you frightened?"

You want to dissuade his concern and laugh it off, attempting to explain. "Oh, no, no, it was something I had been prepared for for quite some time...it was... perfectly normal for me." You smile at your hands but he doesn't join you.

In fact, he sighs, never taking his eyes from you, the train hummed along the tracks and you both watched each other from parallel sides of the car.

“Normal doesn’t mean good or moral. Normal means normal.”

Your gaze remained on your hands encircling the stem of your glass. That, you knew to be true, indeed.

You saw the look in his eye and attempted to shift the conversation,

"You didn't know anything about me or my clan when we first met, right?" You knew the higher-ups had explained the basics to him, but it was clear that much of your family tradition would come across as foreign to him. "If that is the case, how is it that you... know me so well?" The words don't come out right.

He seemed confused at your claim, it wasn't until you continued, explaining that he must 'read people' well that he mused. Thought about it for a moment, and finally looked back to you "I'm not sure." He shrugged, "But there is something about you, I can see it, you know. And I'm not sure how nobody else seems to see it either."

That was not the response you had looked for. You had thought that maybe it had to do with his technique, or maybe he had studied behavior in his past, or maybe he was innately interested in the actions of others.

Nobody before had noticed you cater yourself, and yet after only a week or so, he could spy out exactly where you frantically tried to blend yourself in.

"You tirelessly analyze people, me included. You try and... I don't know, dig up who they are, what they want," He shakes his head, "what they want from you." He grabs his glass again but you are honed in on his words, "Then, you mold yourself into something that will fit them."

He turns to face you now and the train rattles slightly, "I've barley known you a handful of days but I've seen you do it. I've seen you play half a dozen roles for different people, for different circumstances. And honestly, I don't know who you are. And you're my wife. Isn't that crazy?"

He seemed to want to make light of this deduction of the very nature of your being, so you try and allow it. "If it makes you feel better," you intone, "you're my husband and I have no idea what you want me to be."

He narrows his brows and even though you can tell that's his 'upset' face, you can't help but appreciate just how handsome the man is.

He speaks your name slowly as if troubled that was what you drew from his words.

"Not everybody wants you to be someone else."

--

You had spent the night talking amongst each other, no high-school game necessary. You asked him about his family and his childhood, and he, in turn, asked about yours. The conversation flowed smoothly and it was well into the night before the two of you realized you probably ought to be getting some sleep.

And this time, when you drifted off, you were not taken by surprise at the ease in rest's arrival.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

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[darklcy]

𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐭.

────˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚─────

‣ vi x reader | arcane masterlist | 1.9k words | enemies to lovers, angst, not super fluffy but happy end, mentions of low self esteem

‣ you assumed she hated you, but maybe it goes deeper than that when a fight has you taking shelter in her childhood home

‣ welcome back vi lovers! the arcane s2 brainrot is here and im back from my hiatus! (i hope you enjoy i may be rough i haven't written in a while)

Vi was too reckless for her own good.

Self-sabotaging can only carry you through so much, her invisible trophy wall of each violent encounter growing by the day. It was frustrating to see her do this, and yet every time a splotch of bruises formed, or a new line of blood dirtied her cheek, the more her perseverance began to crack. 

The pressure was abundant on her shoulders, you could practically feel it yourself. Whether she pulled you in, or you jumped yourself, the burden was also yours to carry. 

Sometimes you wondered if she disliked you. A simple question of well-being, how are you, earned a chilling glare and passive aggressive comments she meticulously crafted to falter your ego. Maybe she thought you were too weak to understand her pain, or perhaps it was the way your concern pushed through whatever bite she spat at you. 

Or maybe she just didn’t like you.

A bit ironic, seeing her sustainable relationship with the Enforcer from topside, the last person you would’ve thought her to be acquaintances with. And if you observed closer, Vi seemed to carry herself differently around her, this Caitlyn from Piltover. 

Though, there was credit to give. Her marksmanship was unlike anyone you’d ever seen in the lanes. She was light on her feet and agile, shooting her targets with perfect precision. No wonder she bore a badge proudly. 

And you were anything but a fighter. Maybe that’s why Vi looks at you the way she does. She’d marked you as a liability, vulnerable to the dangers of the world. It upset you, the way her nose scrunched up with her glares and cold shoulders. 

Who was she to judge you anyway? Every time you choose violence, you come out broken and bloody, so what’s the point? Whatever. Screw her and her opinions. Who the fuck needs her anyway. 

If only you’d fucked off when she told you to. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in this mess. Here. In the ruins of Vi’s childhood home, with a bloody nose and bruised cheek. With Vi. Damn your determination to prove her wrong. Damn those thugs for surrounding her completely, for not giving her a second to get back up. There was no stopping what was to come, that was clear the moment your bags were strewn hastily to the ground and shouts were thrown at her perpetrators. A sock to the face immediately took to the ground. The punk wouldn’t stop pounding hits to your face. Damn you, Vi.

Your pain wasn’t for nothing when Vi dragged herself up and freed you from his grip, knocking his ass to the concrete with a bloodied lip. Your vision was blurry as she took off running with her fingers tight around your wrist. When you stopped to breathe is when you realized your surroundings, confirmed with a stone marked with the names Power and Violet. 

The neon sign that previously towered over this ghost town had been toppled over and destroyed; half the foundations of the house torn to dust. The sight made you frown. The only remaining wall was to your left, sheltering a twin sized bed mattress with a tattered sheet on top. A groan to your side beckoned you to look over, watching as she shuffled to the mattress. In the distance, you could make out the faint echoes of yelling, the vast cliffs muffling the words together into a vague holler. 

“It’s probably best to sleep here. They’re not gonna leave anytime soon.”

Vi grumbled, not missing the hint of annoyance coming from her. She was laying on her side now, back to you and arms circling her stomach. You didn’t respond, instead trudging over to the bed and stiffly laying down beside her, back slightly grazing hers.

Neither of you spoke a word. 

It was hard to tell what she was feeling. She never was one to vocalize her thoughts, especially with you. With Caitlyn, maybe.

“...I didn’t need your help.”

Your shoulders tensed up. 

“I had control of everything. You just messed it all up.”

The fabric of the thin sheets acted as a stress reliever as you gripped tighter and tighter.

“...What the hell was I supposed to do? Seriously,”

“Not interfere? Now we’re stuck here.”

Today was not the day to be dealing with her attitude. You were sore, bloody, and in the worst mood possible to be treated like this. It didn’t help that her words stung, the bitterness stabbing into your open wounds.

“Well, maybe don’t pick fights with a group of guys who are clearly bigger and stronger than you.”

She snapped her body up and looked down on you.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You rolled over to your back, glaring up at her.

“They were clearly stronger than you! If I hadn’t shown up who knows what the fuck they would’ve done?”

“Oh yeah? And what good did you do? Take a few swings to the face?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up to be eye level.

“I mean, yeah?! If I hadn’t taken those punches, you would still be on that damn street!”

Vi mockingly put a hand over her heart. “My hero.”

“Fuck off.” You moved to shove her in the shoulder, but her hand snapped around your wrist. Her glare intensified, eyes turning sharp and nose scrunching up. All your anger drowned in a pool of nerves while her fingers tightened, the skin of your hand turning red. She leaned in uncomfortably close.

“You really wanna go there?”

Her eyes bore into yours, not faltering eye contact for even a second. 

You could feel the tension in your neck beginning to ache. You would never win against her, but the thought was intoxicating. After a few quiet seconds, you yanked your wrist back, her fingers marking red indents into your skin. 

She scoffed, nodding her head while moving away from you. “That’s what I thought.”

You wanted to beat her. You wanted to win, just once. 

“What the fuck is your problem anyway.”

Her sharp eyes flickered to yours. It intimidated you every time, like she was the big bad bully in school, teeth grazing her lips as she fought back the retaliation.

You pushed through. “...All I’ve ever done was just try to help. Yet here you are, always pissed at me for no damn reason. What have I done to make you hate me so fucking much?”

Her eyebrows pinched together for a breath of a second. “...Huh?”

You threw your arms up, shuffling forward and standing from the cushion. 

“Every single day, you treat me like I’m some helpless child, like I’m a fucking idiot who can’t do anything. I’m an adult, Vi. Just because I can’t fight doesn’t mean I can’t do anything, for fucks sake.”

She watched you pace throughout the empty house, her eyes heavy as lead. You huff.

“It’s like, every time I try to do anything, you look at me like I’m some stupid child who keeps messing up. I’m tired of it. Either tell me straight up or leave me alone.”

Your spine met stone as you slid down to the floor, her carved name above your head. 

Pulling your knees up, your chin fell to your chest, arms dangling across your kneecaps to finally give your body some rest. Didn’t feel like a victory, but the weight of her burden dissipated just by a little. You’d never snapped back before, never given yourself the strength to stand up to her. Enough was enough. You can’t live like this anymore.

Vi remained quiet, whether she was debating on arguing or not, you didn’t care. The fight of sleep was winning, and your eyelids began to slowly surrender.

“...I wasn’t going to do anything, yknow.”

They snapped back open.

“Earlier, I mean. I wasn’t actually gonna hurt you.”

You don’t move to face her. Vi continues.

“I don’t hate you, you just,” She sighs. “You do things that confuse the fuck out of me, and frankly it pisses me off.”

You scoff. “Like what?” 

“Like jumping into that fight. That was a dumbass move, and you know it.”

“Oh my god. How is that a dumbass move- I helped you out, didn’t I? Besides, I put myself there, why are you the one pissed off? I should be pissed off.”

“Yes. Yes, you should!” She stands up from the mattress to tower over you, her voice beginning to raise.

“You should be pissed off, because you got socked in the face and now, you’re stuck here. Why did you do that? That was so stupid.”

A pinch pulled your brows together. “Obviously I know what happened, I’m literally here. What point are you trying to get at?”

Vi shakes her head and runs a hand through her spiked, greasy hair. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe how dense you are.”

You watch as she saunters over to the same name engraved stone to slide down the rock, her knees knocking with yours. She’s silent for a moment as you stare at her profile, the hint of a smirk coming up her lips.

“It’s stupid of you to concern yourself with me. It’s my problem, not yours.”

You still didn’t get it.

“But why does that piss you off?”

She turns towards you now.

“I know what I’m capable of. I know what I’m getting into. You don’t. You walked into a fight that wasn’t yours to begin with, and in return, you got hurt.”

“So…you’re mad that I got punched in the face?”

A groan leaves her falling chin. 

“I’m mad that you were there to begin with. I’m mad that you got hurt on my behalf, and I’m mad that you’re dragged into this mess. It’s my shit to deal with.”

She pauses to take a deep inhale. “And…I took my frustration out on you, and I’m sorry.”

The tensed muscles of anger faded from her apology, her eyes carrying a softness you’d never seen before. She was being genuine. Open. Vulnerable. 

You sighed with her. 

“Thank you.” 

The quiet that fell over you two now was pleasant. It was nice seeing Vi like this, being used to her thirst for arguing. Your head leaned back against the rock as you let your eyelids close once more. 

“How bad is it?”

Her fingers touch you softly before you peer up at her. She gazes at the blood smeared under your nose with a grimace, her pointer finger stroking the welt on your cheek. 

“It’s fine. Could be worse.”

She shakes her head. “...It’s my fault you got hurt.” 

You scoffed. “It’s completely mine. I’m the dumbass who jumped into a fight that wasn’t mine, remember?”

You smile at her despite the twang in your jaw. Her hand falls back to her side.

“My hero.”

Her lips upturned, the scar on her upper lip flashing itself at you. You don’t miss the way she falters for a moment, relishing the close proximity her face is to yours. Her fingers twitch by her thighs to touch your cheek again, but instead she smacks a hand on top of your head, gently ruffling your hair. 

She stands up to make way back to the bed. “Come to bed. You need rest, too.”

You haven’t moved just yet, the whirlwind of her processing slowly in your brain. Your skin felt hot under your cheeks, but as you shakily stood up to join her, you found the burden of her turning into something else. 

Vi was different, now. Good different. You liked this different. Laying down beside her on the mattress, you don’t turn away from her.

[amoeganism]

DON'T LIE, I'M PERFECT AND YOU LOVE ME luka

Luka really wants to take a nap after a long day of being exploited and being a pain in the ass to every human around him, but your priorities (pissing him off) come first!

WC: ~600

Your boyfriend, visibly exhausted, miserably slumps his upper body onto his bed and his knees collapse. Bundled under mounds of thick blankets, you reach an arm out to ruffle Luka’s blond hair, brushing through his wavy locks and petting his head like a dog. You snicker at the sight of his face contorting after realizing what you’re doing, lazily swiping your hand away and grunting before coughing into his arm. 

It takes you a few moments to inch over to where Luka lays. You didn’t want to sacrifice the comfort of being suffocated and melting into your bed until you’re a pile of sweat and nasty mulch. His eyes slowly flutter shut and his breathing slows but the uncomfortable position he’s in acts as a barrier between him and falling into a deep sleep. However, it takes too much energy to try to pull Luka fully onto the mattress, but what doesn’t take much energy is disrupting the rest he needs. You aren’t planning on getting the title of “Number One Lover of a Superstar” and you hadn’t seen him the entire day since you both had woken up; you deserve this, you reason to yourself. 

