#but barely noticeable unless you /really/ pause & look

[ickbite]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER !!

PAIRING: neighbor!hee x reader

Synopsis. It’s okay to get with a guy a few years older than you! Even better when he tries to ignore how beautifully charming you are!

NOTE: age gap relationship (4 years) lowkey was craving this … 6k words — enha masterlist

Summer clung to the building like it didn’t know how to let go: thick, heavy, and restless. You stepped out onto the shared porch between your apartment and the one next door, glass of cold water in hand, tank top sticking to your skin. It was late, but too hot to sleep. The porch light above flickered again, buzzing once before sputtering out. You rolled your eyes at it and leaned against the railing anyway.

Right on cue, you heard a door creak open.

You didn’t turn, not yet anyways, it took everything in you not to dissolve into a massive puddle of sweat already. You just took a sip and waited.

“Still broken?” came a familiar voice—deep, calm, and slightly amused.

Heeseung.

You turned slowly, letting your gaze move over him. Gray sweatpants, black t-shirt, and a screwdriver tucked loosely in his hand like he hadn’t really planned to use it.

“I was starting to think you were ghosting me,” you said, giving him a look.

He didn’t rise to it. He never did. That’s what made it fun.

“I keep meaning to fix it,” he said, stepping past you toward the light fixture. “Never got around to it.”

“Mmm.” You sipped your water again. “Typical man.”

He shot you a sideways glance. “You got something against men?”

You smiled, stepping closer. “Only the ones who ignore me.”

“I notice you,” he said quietly, still not looking at you.

He was always like this, too composed and unreadable for your liking. You’d met him two months ago when you moved in. He’d helped you carry one box, said your name once, and since then had politely ignored every attempt at small talk.

Well… Almost every attempt, you’d have to corner him and put him in situations like this to get him to talk to you.

He reached up, twisting at the fixture with slow, precise movements. You let your eyes wander, just for fun.

“You always dress like that at midnight?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

You looked down at yourself, what was wrong with the way you were dressed? Sure, the tiny shorts you had on were close to showing your bare ass and your tank top was so thin that anyone who looked hard enough could see the outline of your boobs, but that wasn’t your fault or anything. All you could do is shrug, “it’s hot.”

“You think that’s an excuse?”

“You’re the only one complaining,” you said. “Unless you want me to cover up?”

That made him pause, his face looking like he was contemplating. Then, with frustrating calm, he said, “Do what you want.”

You tilted your head, lips tugging into a smirk. “Oh, I plan to.”

The light above you buzzed again, sputtered, and then gave up entirely.

Heeseung stepped down from the small ledge and sighed. “Guess I’ll need a new bulb.”

“Or maybe it’s nervous,” you offered, brushing past him as you returned to lean against the porch railing. “Lights flicker when the energy’s high, you know. Too much tension.”

He glanced at you. “There’s no tension.”

“I beg to differ.” You said it too sweetly for it to sound mean. He didn’t reply.

You turned your head, watching him for a moment in the dark.

“You always this quiet?” you asked.

“Only when I don’t trust myself to speak.”

That one landed.

You straighten your posture, heart beating just a little faster, watching the way he shifted his grip on the screwdriver like he suddenly wanted to be anywhere but standing next to you on a warm summer night with too little light and too much want.

“I’m nineteen,” you said softly, stepping closer. “In case you were wondering.”

He looked at you now, scanning you up and down. Like it physically hurt him to do it. “You’re too young.”

“It’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”

“That’s not the point.”

You smiled. “Then tell me what the point is.”

Heeseung’s jaw flexed. He glanced at your lips. Just once. Then back at your eyes, “I think you know.”

Another silence stretched between you. And then, finally, he stepped back. Just once. Just far enough to feel like rejection.

“I should go,” he said.

“You always run away when girls flirt with you?” You teased, stepping yet another step closer to him.

“Only when I want to flirt back.”

Your chest tightened. But you held your ground.

“Goodnight,” he added, voice low.

You didn’t say it back. Just watched him disappear inside.

The porch was quiet again. No light. No breeze.

Just the glass sweating in your hand and the faint hum of something that felt like it had already begun.

⸻

Next to go was the sink.

A slow, rhythmic drip that turned into a small, stubborn stream. You’d tried tightening the faucet, even looked