Under your fingertips, you switch between prodding and poking his pale cheeks until they warm and bloom into a faint pink. Luka tries his best to make you stop, puffing his cheeks and intertwining your fingers together but you retaliate by grabbing his face and watching him deflate. It gives you a slight ego boost when he gives up and chooses to throw his lanky limbs over you, adding his heavy bodyweight over the mass of your blankets.

“How was your day of terrorizing the music industry?” you ask, immediately returning to pinching his cheeks. 

“I don’t need to terrorize anyone. Everyone already knows that I’m a fan favorite.”

“Yeah because I totally hallucinated you having at least ten different tabs about Mizi and you weren’t writing in a notebook titled ‘Evil and Devious Masterplan’. You’re embarrassing when you beef with people eight years younger than you.”

“God forbid a man has hobbies.”

“Yeah I really hate it. Stick to singing and looking cute. Only I deserve to see your evil. It makes me feel special when you aren’t exposing yourself to everyone.”

“You make it sound like I’m flashing the public.”

“You pretty much are. Your dick and bad personality are the same thing.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Luka whines in which you stick your tongue out at him in response. “I’m an innocent man who can do nothing bad. Ever. And here I am, being mistreated by the one who is supposed to love me until and beyond death. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry Luka,” you press a kiss to his sore, red cheek, letting your lips linger on his skin before hugging him tighter. At the same time, you ignore the fact that he is a thirty year old man throwing a minor tantrum over you having fun being insufferable the same way he does on a daily basis. “Anyways, can I bite your face? I have a really bad urge to do that right now. Actually, I don’t need your permission.”

“Hey! I have a show tomorrow, you know? My fans are going to be disappointed if I appear with teeth marks on my face. What will the public think—ow!”

“Hehe, you’re so cute like this.”

“At least bite the other side to even it out,” Luka sighs and turns his head. 

“I knew you loved me.”

[chuusmuts]

imagine innocent!kabukimono losing his mind

smut. afab reader, fingering, slight boobs and nipple play, oral (female receiving), marking, fingering. not proofread.

yeah, it's been a while ig... anyway, new ver of innocent kabukimono because why not (can't really call him innocent now but idk and tbh idc).

who would've thought that the day when he had to rate your dress would come? oftentimes, you would wear a casual outfit everyday, even to gatherings. but this, this was different– you were meeting your girl friends which you hadn't seen in years. so obviously, you wanted to look as pretty as you could.

therefore, here he was, seated on your bed as he watched you picked all kind of dresses from your wardrobe before throwing them beside him. he could feel his cheeks heating up at seeing you in just a towel as he tried his hardest to play it off as if he wasn't affected by your presence. but the fact that his dick was tenting his kimono was a dead giveaway.

"oh... uhm..." he fumbled over his words as blush dusted his cheeks and ears. "i- i can help you with that." he stuttered out, shifting uncomfortably on the soft mattress. his gaze flickered between the dresses laid out and your exposed skin, torn between choosing one and admiring you. his heart rate quickened as you took a step closer to him, choosing a few dresses.

"but i- it might be better if you picked something yourself." he suggested timidly, his voice barely above a whisper. he couldn't bear the thought of seeing you uncomfortable because of him. you put your index finger against your chin, indicating you're thinking before speaking up while holding up two elegant dresses, "then, i'll try both of these dresses and you tell me which one is prettier, okay?" without waiting for his response, you ran into the bathroom and changed into one of the dresses you chose.

minutes later, kabukimono watched with wide-eyed as you emerged from the bathroom wearing a short, black dress. It clung to every curve of your body, leaving little to his imagination. his breath hitched in his throat, and his mouth immediately went dry. "what do you think? mind rating from one to ten?" you spun around, a happy smile plastered on your cute face. the way your hips tilted gave a glimpse of ass crack showing just how short your dress was.

his eyes trailed down your body, taking in the way the fabric hugged your hips and accentuated your ass. he swallowed hard as unholy thoughts started to filled his mind. this was too much for him, and yet he couldn't tear his gaze away. subconsciously, his gaze dropped lower to where the hem of the dress rode up slightly to reveal a hint of your crack, causing the urge to touch you and to feel your soft skin under his fingers was mind-blowing."t- ten. i-it's... it's really pretty..." he murmured, shakily.

your smile grew even wider after hearing his response. you grabbed another dress excitedly and quickly ran to the bathroom. "i'll try this one next. don't go anywhere!" you said while you did so. he nodded jerkily, his eyes glued to your retreating form. he tried to look away, but he found himself unable to resist watching as you disappeared behind the bathroom door. this was definitely strange— he was just a puppet, a failed, innocent puppet who was thrown away and was exposed to this cruel world. this wasn't supposed to happen, but he couldn't help it as the image of your fresh ass crack flashed in his mind, making his dick throb even harder.

he groaned softly, rubbing his free hand over his throbbing member through the fabric of his kimono. it was becoming more and more obvious that he was getting turned on by this whole situation. he waited impatiently, shifting from foot to foot as he tried to ignore the ache in his groin. he knew that he shouldn't be touching himself like this, but he couldn't seem to stop. just the thought of you coming back out in that other dress was driving him wild.

though, as soon as he heard the creaking of the door, he immediately removed his hand from his member and tried to act normal. it's amazing how you're so oblivious to his abnormal breathing and the way he's sweating and blushing so much. nevertheless, you stepped out of the bathroom shyly with a blush coating cheeks, "w- what do you think about this one?" you looked breathtaking in the new dress– a pastel pink number that clung to your curves even tighter than the previous one.

kabukimono's eyes widened as you stood in front of him. the low neckline revealed more of your cleavage was mouthwatering, and the off-the-shoulder design left your shoulders bare, accentuating your slender neck. he loved the way the dress fell just above your ankles, creating a sense of elegance and grace.

"fuck." he cursed to himself. "it's..." he paused, struggling to find the right word. his gaze kept darting between your face and your breasts that were practically spilling out from the dress, lost in the beautiful sight of you. "...breathtaking." the word slipped out before he could censor himself. without realizing it, he took a step towards you, his eyes filled with desire. his tongue swiped over his lips as he fought the urge to reach out and touch you.

the blush on your cheeks darkened and you instantly turned shy. you didn't know what got into you but your smaller fingers swiftly reached out to him, holding his hand gently and pulling him closer, "do you want to touch my dress, kabuki?"

and the next moment you knew, you were pinned by him.

it was quick when he pushed you against the bed, his weight was pressed into yours, on top of yours. he found himself breathing heavily as if he didn't know how to breathe at the first place. his hands were beside your head, trapping you and suddenly he didn't understand why he needed to wear clothes anymore, why YOU needed to wear that gorgeous dress anymore. it was as if his sanity had left him, the desire to touch you, to fuck you getting stronger and overwhelming him.

he was desperate, desperate for you.

"...kabukimono?" you asked confusingly, your hands crawling up to caress his cheek and your thumb brushing against his lips which caused his breath to hitch and his eyes fluttered shut. the sensation of your thumb brushing against his lips was almost too much, sending shivers shooting through his veins and making you irresistible.

he opened his eyes again, looking down at you with a mix of desperation and longing. his hands tightened around yours, pulling them away from his face and bringing them down to rest on your waist. "i... i can't help it." he whispered, his voice husky with arousal.

his hips grounded against yours, the hardness of his cock pressing insistently against the thin fabric of your dress and he bit his lower lip, stiffling the moan he accidentally let out. "you're so fucking sexy." he breathed out, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

your eyes dilated slightly before the corner of your mouth curved upward into a soft smile. then carefully, and without a word, you lifted up his head and pulled it back down until both of your lips met. it was slow, sensual and soft kiss, one that he'd never expect from you.

but he groaned into your lips, urging you to go faster and kept up with him. he drank your lips in a quick and careless way without any thought about the future as you tried your best to keep up with his intense speed. a moan escaped your lips and your eyes were closed as his hand found itself on your nape.

kabukimono's world narrowed down to the feeling of your lips against his own. he kissed you fiercely, hungrily, as if he was starved for the taste of you while his hand on your nape tightened, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. the other hand slid up from your collarbone to you shoulder before slipping beneath the hem of your dress.

his fingers danced across your skin, teasing over the swell of your breast before cupping its softness. he squeezed them gently, massaging the firm mound as he continued to ravage your mouth with his, causing soft moans continued spilling from your delicious lips. a soft growl rumbled in his throat, vibrating against your lips. in that moment, kabukimono was consumed by need, he wanted nothing more than to tear away the layers of fabric separating their bodies and claim you completely.

and he did just that.

unwittingly, you whined loudly as he ripped off your dress and left you naked. arching your back, you felt his tongue licking the tip of your nipple. "fuck..." he growled against your tits as he sucked them eagerly. he tasted of sweat and need, and it was driving you crazy. your body trembled under his, but instead of pushing him away, your legs parted subtly, inviting him to move lower.

he leaned forward once more, kissing and sucking all over your skin until red and purple marks were all over you. each nip and lick sent shivers running down your spine, until you could feel yourself growing wetter beneath your dress.

kabukimono's attention was solely focused on your body, on every inch of skin he could see and touch. he lavished attention on each breast, suckling and nibbling until they were flushed and throbbing. his hands roamed over your curves, squeezing and kneading the flesh as if trying to imprint his touch onto your skin.

as he moved further south, his kisses trailed along your stomach before reaching the apex of your thighs. he glanced up at you, his indigo eyes burning with lust as he saw the slick evidence of your arousal. without hesitation, he inhaled your scent deeply before burying his face between your legs.

his hands firmly spread your thighs wide, giving him full access to feast upon your dripping cunt, exposing your clit to his eager mouth. a lewd soud keened from your throat as he dipped his tongue into your folds, tasting the sweet essence of your arousal. a guttural moan vibrated against your clit as he licked and lapped at your pussy. he was relentless as his mouth worshipped every inch of inside your walls, making your breath hitched endlessly and your hips bucked involuntarily every time he let out a loud slurping sound.

feeling your body react to his ministrations especially your hands which were gripping and pulling on his hair tightly only spurred him on further. his tongue delved deeper into your warmth, lapping at the sensitive walls of your pussy. his hands held you steady, one gripping your hip tightly while the other wandered upwards to tease your hardened nipple. he sucked hard on the little nubbin, using his teeth to give a slight pinch before returning to your needy slit.

kabukimono was lost in the taste of you, in the way your body quivered and squirmed beneath his touch. it was intoxicating, driving him wild with desire.

the previous hand had slipped between your legs and he slipped two fingers into your wetness. he curled them, seeking out that sensitive spot inside you that would make you scream. his thumb circled your swollen clit, making sure to apply pressure that had jolts of electricity coursing through your body and you writhing beneath him.y

he pumped his fingers slowly, setting a rhythm that made your toes curl. every thrust was accompanied by another slurping or a sharp nip of his teeth teeth on your clit. tears gathered at the corner of your eyes and perspiration began to run down your forehead as you pulled his hair harder due to the dual assault on your sex.

kabukimono worked his fingers and mouth in perfect harmony, intent on drawing out your pleasure until you were a trembling mess beneath him. his tongue flicked over your clit, alternating between gentle licks and rough sucks.

the sounds of your moans and whimpers as well as his filled the air. once more he curled them, finding that sweet spot that made you gasp and arch your back. with his free hand, he reached up to stroke himself through the thin fabric of his kimono. the friction was deliciously torturous, adding another layer of sensation to the already overwhelming experience. he grunted softly and his movements becoming more erratic as he neared his own edge. he felt like he could cum just by eating you out and hearing your whimpers.

with every stroke, he felt you tighten around his fingers, your body ready to explode under his relentless onslaught. yet, he quickly stopped before you could cum, pulling out his mouth as well as his fingers from your drooling cunt, making you whined needily. chuckling breathlessly, he licked your slick off his fingers before slipping off his kimono, revealing his hard length and pushing it entirely into you.

and instead of letting you cry out, he pressed his lips against yours, silencing you as he jerked into you. your walls immediately clenched around him, signaling that you were close to cumming. kabukimono broke the kiss momentarily, panting heavily as he thrust into you. his cock was thick and hard, stretching you deliciously while he began to move. he grabbed your ass firmly, angling his hips so that he could hit that sweet spot inside you.

his thrusts became more urgent, more fast and hard. with each push he grunted, his voice a low rumble against your skin. you could feel his pulse quickening and his strokes becoming erratic. his lips found yours again, muffling your cries of pleasure. though, there was no hiding the way your body shook underneath him as well as how your inner muscles clenched around him as you teetered on the brink of release.

you yelped in pleasure as he continued to abuse your hole. once more, he pulled out his entire length and slammed it back into you, succesfully making you saw stars as you came with a loud mewl. you breathed heavily, head still dizzy from the pleasure.

he didn't gave you a chance to rest as he relentlessly pounded into you until he could hold back no longer. but before he reached his climax, you could hear him sobbing quietly. "fuck, you feel so good, i don't want this to end..." and he released his seed, filling you up with a cry just as loud as yours.

kabukimono was shaking, his body tensing as he spilled his seed deep inside you, as tears streamed down his cheeks. he slowed down his pace, his thrusts more gentler now as he rode out his orgasm all while his cock twitched inside your clenching walls.

he collapsed on top of you, breathing heavily. his sobs were quiet, barely audible above the sound of your racing heartbeat. his body trembled slightly just as he came down from his high and his grip on your thigh loosening. despite everything, there was something undeniably comforting about being close to you. resting his forehead against yours, he took a moment to catch his breath before lifting himself off of you. but even as he did, he couldn't help but pull you closer, craving and needing the contact.

and now you're in his arms as he planted feather-light kisses all over you, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your hands, your arms and your neck as he murmured. "i'm sorry, i apologize deeply, i didn't know what came into me. that must had hurt."

you stared at him dumbfounded, eyes still glassy, speechless as he grabbed the back of your hands and kissed them, including each one of your knuckles. a soft smile then appeared on your face before you placed your hand on his hair, caressing it gently. "don't worry about me, i'm fine. how about you? you should worry about yourself too."

kabukimono looked up at you, his indigo eyes shimmering with unshed tears. he let out a shaky sigh, leaning into your touch. "i'm alright... i think," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. his hands moved to cup your face, thumbs brushing away the remaining tears.

he leaned forward, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your lips. there was nothing forceful or demanding about it; instead, it was slow and gentle, almost reverential. it wasn't often that kabukimono allowed himself such moments of vulnerability, but with you, he seemed unable to resist. he needed you, craved your touch, your affection. and right now, in this moment, he felt truly content.

in the end, you had to wait for him to sleep before getting up and getting ready again for the gathering. the event almost came to an end when you arrived there.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

five steps back

kim mingyu x reader || 6k words

The apartment feels too big now, even though it’s the same cramped two-bedroom they’d shared for the past three years. She sits on the edge of their bed—her bed now—staring at the indent on the other side of the mattress where Mingyu used to sleep. His pillow still smells faintly of his cologne, that woody scent that used to make her feel safe when she’d bury her face in his neck during lazy Sunday mornings.

Five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days of shared breakfasts, inside jokes, fights that ended in tearful apologies, and dreams built together like a house of cards that finally collapsed under the weight of reality.

She picks up her phone, thumb hovering over his contact. Kim Mingyu. The photo is from last summer—him at the beach, sandy hair catching the golden hour light, that brilliant smile that could make her forget every worry in the world. His laugh lines are prominent in the picture, the same ones she used to trace with her fingertips when he’d fall asleep first, sprawled across the bed like he owned it, arms reaching for her even in unconsciousness.

The cursor blinks next to his name. She’s typed and deleted twelve different messages in the past week. How are you? Too casual. I miss you. Too desperate. Can we talk? Too hopeful.

Instead, she sets the phone aside and walks to the kitchen, where the coffee maker still has settings for two cups. Mingyu always complained that she made it too weak, but he’d drink it anyway, adding extra sugar and giving her that fond, exasperated look that said you’re lucky I love you without words.

The silence in the apartment is deafening. No more of his off-key humming while he cooked, no more random dance breaks in the living room when his favorite songs came on, no more gentle teasing about her habit of leaving books open on every surface. The quiet stretches and warps until it feels like a living thing, pressing against her chest.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu stares at the ceiling of his new studio apartment, counting the cracks in the paint. Sixteen. He’d started counting them three weeks ago when he moved in, the same day the movers came to split their life into neat, labeled boxes. His things. Her things. The painful negotiations over shared purchases—who gets the coffee table they’d spent hours assembling together, cursing at the incomprehensible instructions while she held the pieces steady and he struggled with the screws?

He’d let her keep most of it. Not out of generosity, but because looking at those objects felt like staring directly into the sun. Every lamp, every throw pillow, every picture frame held too many memories, and he was already drowning in them.

His phone buzzes against his chest. For a split second, his heart races with the impossible hope that it’s her, but it’s just his group chat with the boys. Seungcheol asking if he wants to grab drinks, Soonyoung sending random memes, the usual chaos that used to make him smile. Now it feels distant, like watching life through frosted glass.

He scrolls up through months of messages, finding the ones where he’d complained about being busy with her, canceling plans because she needed him, choosing quiet nights in over loud nights out. The guys had teased him mercilessly about being whipped, and he’d taken it with good humor because it was true. He was completely, utterly gone for her, and everyone knew it.

“You’re different when you’re with her,” Jeonghan had told him once, and Mingyu had taken it as a compliment. He was softer with her, more thoughtful, more careful with his words. She’d taught him patience without trying, shown him that love could be gentle instead of the chaotic whirlwind he’d always imagined.

Now he wonders if different meant losing himself entirely.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

The grocery store is a minefield of memories. She stands in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand Mingyu always bought—some sugary monstrosity that she’d constantly nagged him about. “You’re going to get diabetes,” she’d say, and he’d grin and add it to the cart anyway, sometimes grabbing two boxes just to make her roll her eyes.

A couple rounds the corner, the woman laughing at something her boyfriend said as he tosses items into their cart with theatrical flair. They’re young, probably college students, and they have that glow of early love, when everything is discovery and promise and endless possibility. She remembers being them, remembers grocery shopping with Mingyu being an adventure instead of a chore, turning mundane errands into opportunities for stolen kisses between the frozen foods and impromptu dance parties in empty aisles.

“Excuse me,” someone says, and she realizes she’s been standing frozen in front of the Froot Loops for five minutes. She mumbles an apology and pushes her cart forward, but everything feels surreal, like she’s moving through water.

At the checkout, the cashier makes small talk about the weather, and she nods along while screaming internally. How is everyone just going about their lives when hers has been completely reorganized? How is the world still spinning when five years of her life have just vanished like smoke?

In her car, she sits with her hands gripping the steering wheel, breathing carefully measured breaths the way her therapist taught her. The engagement ring tan line on her finger has finally faded, but she still finds herself twisting the phantom ring when she’s nervous. Mingyu had been so proud when he proposed, so certain and bright-eyed, like he’d solved some cosmic puzzle. “I want forever with you,” he’d said, voice shaking with emotion, and she’d believed him completely.

Forever turned out to be five years and three months.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s sister calls while he’s attempting to cook dinner in his shoebox kitchen. He considers letting it go to voicemail, but Minseo has been worried about him, calling every few days with increasingly transparent excuses to check on him.

“How are you eating?” she asks without preamble.

“Hello to you too,” he says, stirring instant ramen and feeling pathetic about it. She used to cook for him, elaborate meals that filled their apartment with warmth and the sounds of oil sizzling, her humming contentedly while she worked. She’d wear his oversized t-shirts and nothing else, and he’d wrap his arms around her waist from behind, chin hooked over her shoulder, stealing tastes and making her laugh when his stubble tickled her neck.

“Don’t deflect. Are you eating actual food or just surviving on convenience store meals?”

“I’m making ramen,” he admits, and her sigh is audible.

“Mingyu…”

“I’m fine, Minseo. Really.”

“No, you’re not. You’re miserable, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

He wants to argue, but what’s the point? His sister has known him his whole life, watched him fall in love so completely that he’d rearranged his entire existence around another person. She’d liked her too, had welcomed her into the family with open arms, treated her like the sister she’d never had. The breakup had devastated everyone, not just him.

“Have you talked to her?” Minseo asks gently.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than he intends. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s five years worth of things to say.”

“And we said them. All of them. That’s why we’re not together anymore.”

The silence stretches between them. Minseo doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because she wasn’t there for the slow, painful dissolution of everything they’d built. She didn’t see the way they’d started speaking to each other like polite strangers, didn’t witness the careful distance that crept between them like frost, didn’t hear the fights that devolved into exhausted silence because they’d stopped believing they could fix what was breaking.

“I just think—”

“I have to go,” Mingyu interrupts. “Thanks for calling.”

He hangs up and stares at his sad dinner, appetite completely gone. Outside his window, Seoul buzzes with Friday night energy, but he feels disconnected from all of it, like he’s watching life happen from behind a wall of glass.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She finds the box by accident while looking for her winter clothes. It’s shoved in the back of their shared closet—her closet now—behind old coats and forgotten shoes. Her heart stops when she realizes what it is.

Their memory box. They’d started it as a joke during their first year together, saving ticket stubs and photo booth strips and little notes they’d written each other. Over time, it had become sacred, a physical collection of their love story that they’d add to on anniversaries and special occasions.

With trembling fingers, she lifts the lid. The smell hits her first—his cologne mingled with the vanilla candles she used to burn, creating a scent that’s purely them, purely home. Inside, five years of memories lie carefully preserved like pressed flowers.

Movie tickets from their first official date, when Mingyu had been so nervous he’d bought popcorn with extra butter even though she’d mentioned being lactose intolerant. She’d eaten it anyway, not wanting to make him feel bad, and spent the entire movie in mild digestive distress while trying to focus on his running commentary whispered in her ear.

A napkin from the café where they’d had their first fight, a stupid argument about punctuality that had escalated until they were both near tears. They’d talked it out over lukewarm coffee and stale pastries, learning how to disagree without destroying each other. “We’re going to have to figure this out,” she’d said, “if we want this to work.” And they had, for a while. They’d gotten so good at compromise, at bending without breaking, at choosing love over pride.

Polaroids from their friends’ wedding, where they’d danced until their feet hurt and made drunken promises about their own future ceremony. Mingyu had spun her around the dance floor like they were the only two people in the world, dipping her dramatically while she laughed until her stomach hurt. “You’re going to marry me someday,” he’d whispered against her ear, and it hadn’t been a question. It had been certainty, solid as gravity.

A USB drive labeled “Our Songs” in Mingyu’s messy handwriting. Playlists he’d made for road trips, for quiet mornings, for when she was stressed about work. Hours of music that had soundtracked their relationship, songs that would probably make her cry for the rest of her life.

At the bottom of the box, wrapped in tissue paper, is the promise ring he’d given her for their second anniversary. Not an engagement ring, but a placeholder, a symbol of intention. “Someday,” he’d said, slipping it onto her finger, “when we’re ready for forever.” She’d worn it faithfully until he’d replaced it with the real thing, and even then, she’d kept it close, a reminder of when their love was still growing instead of slowly dying.

She holds the ring up to the light, remembering the girl who’d worn it, who’d believed so completely in their future together. That girl feels like a stranger now, naive and hopeful in a way that seems almost reckless. How do you mourn a version of yourself that no longer exists?

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s mother invites him for Sunday dinner, and he goes because he doesn’t have the energy to make excuses anymore. The family meal feels strange without her there, like a song missing its harmony. His parents had loved her, had already started treating her like a daughter, asking about her work and her family and fussing over her the way they fussed over their own children.

“How is she?” his mother asks carefully, setting down a plate of his favorite kimchi jjigae.

“I don’t know, Mom. We don’t talk anymore.”

His father looks up from his rice. “Maybe you should.”

“What would be the point?”

“Closure,” his mother suggests. “Or… maybe you’d realize you made a mistake.”

Mingyu sets down his spoon, suddenly angry. “It wasn’t a mistake. We tried everything. Counseling, space, compromise—nothing worked. We just… we grew apart. It happens.”

“Five years doesn’t just disappear overnight,” his father says quietly.

“It doesn’t disappear at all. That’s the problem.”

The weight of those five years sits on his chest like a stone. Five years of birthday celebrations and holiday traditions, of learning each other’s languages of love and comfort. Five years of building a life together, making plans, dreaming about children and houses and growing old together. All of it still exists, but in the past tense now, preserved like artifacts from a civilization that no longer exists.

He remembers their last real conversation, the one where they’d finally admitted what they’d both been avoiding. They’d been sitting on opposite ends of their couch, the space between them feeling like an ocean.

“I don’t think we’re making each other happy anymore,” she’d said, voice barely above a whisper.

And he’d wanted to argue, to fight for them the way he always had, but the truth was crushing and undeniable. They’d become ghosts of themselves, going through the motions of love without feeling it, staying together out of habit instead of desire.

“I know,” he’d replied, and those two words had contained the end of everything.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

The coffee shop where they’d met is exactly the same. Same mismatched chairs, same chalkboard menu, same indie music playing just a little too loud. She orders her usual—medium coffee, oat milk, no sugar—and sits at a table by the window, watching people hurry past on the sidewalk.

She’d been a graduate student then, stressed about her thesis and surviving on caffeine and determination. Mingyu had been at the next table over, phone pressed to his ear, having what sounded like a heated discussion with someone about modeling schedules and photo shoots. When he’d hung up, he’d caught her looking and had given her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he’d said. “Work drama.”

“No problem. I’m just jealous that your work drama sounds more interesting than my academic drama.”

They’d started talking, and one conversation had turned into two hours of effortless connection. He’d been funnier than she’d expected, self-deprecating and warm, asking genuine questions about her research and listening to her answers like they mattered. When her laptop had died mid-conversation, he’d offered to buy her coffee while she figured out her next move.

“I’m Mingyu,” he’d said, extending his hand with that smile that had made her stomach flip.

“Nice to meet you, Mingyu.”

She’d given him her number before she’d fully processed what was happening, saying yes to dinner before her rational brain could interfere. It had felt like destiny, like the universe aligning to put them in the same place at the same time.

Now she sits in the same spot, drinking the same coffee, and wonders if she’d made a different choice that day—left when her laptop died, been too shy to maintain eye contact, said no to dinner—would she be sitting here feeling like half of herself had been surgically removed?

A young couple at the counter catches her attention. The girl is laughing at something the guy said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek while he orders for both of them. They look so young, so sure of themselves, so completely unaware that love isn’t always enough.

She pays for her coffee and leaves quickly, unable to watch their beginning when she’s still processing her ending.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu runs into Seungcheol at the gym, and his friend immediately starts hovering like a concerned mother hen.

“You look like shit,” Seungcheol says with characteristic bluntness.

“Thanks. Really needed to hear that today.”

“I’m serious. When’s the last time you went out? Had fun? Talked to another human being who wasn’t forced to interact with you for work?”

Mingyu increases the speed on his treadmill, hoping the physical exertion will shut down this conversation. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re a hermit. A sad, lonely hermit who’s wasting away in his depression cave.”

“It’s been three months, Cheol. I’m allowed to be sad.”

“You’re allowed to grieve. You’re not allowed to disappear.”

Seungcheol hops on the treadmill next to him, matching his pace. “The guys are worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you. This isn’t healthy.”

“What’s healthy? Moving on like five years meant nothing? Dating someone new before I’ve even processed what happened?”

“I’m not saying date someone new. I’m saying rejoin the world. Remember that you exist outside of that relationship.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Mingyu isn’t sure he does exist outside of that relationship. For five years, he’d been half of a whole, and now he’s trying to figure out how to be complete on his own. Everything he’d enjoyed, everywhere he’d gone, everyone he’d been—it was all connected to her, woven together so tightly that separating them feels impossible.

“She was my best friend,” he says quietly, and Seungcheol’s expression softens.

“I know.”

“I told her everything. She knew me better than I know myself. And now she’s just… gone. Like she never existed.”

“She did exist. That relationship happened, and it mattered, and it’s okay to miss it. But you can’t live in the past forever.”

Mingyu knows Seungcheol is right, logically. But logic and emotion are speaking different languages right now, and his heart is fluent only in loss.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She’s sorting through old photos on her laptop when she finds the folder labeled “Us.” Five years of documentation, from awkward early selfies to professional couple photos, chronicling their evolution from strangers to lovers to strangers again.

There’s the picture from their first vacation together, a weekend trip to Busan where they’d argued about directions and laughed until they cried and fallen asleep on the beach. Mingyu’s hair was shorter then, and he looked younger, less serious. She was tanner, more carefree, wearing his oversized hoodie and grinning at the camera like she’d discovered the secret to happiness.

A photo from her graduation, Mingyu beaming with pride as she holds her diploma. He’d been more excited about her achievement than she was, taking pictures from every angle and insisting on celebrating with an expensive dinner they couldn’t really afford. “My girlfriend, the PhD,” he’d kept saying, like her success was his own.

Their first New Year’s Eve together, both of them slightly drunk and completely besotted, kissing at midnight while fireworks exploded over the Han River. They’d made resolutions they’d forgotten by February, promised each other forever in the reckless way that only new love allows.

Halloween photos where they’d dressed as couples costumes that seemed hilarious at the time but look ridiculous now. Christmas mornings in their pajamas, exchanging gifts and drinking hot chocolate. Birthday celebrations, anniversary dinners, lazy Sunday afternoons where they’d documented their contentment without realizing how precious it was.

And then, somewhere around year four, the photos change. Their smiles become more performative, their poses more staged. They’re still beautiful together, still look like a couple that should work, but something essential is missing. The light in their eyes, the natural gravitation toward each other—it’s fading, imperceptible to everyone else but obvious now with the cruel clarity of hindsight.

The last photo in the folder is from their final anniversary dinner. They’d gone to the restaurant where he’d proposed, trying to recapture something that was already gone. They look elegant and mature, but distant, like actors playing roles they no longer believed in.

She closes the laptop and pushes it away, suddenly exhausted. How do you delete five years of memories? How do you decide which moments to keep and which ones to let go? Every photo tells a story of people who loved each other completely, who built a life together with such care and intention, who believed they were writing a love story for the ages.

Instead, they’d written a tragedy.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, and his heart stops when he realizes it’s her. She’s changed her number, probably trying to start fresh, but she’s texting him from it.

I found our memory box. I think you should have some of these things.

He stares at the message for ten minutes, typing and deleting responses. What do you say to the person who used to be your whole world? How do you respond to an olive branch when you’re not sure you’re ready for contact?

Finally, he types: Keep them. They’re yours.

Her response comes quickly: They’re ours.

Were ours. Past tense.

The dots appear and disappear several times, like she’s writing and rewriting her response. When it finally comes, it’s simple: Can we meet? Just to talk?

Every rational part of his brain screams no. Seeing her will only reopen wounds that are barely beginning to scab over. But his heart, traitorous and hopeful, is already saying yes.

When?

Tomorrow? The café on Hongik Street?

The café where they’d had their first date. Of course. Even in ending, they’re drawn to their beginnings.

Okay.

After he sends it, he sits in his empty apartment and wonders if he’s making a mistake. But maybe mistakes are better than the nothing he’s been living with.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She arrives early and chooses a table in the back corner, somewhere private where they can fall apart without an audience. Her hands shake as she orders coffee she doesn’t want, and she checks her reflection in her phone screen obsessively, like her appearance matters when her insides are completely destroyed.

When Mingyu walks in, her breath catches. He looks different—thinner, more tired, like he’s been carrying the same weight she has. His hair is longer than she’s ever seen it, and he’s wearing the black jacket she’d bought him for his birthday last year. The one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad and his eyes impossibly warm.

He spots her and hesitates for just a moment before walking over. The familiarity of his gait, the way he moves through space with unconscious grace, hits her like a physical blow. This is the person who used to crawl into bed beside her every night, who knew exactly how she liked her coffee and which side of the bed she preferred and how to make her laugh when she was crying.

Now he’s a stranger wearing a familiar face.

“Hi,” he says, settling into the chair across from her.

“Hi.”

They stare at each other across the small table, and the silence is deafening. What do you say to someone who used to be your everything? How do you make small talk with the person who knows your every secret?

“You look good,” she lies, because he looks heartbroken and exhausted and like he’s been running on empty for months.

“You too,” he lies back, even though she knows she looks exactly as destroyed as she feels.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

More silence. She fidgets with her coffee cup, and he drums his fingers against the table—the same nervous habit he’s had since she’s known him. Some things never change, even when everything else has been obliterated.

“I’ve been thinking about us a lot,” she finally says. “About what happened. What went wrong.”

“And?”

“I don’t think anything went wrong. I think we just… grew in different directions.”

Mingyu nods slowly. “We became different people.”

“We became the people we were always going to become. We just couldn’t become them together.”

It’s the most honest thing either of them has said about their breakup, and it hangs in the air between them like a bridge they’re afraid to cross.

“I keep waiting to stop missing you,” she admits. “But it’s been months, and I still reach for you in the morning. I still save funny memes to send to you. I still think about calling you when something good happens.”

“I know. I do the same thing.”

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?”

Mingyu considers this, really considers it, and she loves him for taking her question seriously instead of offering empty platitudes.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not supposed to stop. Maybe missing someone you loved that much is just… part of loving them.”

The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and he automatically reaches across the table before catching himself, hand freezing halfway between them. The aborted gesture hurts more than the tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work. I’m sorry we lost each other. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I’m sorry too. For all of it.”

They sit in their shared sorrow, mourning not just their relationship but their friendship, their partnership, their planned future that will never exist. They’re grieving the children they’ll never have together, the house they’ll never buy, the old age they’ll never share. They’re saying goodbye to a thousand small dreams and the comfortable certainty of forever.

“I should go,” Mingyu says eventually, and she nods even though she wants to beg him to stay.

He stands, then hesitates. “For what it’s worth, loving you was the best thing I ever did. Even if I couldn’t do it right in the end.”

And then he’s gone, walking out of her life as quietly as he’d walked into it five years ago, leaving her alone with her coffee and her memories and the weight of everything they’d been together.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She doesn’t text him again, and he doesn’t text her. They don’t run into each other around the city, don’t accidentally end up at the same parties or restaurants or coffee shops. It’s like they’ve developed a sixth sense for avoiding each other, moving through Seoul like opposing magnets.

Months pass. She gets a promotion at work, starts dating someone new—a kind man who makes her laugh and doesn’t try to replace what she had with Mingyu, just offers something different. Mingyu, she hears through mutual friends, is doing well too. Focusing on his career, traveling more, seeing someone casually though nothing serious.

They’re both moving forward, building new lives on the foundation of who they became during their five years together. The love they shared didn’t disappear; it transformed them, taught them how to love and be loved, showed them what they wanted and needed in a partner. In some ways, their breakup was the final gift they gave each other—the freedom to find happiness in new places.

But sometimes, late at night when the world is quiet and she’s alone with her thoughts, she still reaches for her phone. Still finds his contact, still stares at that photo from the beach where he’s laughing at something she said off-camera. Still wonders if he thinks about her too, if he misses what they had, if he ever regrets letting go.

She never calls. Never texts. Never disrupts the careful distance they’ve constructed between their old life and their new ones.

But she keeps his number. Keeps the photos. Keeps the memory box with all its treasures from a love that was real and deep and ultimately finite.

Because some loves aren’t meant to last forever. Some loves are meant to teach you how to love better the next time. Some loves are meant to break your heart so completely that when you put it back together, you’re stronger, wiser, more capable of recognizing real happiness when it finds you.

Five years of loving Kim Mingyu taught her all of these things.

And maybe, in the end, that’s enough.

[iznsfw]

Lucid Dream

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 7 - Kim Minju

IZ*ONE's Kim Minju x Male Reader Smut

8,525 words

Categories | married man!You, wife!Wonyoung, daddy kink, degradation, rough sex, OC is not a good person

Content warning | cheating, humiliation, Wonyoung slander (it hurt to write but I read "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn recently so I guess that went into the whole wife-hating thing)

Skipping again a bit (still will do Chaeyeon and Chaewon and everyone because IZ*ONE best girls). Expect a commission and an IZ Days of Xmas fics this month again <3 I love you all, you make me happy. And as always, sorry for the inconsistency!

Wonyoung is beautiful.

You stare at her as she undresses in front of the full-length mirror. She’s the kind of woman whose vanity seldom rolls eyes because her adoration for herself—smoothing down her dark hair, strictly adhering herself to that keto diet, doing her skincare with the dedication of one who prays nightly to god (pick any)—is wholly justifiable. Look at her. Anyone would understand.

The dress she wore for her hosting show slips off her body. Her abs reflect in the mirror, the result of hard work in the gym. Wonyoung’s waist is impeccable. Magazines have written over and over tips to attain it but it seems that the signature Bratz doll feature can only belong to Wonyoung. The makeup was cleaned up by her stylist but her eyes still shine, her lashes are still long, and her lips are still plump.

Wonyoung is standing there in nothing but her underwear, an attractive set of lace. 

Wonyoung is the perfect female form, a goddess from above choosing a man from below.

Wonyoung is beautiful, a feat that no matter how amazing besides true, she remains the same old fucking bore.

“Did you like my MCing, babe?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.”

Her legs, long and thin, move in planned strides down the room. To the bed. You know where this is going.

Your feet are killing you. Recline, welcoming yourself into the softness of the expensive mattress and pillows your wife paid for all in all. “Wonyoung, I’m tired.” 

She’s a celebrity. Of course, endless days filled to the edge with schedules chase after her. She ought to understand. The nights are her only rest hours, yet with this energy, it’s like Jang Wonyoung never gets exhausted. Always bubbly, always sweet, always so seductive. 

All these are positive traits that any other man would adore and own had you not married her. 

Wonyoung makes an adorable sigh. “But you say that everytime,” she replies sullenly.

She’s pushing her lips out into this cute pout while her brown puppy eyes beg you to give in like you used to. Once upon a time, you were putty around Wonyoung. Never could give an answer without your voice shaking. Never could come near her without blushing. 

She’s the prettiest woman in the world.

You’re the most awful, undeserving man in the world, for all you could think, as you look at her, is: Fucking bitch. 

“Well, maybe it’s because I’m always tired.”

“How about,” she puts a finger on her chin, “I do the job for you?”

Her knees are bruised. You notice this when she drops to them so she could pull your pants to the ground. So she’s been doing this for so long? Lowering herself for you? Sucking you off? You thought that she’d get the hint by now: you don’t want to have sex with her.

So instead, she uses her mouth. Better than her pussy anyway. What are you saying? She’s a tight woman. But it’s the same thing everyday: she gets on your cock and you hear her annoying voice straining as she rides you. Her cunt, soaked and useless, makes you want to call her its name. She’s always needy. It isn’t flattering when you don’t reciprocate it.

It’s a goddamned chore. Wonyoung’s throat welcomes you. The other way around, actually: your cock welcomes a claustrophobically closed passageway and has to deal with it until you cum. It’s an unwanted visitor. She rang the bell, said hi, and you let her in. Doesn’t mean you like her there.

“Doing so good, baby,” you say. Oh, yeah, doesn’t mean you mean it either—although you do feel Wonyoung smile happily. She’s happy when she makes you happy. When she makes you give her the illusion that you have any happiness in this worn-out marriage.

Her lips seal around you. You can feel them suckling. Your knees are tense. The moans are forced, though. Hearing them come out from your own mouth makes you want to place a pillow over your face and press it down as hard as you can.

She slides you down her throat. Admittedly, you love the way she chokes. Her eyes get all watery, like she’s crying from pain. That sounds appealing. 

You’re a critically messed up man, you know. But they’re what make the world go ‘round. Why do you think they write romance books about them—the bad boy, the mafia boss, the killer? Plus, one of those “terrible” people inspires the biggest Korean celebrity to continue hosting, dancing, and singing. So who’s so terrible now?

To conclude, if anything, you’re the one responsible for Wonyoung’s success.

To conclude, you groan as desperately as you can then release in her mouth. Wonyoung gags. Another pretty sound. Her eyes look up while she attempts to swallow. Saliva sticks to her chin. Semen floods up to the roof of her mouth. It reminds you of how it ends up there more often than in her womb.

You would’ve made beautiful children with Wonyoung in another world where she wasn’t famous and you actually loved her. You would have been a softer, kinder man. She would have been a person who’s easier to love and make love with.

“Wonyoung, Wonyoung, that… was incredible.”

If you weren’t a director, you’d be the one on camera. You’re a great actor when it comes to your wife. Your incompetence in the house is masked by husbandly exhaustion; an artificial gaze of attentiveness hides your indifference to conversation. 

She smiles coquettishly. “I try.”

The wide closet parts. She chooses a pair of silk pajamas that hang around her thin frame. She climbs onto the bed and wraps an arm around you. Her skin is always cold to the touch. Like she’s dead or something. How interesting.

You stroke her hair. “I’d return the favor but… I’m actually gonna pass out. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She kisses your forehead. Wonyoung’s a sweet girl. “Good night.”

You smile. Say it back. Her eyelids flutter closed. Her palms are flat against each other and are placed under her cheek. Cute, you guess. She sleeps. 

You don’t. 

You should have—nothing good ever happens after midnight.

-

2:05 a.m., more specifically.

-

Amazing how time slips through your grasp like air. You reach and reach, desperate for a return, desperate for a flash to the past. As always, your efforts aren’t fruitful. The seconds pour through the pinched waist of the hourglass and you can’t stand it on its other head. You’re unable to revert back to the moment you took your arm from underneath your wife’s skull. The moment you opened your phone. If you hadn’t, maybe things would have been different.

But it’s past two, and you’re resting your back on the pillowy headboard with your phone in your hands. The circumstances just play right into danger: Wonyoung’s asleep, the night is eerily quiet, and the screen is there, awaiting the secret routine. Which girls would you cum for today? Why aren’t your thumbs clicking over censored sites?

Your feed shows a naked woman, her eyes staring up and her mouth wide. Scroll past that—you prefer the amateur videos, where the expressions balance between exaggerated and naturally provoked. A ton of videos could help in the bathroom where you take your nightly “shower,” and it’s not one of those.

Maybe you need the real thing.

Look at Wonyoung. Perhaps you should have let her ride you just so you could cum in a warm pussy again. After all, it’s the least you could do when you were once a fan of her. That’s how everyone starts: puppy-like adoration. But she doesn’t have the star quality she once did onstage; the coy thoughtful princess you envisioned her as. That’s why you haven’t fucked her in weeks. 

You’re about to wrap your hand around your cock and ready yourself for another night of conflicted pleasure. This video is perfect for that already. You could jerk yourself off then get a good night’s sleep. Simple. This is the safest option for a dangerous want. By just watching, you’re not cheating on your wife. It’s just porn. Jerk off, cum, cum again probably, then sleep. Nobody gets hurt.

“Fuck me… please,” whimpers the woman in the video. Her legs are spread open. Her partner’s swiping his cock at her lips while she looks at him with equal hunger, equal desire. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Then, a text message notifies you, peeking from the top of your screen. It dares you to click it.

And it says the exact same thing.

fuck me please, i cant take it anymore. 

i miss you 

You look around, like you’re afraid someone might see it. There’s only the dimness of your bedroom that greets you. It’s safe, but this message isn’t. 

The number is familiar. Has one of your friends gone crazy? Or did they send a text to the wrong person? Take it for spam, a perfectly coincidental one, or a scam, a typical, preying-on-the-married, pwning message.

But why would a contact spam you at a time so strangely perfect?

Don’t bother. Your fist works on your dick as you watch the video. The woman’s so wet that although she isn’t squirting, her juices start to stick to the man’s thighs. Her mouth is wide open as he finally pounds her. 

What you’d give to have good sex like that again. 

XXX-XXX-XXX sent a video message.

Fine. Click it, you’re curious.

Oh, so apparently, the answer is your marriage.

The video shows a face that’s more intimate than familiar. The ebony-black hair already tells you who she is, as does her body. Her form is encased in a floral tank top and nothing else. Although her chest is covered, she’s still a little daring with how her nipples stamp the fabric. She turns herself around to let you admire the curve of her wide hips and her round butt.

There’s only one woman with a body so perfect. And she’s the one and only Kim Minju.

There are reasons for everything. This is yours for why you didn’t give this number a name: 

No one needs to know just from a text that you cheated on Jang Wonyoung.

That was so long ago, back when you were still boyfriend and girlfriend. You were drunk and missed Wonyoung’s old self. Why did she have to be such a bitch? Why did she dedicate herself to work and leave you dry? It’s not like the industry would go bankrupt without her. Minju came over, listened to your complaints—every little whine about Wonyoung being busy, every little jab at her workaholic character—then said something along the lines of, why don’t you have a little fun while she’s away. 

And you thought… yeah, that was a really great idea. 

That was the beginning of the end. After multiple secret meet-ups and raunchy sex in alleyways, you didn’t contact Minju again. You forgot her. You thought she did, too. She should have understood that your infidelity, albeit alluring, would be a thing of the past. 

But here she is, in your messages, with a pornographic clip of herself in a round-cornered bubble. She’s waiting for a reply. 

Although you’ve long lost your aspirations to be a better husband, you type what a good man should. This man is proper, faithful, and loving. He loves his wife only and the only other people he loves with this deep of a bond is his family. 

Stop texting me or I’ll block you. 

It’s not enough. You’re not a good man. You aren’t proper or faithful or loving or any of that shit. You were about to masturbate to an internet celebrity after turning down sex with your wife. What about that makes you a good person?

:( you miss me sooooo bad it’s pathetic, Minju replies.

You look at her again. You may not be able to turn back time with your metaphorical hourglass, but you can turn this hourglass body into any position you want. You could push her against a window for all to see, perhaps fuck her to the floor, or slam her on a desk like a teacher would to a test paper. Minju would let you do anything to her.

Stop it.

She really has to. As much as you dislike Wonyoung, she’s your wife, and you vowed on your wedding day to only have eyes for her. 

But you’re only one man against a body like Minju’s that curves in every right place.

Three circles float up and down in a contained bubble before she texts you back:

alright…what a pity :( i’m already outside!! i guess ill have to go back…

You’ve never bolted out of bed so fast. 

You look back at Wonyoung as you stand in the doorway. She’s still in deep slumber. Now, are the curtains closed? The entrances locked? Scan the house thoroughly, until you inch your way to the front door. 

Hesitate. You didn’t know you had a conscience but here it is. It tells you to wonder if Minju really is behind it, like she said. She knows how to use the privilege of being Wonyoung’s close friend. That’s how she came to your house like she used to with no worry for paparazzi or suspicion. Best friends don’t fuck their best friends’ husbands, right?

Open the door. This one did.

Minju grew more beautiful in her absence. Her hair is silkier this time and her shy smile is brighter. The long coat is smoothed by her fingers, and you wish you could be the brown piece of fabric her pale hands run down. What makes you guilty for thinking it, even when you’ve done it, is the fact that she looks so innocent. It’s like it would be a crime to even buy her a drink. 

How could she be innocent with that photo she sent? The time you spent together: you folding her over a table and promising to fill her up? Fucking her while Wonyoung is busy and counting on you to welcome her home? Sending nudes like there’s no tomorrow? Nothing about Minju is pure, yet she acts like she could do no wrong.

“Minju,” you say. Your voice sounds fragile. She has a way of breaking you befote you’re breaking her into breaking another bed. 

She blinks theatrically. Everything she does is angelic. “Glad you opened the door.”

The knob is cold in your fist. It chills your animalistic brain and urges you to consider the consequences. Right, it says, here’s what a human—a good one—would think. If Wonyoung wakes and sees you with Minju, she’d have a lot of questions. If paparazzi are somehow hiding in the forest that extends to acres before your house, everyone would know you’re cheating on her. Most of all, you’re married, monogamy and everything. 

So what will it be? This is your last and only chance to send her away.

You know what you have to do. Take a few breaths. “You have to leave. I’m not joking, it isn’t right.”

In response, Minju unravels the ribbon of the layers sealed around her waist. It falls apart. You do, too.

She’s a real danger. As it turns out, the girl isn’t wearing anything underneath that trench coat. She’s an artist’s naked muse—bare long legs, wide hips, and a sizable bust that has sculptors carving something else.

The cold hardens her pink nipples. You notice how her breasts are much bigger than your wife’s. How her hips are more tempting to grab, so you do. How her body is meatier, a lot more enticing that you wouldn’t refuse a day without touching it.

Minju fuels your infidelity, and you won’t stop for it if it kills you.

She simpers, fingers curling into your work shirt. “Still wanna make me leave,” she asks, “when you can breed me all night long?”

You laugh, huffing it out as you pull her inside and close the door behind her. Minju looks gorgeous pressed to it. She looks gorgeous in whatever situation, actually. Her thighs squish against the carved design and look thicker as a result. More reasons to dive into that shaven cunt and abuse it.

“You’re not leaving until we make a fucking mess, Minju.” You take your shirt off. Throw it on the ground. “And we better make it quick.”

“Of course.” She nods. She’s slyer than a fox, but she submits to you without a second thought.

You lean in to kiss her. The heat is unbearable. You can feel it from Minju’s body transferring to yours. It’s the effect of her natural skills as your personal slut: trying to fit her tongue deeper in your mouth while you pull her close like she’d dare to run away. 

You haven’t gotten this hard for anyone else. It’s always been Minju you fall for. You miss the way she kisses, the way she roams her hands all over your torso, the way she’s goddamned insatiable. Feeling it all now in one, heated moment makes you dizzy. You’re taking in too much of her, but without her, you’d go thirsty again. 

Your fingers are in her hair; hers are on your waist. Your teeth are clamped down on Minju’s bottom lip; hers are apart and allow soft moans to pass through—one, two, three. You fit each other in so many wicked ways. They did say misery loves company.

Open your eyes. The dream doesn’t stop. Minju’s still pushing her mouth in your face and you’re letting her. You don’t know if you ought to be relieved or downright horrified. You’re cheating on Wonyoung again with a woman whose body is just a bit nicer. You should be furious at yourself. You aren’t.

You’ve made out with each other on the way to the dining room. You and your wife worked hard for its designed walls and sturdy, well-furnished ornaments. A lot of money was raked out to make this house the best place to call home. So, why do you want to ruin it?

Well, because of her.

Minju leans on the dining table with a funny smile on her face. “She really doesn’t do it for you, huh?” she asks.

It makes you wince how you know who she’s talking about. Who else is she referring to other than poor Wonyoung? Poor, skinny, ugly Wonyoung?

Nibble at her earlobe. Hear little gasps come out of her. “Don’t talk about her,” you say.

You don’t want to have any afterthoughts about fucking Minju. Besides, being reminded that you’re disloyal to a woman who loves you very much is painful, even to a man like you.

Wonyoung is an angel. Minju isn’t—but you run after her to darkness.

“Ohh, come on, I know I’m better than her.” Minju squirms with erotic moans. Your kisses are going south, and she loves their little detour. “You don’t fuck her like you fuck me.”

When was the last time you worshiped Wonyoung? Like what you’re doing to Minju now? Your lips haven’t passed over it in ages that you probably wouldn’t know where the bigs and smalls of her body are. Like there’s anything to know. 

“Actually,” you snort, “I don’t fuck her at all.”

You stop chuckling. That was the wrong thing to say. That was the wrongest thing to say out of the millions of other cocky phrases you could’ve thrown to Minju. The look on her face, the one that’s of pride and submission and dangerous knowledge united, tells you to watch your mouth. 

You’re five seconds minimum too late to listen. 

Minju grins. There’s the answer she wanted. “That’s how it is? Just looking at a girl and thinking you wanna stamp a divorce approval on her forehead? Jesus. This is why I never got married.”

“First off, nobody put a ring on you because you’re a slut, Minju.”

“That’s only the third reason.” Her fingers drape the sides of your face and tugs you in. You’re invited to the sight of her infallible tits. “These are the first two.”

The girl isn’t as busty as that woman Wonyoung likes to call her industry mom, but you bet they’re better. No, it’s a matter of truth. Minju’s boobs aren’t too big or too small; just the perfect, filling size to hold onto when you’re railing her from behind.

You choose to suck on them for now. It’s like a trip down memory lane when you kiss down her neck and collarbone. You remember how good her smooth, soft skin feels beneath you, how her moans are a favorite tune. Minju bites her lip while you do so to her shoulder.

It’s crazy to think that she just so happened to be born with this. She was born to be a pretty face with a sex-defined body that you pull and push and pry apart. Best thing is, she’ll lay back down and beg for more. It’s like she knows her purpose, which would’ve shot down her dignity and humanity.

Her nipple pops in your mouth. Your sucking guarantees its hardness, and Minju starts whining. She arcs her body, wanting something rougher. Thus, you seize the span of her hip to rub her pearl with fierce speed.

“Oh, fuck, god—” What others might take for blasphemy, you take for praise. Minju’s already soaking wet. She would have had embarrassing laundry to do if she wore panties. Maybe it’s a good thing she arrived wearing nothing.

She’s still so sensitive. You caress her clit after a few kisses down her midriff. She fidgets needily like you aren’t already touching her. You’re nearly right—this touch is nothing when she needs something harsher. That something involves you treating her less than a human being, putting her down and tearing at her hair. 

“Please just fuck me,” she whispers. “Breed me, breed me, breed me—”

Yeah, that’s what she wants.

You don’t need further motivation, not when you’re presented with the prettiest pussy you’ve ever seen. Her fat lips are soaked. They frame the clitoris you’ve been stimulating that shines with slick. Then there’s the tiniest hole below it that begs to be used.

Your digits shove past all tightness. Her wetness allows a deeper exploration, so you curl your digits like you’re beckoning the orgasm forward. You know how easily you can get it out of her. All it needs to get Minju cumming around you is a slap, roughness, and giving her what she wants anyway. You know your methods, she knows hers. It’s a recognizable cycle that despite this, you can’t break.

Part your fingers widely to spread her. She’s so wet that she soaks your knuckles. There’s an ocean inside her waiting to be waved to shore. A storm, too, brews from the base of her throat as Minju whimpers. Her body lifts off the table but you force her down on it. She isn’t going anywhere, not without a fight.

Oh, and fight she does. She was an idol before an actress, so her muscles still memorize the circling motions that repeat on your fingers rather than move onstage. She sang once. That was a long time ago yet her voice sounds perfect as it strains her moans. Every little thing she does is a reflection of her past. 

That’s why when she leans back, pupils dilating north, and says “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” you get deja vu.

Your palm hits her clit, adding impact to your strokes. “There you go, little slut,” you snarl. “Are you happy now? Maybe even a little grateful?”

If Minju’s ass isn’t pressed down on the glass mantling your dining table, it hovers so her pink little hole receives you better. It’s not without the help of her weak hands clinging to the table for dear life, but she seems to be losing her balance. Her hips are shuddering. Her beautiful face is squeezed up into a blissful wince. Her breaths are becoming blunt little gasps that say none of the gratitude you want to hear.

You slap her boob. Red blooms from her pale skin that deepens when another impacts her bosom. The recoil dizzies you. If anyone’s getting the impression that you’ll slap her bouncy tits until you hear a proper word of thanks, they’d be right. First impressions are right just for once.

“T-thank you—” Her voice cracks, breaking like her. “Fuck, shit, thank you, thank you.”

Squeeze her cruelly and pull on the perky nipple. Your thrusts become mindlessly paced. Your hand returns to your cock while the other ruins her pussy. The pleasure is telepathic. It’s connecting you; her screams and squirms make you do the same. The electricity firing up in your veins is a shared network. When you point your fingers to her spot, she arcs her back in the same direction. How beautifully fucked up is that? 

“That’s not enough. You didn’t come here for nothing. What do you want, Minju?”

Minju babbles. You got your gratitude but not a proper answer. To be fair, she can’t speak when you’re fucking her like it’s your dick inside her, and when your lips are all over her collarbone. 

“And you better keep quiet,” you add, curling your thrusts, “or Wonyoung‘s gonna hear. Do you really want her to know her precious friend is a big slut?”

However, despite the rumors she starts, Minju could be a very good girl when needed. 

“Need you to make me cum,” she whispers. Her midriff is fluid as water with the way it rolls, showing off the hourglass shape of her waist and a soft tummy. “Do everything to me you can’t with Wonyoung. P-please, I can’t take it.”

Even if she can’t (wrong by the way), you’ll make her. She asked for it. She walked up to your house with a purpose: to be used, to be treated like less of a human being. So it’s understandable that you slam her down the table and seal a hand around her neck. 

She’s so light that the forceful push doesn’t break the fragile glass. But there’s something of hers instead that’s going to be broken.

“Oh fuck! It’s so–” Minju’s eyes roll back. “Ohh… oh!”

Little sparks of wetness shoot in the air. Your pace turns merciless. With just three fingers, you puppet her body. Strings are pulled—her arms raise and her long legs strain to pull you in. You push and she keens, you pull and she yells. You’re making her desecrate the place with her water.

“C-can’t breathe.” A squeeze of her beautiful features—eyelids wrinkling, mouth parting, cheeks filling with scarlet—occurs before she squirts again. She whimpers pathetically, sounding so pitiful you want to laugh. “Ah, fuck, daddy—”

Something stirs inside you. When men hear that name, it ought to feel purely platonic and familial. They’d hear it from their daughter and feel compelled to protect them from men who’d do to them what you do to Minju. But you much prefer hearing that two-syllable word when it comes from a naked woman squirting all over the floor, from whom once you register it, you’re urged to pin her down, tie her down, hold her down.

Ironically, you release her. That isn’t because it’s over though. “On your knees. Follow me.”

Minju releases a gasp, grateful for the oxygen. The color returns to her face yet she barely has the energy to get off the table. You’re a generous man, and hey, it still counts as helping. So you yank her hair and force her on the ground. She fucking moans, a feat deserving of a healthy spank to her ass.

You walk to the living room. She follows you withher hands and knees bearing the cold tiles. You lead her to the place where you spend your time watching movies, rehearsing, and hanging out with Wonyoung if she’s ever home.

Speaking of, glance at the door of your bedroom. It’s still closed. It’ll stay that way.

Look down after wondering why Minju’s noisier. She’s playing with herself on the floor with no care for the cold chill of the tiles or the little dirt wedged between them. She lightly rubs her abused clit, quivering at the contact. You expect that from her—she’s corrupted, an irredeemable cause. She’ll get herself off anytime anywhere.

But what’s unexpected is what those watery eyes are focused on: you, in a framed picture on the wall. You look younger, happier. You’re in formal garments standing next to Wonyoung in a church.

It was you on your wedding day.

You spit on Minju. “Filthy cumslut.”

The drool slides down her cheek like a tear. She darts her tongue out and licks it. One could’ve thought it was candy considering the lift of a smile. 

“I’m sorry, daddy,” she says resolutely. Her fingers still toy with her entrance. They won’t serve her well when there’s a bigger, better thing behind your pants to do it for her.

Your pants are already off. “Get up. Get the fuck up,” you command, but you do it for her. 

You grab her neck and force her up. The look on her face is addicting, the way the shock turns into carnal need, the way she bites her lip. You press her to the wall, right under the framed wedding pictures, and finally plunge yourself inside her.

“Oh, oh, oh!” 

What did Minju do to get this tight? Her walls are squeezed closer around you than you remember. They’re still wet from her squirting, easing your burden of fighting against the tautness of her core.

Her groans are pitched just like how you pitch yourself in her and make her fight for it. She tries everything: gathering the strength she has to push her ass into your crotch, rolling her body, looking back to watch your cock disappear between her lips. 

“So big, daddy!” she cries. With a lick of her lips, she turns to face you. “Mmm, d-do you ever get this massive when you’re fucking Wonyoung?”

That seals it. There’s no restraint in using her body. Her plump ass leading to her toned back is a temptation by itself. You’d burst all over it (maybe in it) if you weren’t already firm in breeding her. But dear god—it rises and descends into your angled pumps so effortlessly that you aren’t afraid to spank it like you’re angry at her. 

“Keep your whore mouth shut.”

Spank after spank you bestow and you realize, oh, you and Minju are really made for each other. The more her ass reddens, the more hot pain sparks on your palm. She throws herself back hard, you piston her harder. 

Your puzzle pieces stick together so perfectly that it’s a shame you didn’t meet under different circumstances. She could’ve been an adorable girl next door and you could have been a guy looking to slip her a love letter. She would’ve been your loving girlfriend, a beautiful wife, someone you’d actually enjoy touching, so different from the woman asleep in the bed upstairs.

But that’s never happening. Minju’s a slut through and through, and she’ll forever be a sin you won’t go to confessions for. She was made to be fucked then discarded of when she’s no longer of use. You see it in the way she’s in a mantra of craziness, the way she yells, the way she looks back at you like she’s daring you to hurt her.

You choose the dare rather than to tell her the truth. You curl her hair into a fist and pull her into you. 

“God, I’m so close.” Minju’s trembling body grows warmer in your touch. “I’m gonna cum all over your big gorgeous cock. I can’t hold out longer, daddy.”

Your teeth dig into her earlobe. You could make her bleed and she’d still find a way to make the pain heavenly. “I thought I told you to be quiet. Is Wonyoung waking up and ending your life worth it for this?”

“What if I say yes?” 

“Fuck.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice, making her see you’d give her away to get a night with me? You’ll give up all this stupid shit t-to be my daddy. Because Wonyoung’s just sooo worthless, isn’t she?”

Savage her cunt and shove your fingers down her mouth just so she could shut up. You love this. Minju’s always so ready for you. 

No, actually—now that you think about it, you hate it. You hate how she’s curvier than your wife, how she’s more alluring than she could ever be, how she moans despite the blockage in her throat. Everything about her is so sexy that the sound of her choking up spit makes you throb. 

This is the wrong time to have a conscience. You’ve already split her apart. You’ve already got your fingers in her hair that pull hard to the point that damage is highly likely. You’ve already—

—got Minju screaming, biting down on your skin as her legs spread. What a strange thing to have as a natural reflex. That’s all she knows to do: spread her legs, hope her innocent face attracts a guy into her home and his dick into her pussy. Her skin, white as snow, has become impure with red blemishes. You see her purple-bruised neck flex when she yells into your hand. 

“Daddy! Daddy!” Minju yells. Her fingernails leave fine scratches on the wall. “Fuck, I’m squirting so much I don’t know what to do—oh fuck!”

You bump the manic girl up on your knee before spreading her legs. A godless squirt of her juices hits Wonyoung’s face, the savior being the glass protecting the picture. Others bless their homes with water blessed by esteemed priests; you like to stand out. Choose to have Minju’s unholy juice flood the photo you once held dear. 

Did something possess you? An evil spirit, a god of fertility? All are clichés but you can’t help but think so when you notice how fast you’re pumping Minju. It’s like greed’s finally reigned you. It’s difficult to resist. Minju just wrings your cock perfectly dry with her tight cunt, keeps you speedy with her desperate moans. You’re vandalizing her with your climax and she doesn’t want to be clean ever again.

“You think you’re special, Minju?” You press her to the ruined picture. Her side profile mashes on the glass. “You’re nothing, only a useless hole, just like that bitch. Now clean it up.”

Her eyes light up in shock. Excitement? “What?”

You pull her head back in order to have her full lips pressed against Wonyoung’s face. The clear squirt is still dripping from it. Minju’s face is red, and although your cock left her moments ago, she insists on tensing like it’s there. Is that how she lives? Her way of bonding is riding on the high she got the night before and the night before that. She always has sex in her mind that thoughts of it occur to her as they would to an animal. 

That’s right; she’s an animal. Perhaps even a dog would have more self-control than her, ironically. 

“Lick your mess,” you command. “Now.”

Minju whimpers. You bury your fingernails in her scalp until she loses her fake hesitance. Her tongue glides on Wonyoung’s face and relieves her of the mess. Her lips part and close, taking in her own taste. 

She looks like she’s making out with your wife. Her pretty face smudges the other pretty face in the picture and it’s so much hotter than it’s got the permit to be. Wonder how it’ll look if she’s actually kissing the real Wonyoung—picture them with their legs locked together and tongues coming out to play—and you’re hard enough for another round.

“That’s right. You want to be Wonyoung so bad? You want to be the one I drive into the bed everyday? So fucking make out with her.”

“Y-yes, daddy. Oh.” Minju’s moans fog the glass. “I taste delicious.”

 It’s probably a hygienically reprehensible thing to do. But her mouth is dirtier than the picture anyway. You force her lips deeper into it until you pull her away, satisfied.

Not quite.

Rub her clit a few more times. Hose her squirt all over the floor. You’ll have a mess to clean up. Oh, there’s all the evidence: her squirt on the floor, her lipstick in the shape of a languid kiss on the picture frame, the mess she made in the dining table where you ate her rather than your food. 

But it’s all worth it. An evil idea plants and sprouts in your mind. “Bedroom.”

Minju pants. Her hands are flat on the wall. She turns to you, saliva and lipstick smeared on her chin, and asks, “W-which one?” 

“You know exactly where.”

Her wide eyes tell you wordlessly that she got the point. She’s well aware of what room you want to use her body next. It’s not even supposed to be a question given the ways and moments you fucked her there.

“But daddy—if, if she hears us?”

You grin. “Then you’ll have to be pretty fucking quiet.”

The best thing about Minju besides her body is her passiveness. She may act up sometimes but she still needs your cock, and she’ll do anything to get it. So when she hangs her head to hide her smile, you spank her. It speeds her steps to the staircase. Continue doing so all the way.

It’s funny how she struggles to even lift a foot. Streams of your cum and hers slide down her legs, staining the carpet. You’ll have to wash that out, too. If you have the maid do it, she’s likely to put two and two together. 

Even from the back, Minju’s body is beautiful. Her reddened ass twists from side to side and brings attention to her wide hips. The deep line on her spine is a path you trace your fingertips on. She quivers. 

“Daddy,” she whines.

Hit her butt. Let it fill your palm. “Keep on walking.”

It’s borderline dehumanizing. You’re treating her with a ferociousness a woman like her should never have to go through. The eyes of the painted men and women on your walls lock on her. It’s like their hard stares are real. Minju bears the blows to her cheeks during her walk of humiliation up the stairs. Tiny yelps are caused by each one. It’s in her to be quiet now that Wonyoung is quite near, although not as close as she is to another heavy orgasm.

You slap her pussy, making her shake, then lead the juices mingling in it up to her asshole. She chews on the inside of her cheek to hide her moan. She reaches the last step with a huge sigh of relief. 

The finality of the torture doesn’t last long. Fuck, it doesn’t even exist. You collect the semen and wetness from her legs, then drag it right back to her pussy.

You shove your fingers deep in her cave. There. Now your cum stays inside her. After that, it’ll drip all the way to her womb. She screams through pursed lips. 

Push her hard against your bedroom door. Her stomach’s flatness goes up to the point that it’s the only thing engendered into the wood. Minju’s tiny gasp is already loud for you. Her beautiful side profile is mashed deep into the solid barrier between the two women.

Minju whimpers. Is she scared or heavily turned on? The thing with her is she likes both. So, yeah—she’s wet at the thought of being caught with you, being fucked within a distance of your wife wherein she could finally pin down your infidelity. 

The little angel closes her eyes when your words hover near her prone ear. “Shut up,” you warn, “unless you want to lose your career. Or this dick.”

You slip your shaft between Minju’s shapely thighs. A friction is nurtured and grown into rough, pant-accompanied humping that leaves both of you breathless. Her pussy lips splay warmly on you and you’re allowed to rub yourself on her clit. 

Minju tenses up. Her breaths are kept to a hummed volume yet their huskiness gets you to fuck her legs faster. The core between them is so warm and you haven’t even welcomed yourself in it again. 

You carefully open the door. You don’t know what you’re expecting: Wonyoung crying with her face in her knees? An anger you never knew she could have? But what shows calms you. There’s your wife who remains asleep on the bed. From the soft snores, it’s easy to tell she’s deep in a dream.

“Wonyoung’s so pretty, daddy,” whispers Minju. You push her to the footboard where she holds on tight. “Do you think she’ll want to join if she wakes up? Or she’ll leave you for me?”

“Are you sure you want to act like that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Depends on what you’re gonna do to me.”

Everything. You’re planning on doing everything to her. 

Push her to the small pole of the wood. You’re forced to shove your fingers in her mouth again to keep her from yelling. The contact it makes to her clit is already overwhelming. But she’s all for overwhelming—she wants the kind of sex that leaves her beaten and bruised, the kind that leaves her sore and not knowing if she should tell you to keep going or halt. 

You know what she’d choose.

Minju grinds on the pole. She’s dancing her hips again. Somehow, things of the past don’t leave her. Her idol days still leave an impact on her. The guy she made cheat on his wife a long time ago returned to her life to cheat again. 

No, you’ve never been one for sentimentality, but things have somehow stayed the same. The slut that is Minju today was a slut all those years ago, too. 

Grab her hips and force her to hump the ball of the pole. She soaks it instantly. Minju is corrupted to no hope of return. There’s your cum, leaking from her pussy and to the bedsheets. Her juices wet the pole and increase the creaking noises that would wake Wonyoung up if not for whatever dream she’s having.

“Oh, daddy! Oh, daaaddy—” she stammers, words bitten and broken in the major need to be quiet.  “Just… fuck me. Please?”

“As long as you—”

“Be a good quiet girl, yes. I’ll do anything, daddy. Anything for this cock.” 

She kneels down. Her tender mouth seals around your left testicle. You nearly shout right there and then. Minju’s running her lips on the underside of your swelling dick. She feels so good, and she is so good. She has all the tips and tricks to keep you hard memorized, if her brain wasn’t too full of other dirty thoughts.

The rasp in your throat materializes and makes her squirm her legs together. She puckers her lips then slips your cock through their joined entrance. Her almond eyes look wider tonight. Your tip pokes the back of her throat. She lets it rub there for now. You find pleasure in the texture that makes you leak. No, you can’t cum. Not yet.

Take a last look at Wonyoung before diving your rod to the depths of Minju’s throat.

It’s funny that the girl still has a gag reflex. Sucking dick is second nature to her. So is getting throatfucked. The walls of her oral hole flex to keep you in. She makes sharp inhalations only to take in the musky scent you thrust on her. In her?

Choking comes after. The orifice grows tighter which makes you fuck it harder. Saliva’s slick liquid state sheens your erection. Minju’s lost her breath a long time ago but she’s lost more than that now. The regular beat of her heart is gone. You can’t search her face for any color other than the palest white. 

“You have to stop gagging, Minju,” you say. Don’t help her though; keep ruining that throat. “Maybe you really do wanna get caught. Makes you really wet, doesn’t it?”

She nods. Your hard tip bobs in her mouth as she does. Her pretty eyes, with their long lashes and big pupils that always seem to gleam with innocence, fill with watery tears. 

“How cute.” You’re surprised that her hair is intact to her scalp after you pull it back. “But I make the rules around here. And I need you to seal that mouth shut and use it for good.”

There’s a possibility that, like Minju, you’re a dancer as well. But the upward grind of your body has no grace in it. It’s a rough, punked up beat that renders the girl humming and screaming.  This roughness is nowhere close to natural.

You dip your cock in her just to see how far you could go, how far is needed to keep her quiet. Feed her more than she could suck. Every sensitive spot of yours is on fire thanks to Minju’s dutiful tongue and hard sucking. Your sack slaps her chin so hard it’s surprising it doesn’t hurt. 

But, like you iterated, Minju isn’t normal. She takes the pain for pleasure and doesn’t give a damn if she gets wounded because of it. 

The tears finally fall from her eyes. 

The lines blur. Who is she—the woman asleep on your bed or the woman you fucked to be disloyal to her? Minju’s beautiful; so is Wonyoung. Jang Wonyoung is beautiful but there’s a category of beauty wherein the girl you’re destroying right now falls in. That’s the section for women who look pretty when they cry, who’ve accepted they’re as fucked up as whoever finds them and takes them in for who they are.

Your wife is pretty. You guess. But Minju is a beauty who lets you do everything to her, and that makes her a little bit more important.

Defile, defile, defile. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you get cum in her hair—(”I have a photoshoot, babe, you can’t!”). Semen sticks to Minju’s locks right now. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you be this rough with her—(“And what if they see? I shouldn’t look dirty to the fans.”) Minju is sitting there taking it like she’s just a cum dump. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you tear off her clothes because “they’re couture so it’s not really mine.” The coat Minju wore coming here lies discarded on the first floor.

Wonyoung doesn’t let anyone defile her. It’s her most fatal flaw. It’s the flaw that makes her husband see all the tiny imperfections she doesn’t allow the camera to see and chase highs in another woman’s throat.

So when Minju cries, gags, chokes—you realize it’s all so simple.

Slip out of her. The delusions clouding your head make you steal a look at the bed. Oh, now it’s unbelievable. Wonyoung is still asleep.

Not that it’s any inconvenience to you.

You prop Minju up to the vanity table. The counter carries the heave of her small chest. She can barely lift her head up. It makes her carry a look of humiliation that’s not at all true. She’s the most shameless woman you’ve ever met.

“Daddy… daddy…” 

Twist her chin so she can look at herself in the mirror. Her body is amazing despite the handprints and bruises peppered on her stomach, butt, and neck. She flusters but your finger presses on her lips before she can look away.

“Not a single sound,” you remind her. 

She nods. Good girl.

Minju’s a capable girl. Well, mostly. She offers those amazing dicksucking lips, shapely curves, and sometimes, her ass for ruining its own tightness. But nothing beats the feeling of her cunt. It’s all the right things: wet, tight, and perfectly quivering as they wrap around your shaft.

Minju closes her eyes. Bites down on her lip. She fights to be true to her promise of silence. Being a good girl and bad girl simultaneously is one of her versatile traits. The table creaks louder than expected. You would’ve shot another look at your spouse again, but Minju’s pretty face is in the way. Her cheeks are scarlet and her brows bead with sweat. She really is a beauty.

Your strokes are ceaseless. The thing that shocks you the least is the fact that her legs look as if they spread wider and wider. She splits while you split her apart. Place a hand on her tummy to muffle the sounds of skin colliding and wood creaking, and reach a better end: your cock is hitting her guts, making a bobbing print on her flat stomach.

“Look how deep I am, Minju.” You grin wickedly at her reflection. “You call me daddy anywhere, don’t you? How about I become a real one?”

Minju bounces herself on you. That’s a yes. A definite, enthusiastic yes. 

Your penetration is rougher, gliding on places she can’t even imagine. If you cum right now, and this far in, you’ll live up to your name of “daddy.” Minju isn’t the only one who has to keep promises.

Corner a pulse point on her neck. Her core squeezes and although its resistance is tough, your pumps are more so.

“You’ll be my secret good girl. Daddy’s gonna put a fucking baby in your stomach, and no one has to know it’s mine. No one has to know you’re mine.”

Minju pouts, not out of sadness but of the orgasm that’s creeping from her feet to her center. It’s so close she could reach for it, taste it like a strong wind. You allow the tiny breaths and pants that leave her to be exemptions from your bedroom law.

“Wonyoung would be so happy for you.” You lick the sensitive spot behind her ear. “‘That’s so great, unnie! Come on, tell us who’s the lucky guy.’ And you’ll have to stop yourself from telling her that I did it. Can you do that?”

Minju emphasizes each repetition with a responding throb and push of her cunt. “Yes, yes, yes—”

Allow that, too. Burst inside Minju. Flood her insides with cum that shall infiltrate her fertile womb. Soon, that tummy would be round rather than flat. It’ll be your baby. 

Minju got what she wanted in the end.

-

The next day, Wonyoung will wake up crying. 

It’ll happen early in the morning, when the moon is still up and sheets still wrap your exhausted form. But she’s sobbing so loud that it’ll rouse you. 

“What’s wrong?” you’ll say. 

She’ll tell you about a dream she had. Wonyoung’s going to narrate a complex dream of Minju, her beloved former member and best friend, seducing you. It happened right in the house and in front of her. You dared to do it to her while she was sleeping and thought she didn’t know.

And you?

You’ll take her in your arms, kiss the inside of her trembling wrist, and say, “Oh, honey—it’s okay. I’m here, baby. I’m here. I’m here.”

[tangyneon]

Gojo Satoru doesn't believe in any deity.

And he argues he has every reason not to. Sorcerers, after all, never get miracles. All they get is cursed spirits and losses and grief. But if he did believe in some higher power... he'd wager they were trying to kill him tonight.

And the means of execution? You.

You are standing in the hallway of the apartment he has rented for Megumi and Tsumiki—he still has his place in Tokyo and the dorm at campus is technically his, but lately he chooses to stay here with the kids. Not that it matters right now.

Right now, you are clutching your blanket, like you are bracing for impact—not conversation.

Gojo knows that look.

You have worn it exactly twice in your nineteen years—fourteen of which he has been around for, though he likes to think he has known you your whole life—

Once, when you were eight, and asked if you could hold his hand on the walk back from some festival—he had said no.

And again when you were thirteen, asking if you could kiss his cheek on his birthday—he had said no then, too.

This is the third time you're wearing that look.

And Gojo still doesn't like it. Not one bit.

He prefers you loud—calling him names but still sharing your dessert, insisting you're a "proper Kyoto lady" before punching a curse in the eye with your bare fist. That version of you? He can handle her. Easily, even.

But this version? Quiet. Fidgety. Standing there in an oversized hoodie that looks suspiciously like—wait. That is his hoodie—

You glance up at him and ask, softly, "Can I... sleep with you tonight?"

Gojo blinks.

Then promptly short-circuits.

You seem to catch the look on his face then, immediately squeaking and waving your hands like a malfunctioning windmill.

"I—I mean just to sleep! Just—just! It's nothing weird—I just—I had a nightmare, and the wind is really loud tonight, and I can't sleep in the kids' room—like, they've got school tomorrow and there's no space, honestly—and I don't wanna sleep on the sofa 'cause it smells like old curry and crayons and your hair gel—so—so—"

Your fiancé wonders what's breaking him more: the babbling, or the fact that your face is flushed all the way to your ears.

He studies you for a beat—pretends to, really; he's just gathering his bearings—then exhales, long and dramatic.

"You're killing me, kid."

"Hey—" you glare, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed, "I'm only two years younger than you!"

"Still a kid," he hums, stepping aside and waving you towards the bedroom—a tired, lazy version of a welcoming gesture.

"Fine, fine. Come in before I burst into flames from how cute you're trying not to be."

You huff, but stomp in anyway, with all the dignity of a shy hedgehog.

As he shuts the door behind you, Gojo wonders—maybe for the first time in a very long time—if he should start praying after all.

Though, honestly, he thinks he wants to punch a wall first.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The bed isn't built for two.

Technically, it's not even built for one Gojo Satoru. He is tall, lanky, and takes up space—like an art form, the man often tells himself, specially when he wakes up with half his body hanging off the edge.

But now there's also you in here—his polar opposite, apparently. Curled up on the far edge of the mattress, wrapped in an awkward cocoon of blankets, like you're trying to shrink into invisibility.

"Y'know..." he props himself up on an elbow, watching your blanket-bundle squirm, "if you get any closer to the edge, you're going to fall off."

"I'm fine," you mumble, voice small and muffled.

"You're practically on the floor."

"Then maybe I should just go sleep on the couch—"

"No, nope! Too late," Gojo cuts in without missing a beat, "You already shattered my poor, fragile heart with your hesitant little 'can I sleep with you?' I'm going to be emotionally compromised forever now, and you're legally required to stay and make up for it."

You groan—less muffled this time. "You're impossible, 'Toru."

"And you're adorable," he fires back with a smirk—only for it to fall flat the moment he sees you stiffen under the blanket.

Gojo thinks he wants to punch a wall again.

He settles for lying back and staring at the ceiling instead—telling himself: this is fine. He is fine. He's survived countless assassination attempts, cursed wounds and meetings with the higher-ups. He can survive one night sharing a bed with his shy, weirdly conservative, overly helpful, too-gentle-for-her-own-good fiancée who makes the best sandwiches he has ever eaten.

Yeah.

This is totally. Definitely. Completely fine.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It's 3:16 a.m. when Gojo wakes up—to warmth.

Specifically, your warmth—your entire body pressed against his side like some kind of sleepy, heat-seeking entity.

Your head's on his chest, one arm draped over his stomach. Your legs are tangled with his like a sleepy octopus. Your breaths, soft and steady, tickle his collarbone. You are out cold, blissfully unaware that you have somehow turned the Strongest Sorcerer alive into your personal plushie.

He opens one eye.

Then the other.

Then begins to contemplate all his life choices up to this exact moment.

Now, this is the part where any reasonable man would shift away. Reclaim some space. Tug the blanket up. Maybe build the wall of pillows he should've made at the start of the night. Something. Literally anything.

But Gojo does none of those things.

Instead, he lies very, very still.

Only because your face looks so peaceful right now. Unguarded in a way he has never seen it when you are awake. You always smile too much, he thinks absently. But never enough for yourself.

You pretend it doesn't hurt when he forgets your birthday. You make excuses for him when he ghosts you—sometimes for days—murmuring that he must have been "very busy with work". You never say anything. But he knows. He sees.

Gojo isn't stupid.

He's just... maybe a little cowardly.

And yet, you are still here—curled into him, drooling on his chest like a puppy.

And your coward—ahem, your fiancé—can do nothing but melt.

He cranes his neck to check the clock on the nightstand. 3:21 a.m. Too early for missions. Way too late to pretend this never happened.

He glances down at you, still fast asleep. "You're using me as a body pillow, aren't you?" he whispers.

You just snuffle in response, burrowing deeper into him.

He sighs, soft and long.

"I should complain," he mutters to the ceiling, "I really should."

But he doesn't.

Instead, he shifts just enough to tuck the blanket higher over your shoulder, and slides his arm around your back—almost without thinking. You make a pleased sound—something soft and terribly adorable—and the man swears, swears on every moronic geezer's grave, he has never been this warm in all his life.

God, you're such a weirdo.

The huff of amusement rises in his chest before he even realises it's there.

Who sneaks out of a high-security, hyper-strict clan estate like yours, just to come all the way from Kyoto to Tokyo and help raise someone else's kids? Who brings freshly made side dishes, brushes Tsumiki's hair, helps Megumi with his math homework even when he acts like a gremlin?

Who smiles at Gojo Satoru like that—even when he forgets how to smile back?

"...Dummy," he murmurs, closing his eyes with a soft chuckle, "I'll allow this just for tonight."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When you wake up much later—a gradual process with slow blinks, a tiny inhale, a rustle of the blanket as you stretch like a sleepy kitten—Gojo doesn't need to open his eyes to know. You're looking like a deer in headlights, frozen mid-stretch, having just realised where you are. And more importantly, how you are:

Pressed against your fiancé's side, arm curled around his chest, one leg wedged between his, hair a bird's nest, face—which had been tucked so comfortably into the crook of his neck until a second ago—now sporting a bit of dried drool at the corner of your mouth.

You make a sound.

A tiny, mortified, lowkey-dying-animal kind of squeak.

Now, Gojo could be a decent person. He could sit up, act like this is normal, pretend he didn't just spend the last three hours wide awake and disgustingly content holding you.

He could let you off the hook easy.

But where's the fun in that?

He cracks an eye open, stretching with all the dramatic flair of a man well-rested and well-cuddled. "Mmm," he drawls, "You're awake. And still clinging to me, huh? So clingy."

You let out a choked squeak and immediately try to pull away—but his arm, still very much wrapped around you, doesn't budge. He's not holding you tightly, exactly, but it's definitely still a hold.

"I—I'm sorry—I didn't—!! I must've rolled over in my sleep—I wasn't—!"

"Shh," he cuts you off, giving your head a gentle pat, "Body pillow privileges are all yours, fiancée. No need to panic."

You make a strangled noise in your throat.

Gojo adds, with a grin that's all too sleepy and all too toothy, "Though, you do drool a little."

You slap a hand over your mouth in horror.

He cackles, finally letting you go, flopping back in bed with both arms behind his head—utterly pleased with himself—as you shuffle out in a mess of blankets and flushed cheeks, muttering something about your toothpaste. Or maybe his hoodie.

He watches you go, grin widening when you toss a shy glance over your shoulder at the door—then bolt down the hallway the moment you catch him still watching.

And if, maybe, later that morning he insists on sitting next to you instead of across from you at breakfast—well. No one says anything. Nothing, except for a confused look from Tsumiki and a fatigued sigh from Megumi. Not even when he keeps looking at you instead of his omelette, wearing a small, possibly helpless kind of smile.

And he tells himself: yeah—Gojo Satoru doesn't believe in any deity.

But slowly, very slowly, he's starting to believe in you.

And that's worse.

So much worse.

(But maybe also kind of nice.)

find more fics about these two here!!!! © tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || masterlist.

[traffys-heart]

Sabo NSFW Headcannons

I'll post a real fic eventually, but until then have some more horny ramblings. I’m also working on OP women and OP older men lists for my other prompts so prepare for the cast to widen <3

CW: AFAB! Reader, Blowjobs, Facials, Dry Humping, Face sitting, Feral! Sabo

Sabo loves a good blowjob. Yes, he’s a gentleman, emphasis on the gentle, but don’t forget about the man. He’s terribly down bad for you on your knees, especially in situations when you really shouldn’t be.

Exhibit A was the time when during a high-stakes spy operation you decided you wanted to tease him while your targets idled with off-topic chit chat. While it wasn’t the information you guys needed at the time, you were tasked with gathering as much as possible. Anything could have been crucial, even the state of the weather.

Anyways, Sabo did little to stop your actions as you toyed with the zipper of his fly and slowly shrank down the carpet below the two of you, softening the sound of your descent. Moreover he still had to painstakingly listen in on the men next door while you bobbed the thick head of his cock between your lips.

He ended up blowing his load right before an important topic change, an embarrassing early release for him, yet a lucky move for the sake of the Revolutionary Army. His ears almost didn’t catch the names of the nobles you needed as his eyes were intensely focused on your tongue displaying his swallowed cum.

Sabo likes knowing you take his semen inside of you. You both know not using condoms is risky so unfortunately he can’t cum inside of you, but watching you lick him up is almost as exhilarating.

There have been times when he’s painted your face after a blow job, hastily pulling out of your poor mouth and jacking off over your face to watch white ropes splatter across your features. He likes seeing your lips stuffed with his cum a little better, but if the sight of your messy face and fluttering eyelashes doesn’t get him going again.

Not to mention he loves it when you wear his hat. It could be during any sort of intimate moment, but there is something so satisfying about seeing you in something of his while he takes you that makes him blush. Even in casual situations such as lounging together with friends, placing his top hat on your head makes him all giddy inside.

Sabo is so needy after missions. Specifically, operations when he is away and can’t see you for periods of time. You’re telling him he can’t see his favorite girl for over a week? You’re done for. And so is he.

He will dart straight towards you the moment he gets back, practically forgoing the usual report issued to Dragon after every mission. Of course, before everything else, he seeks comfort. He wants his head in your lap and your fingers running through his hair and massaging small patterns into his scalp. He wants the comfort of lying with you and wrapping his arms around your waist as he digs his face further into the softness of your stomach.

However, never forget that Sabo is repressed. After being away from you for so long he also can’t wait to see your body and grind his hips over yours. There have been times when he’s gotten so impatient that he’s dry humped you into the mattress while the two of you were fully clothed. He was left with a very uncomfortable sticky situation in his pants after. He also immediately passed out from exhaustion but made up for your lack of orgasm with morning head. You’ve heard of breakfast in bed, but with Sabo, you’re getting breakfast and head.

If Sabo could choose his last meal, your cunt would be on his face as he takes his last breath. The first time you tried face sitting I’d imagine you would be a little apprehensive due to not wanting to put too much pressure on his scar, however, any worries are immediately heightened when he wraps his arms around your thighs and forces you to put your full weight on his face.

I don’t really know how to end this but I could probably keep this going for multiple pages so LMK if you guys want more.

[lovebugism]

soooo eddie hears or reads somewhere that birthmarks are where your lover from a past life used to kiss you

and as soon as he gets home he wants to make sure that in this present life r still feel this love and that the birthmarks remain the same until their next life together (ugh so cute 🥺)

i changed this up a wee bit but i hope u like it!! — you and eddie kiss birthmarks on the other for the next life (established relationship, fluff, 0.7k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Eddie traces shapes on your bare back, a post-sex ritual of sorts. It starts out innocent, usually — tiny hearts and flowers and planets that you try hard to guess. It almost always ends with him signing penises onto your spine and laughing out loud every time you realize.

He’s doing it mindlessly now. Touching you just to touch you. His finger trails up your back, circles over your shoulder blades, and then falls back down again. “Did you know you have a birthmark here?” he wonders, breaking the honeyed silence of his tiny bedroom.

Your brows furrow as he traces some sort of outline between your shoulder and spine. “Do I?” you murmur, muffled into the pillow.

“I think so. It’s really faint.”

“Maybe it’s just dirt,” you joke quietly. You don’t see Eddie pull his hand away to lick his finger, but you feel the wet touch of it when it swipes over your back. “Ew, Eddie!” you shout.

“It’s not dirt,” he confirms, choking back a laugh.

“I’ve ever noticed it, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever looked that hard back there. Like, ever.”

Eddie scoffs, almost in disbelief. “That’s a shame…” he murmurs. 

His finger is gentle and featherlight as it trails down your bare back, leaving chill bumps in its wake. His hand dips below the sheets covering the bottom half of you. His palm spreads unabashedly over your ass, wide and warm. 

“…’Cause there’s a real nice view back here.”

You lift a heavy hand to swat at the boy beside you. It collides halfheartedly with his shoulder. He laughs again. “What?! I’m talking about the birthmark, babe! It’s cute— I love noticing new things about you.”

“Don’t people say that’s how you died in a past life? Wherever your birthmark is?”

Your tired eyes open to find Eddie’s screwed-up face. “Does that mean someone stabbed me in the ass? In, like, the middle ages or some shit? ‘Cause that’s a fucking gnarly way to go.”

“Better than being stabbed in the back… Literally.”

Eddie settles next to you with a huff. He lays on his stomach and shoves half his face into the pillow next to yours, all but melting into the mattress. He keeps tracing the mark on your back with an absentminded touch, never anything but gentle with you.

“Wanna know what I heard?” he mumbles.

“Hm?”

“I heard that birthmarks are where your lover used to kiss you— you know, in a past life or whatever,” he confesses, like it’s a deeply held secret. Then he shrugs his milky white shoulders. “That’s what my mom used to say, anyway. And that woman was never wrong.”

You smile quietly to yourself. Eddie doesn’t talk about his mom very often. You feel a special privilege to be hearing about her now.

“I believe it,” you hum.

His contented grin blooms into something wider and more boyish. “That means someone might’ve been kissing my ass in a past life.”

“That’s awful,” you grumble with a scrunched nose. “Now, I have to give you a new one.”

“Choose wisely, princess,” Eddie lilts and turns onto his back. He spreads his arms out wide and beams when you lean over him. “My future depends on it.”

You don’t think very long. Maybe a moment or more. You press your lips to his chest, just below the faded tattoo on his pec and right over his beating heart. You smile when you pull away, all giddy like a teenage girl, and lay back down again.

Eddie’s chest sparkles with so much adoration it hurts. He laughs it off anyway. “Alright, cheeseball— It’s my turn.”

“You have to do it in the same place!” you argue in a tiny voice when the boy lays over you. He props his weight on his elbows and entwines his legs with yours. The heavy closeness feels like heaven.

“Why?”

“So we’ll have matching birthmarks! And then, when we’re in the next life or whatever, and we look like totally different people, we’ll know we loved each other.”

Eddie scoffs. “I’ll know.”

“How?”

“How will I know that I loved you?” he repeats, like the answer’s obvious and far too silly to ponder. You nod, and he shrugs. “‘Cause I have to. I can’t help it.”

Something warm blooms behind your ribcage. “And I’m the cheesy one?” you tease with a big, girlish grin.

“It’s your fault. You bring the worst outta me, honey.”

You laugh when he drops his head to your chest, pressing a kiss over your heart and lingering there. You pray it stains forever.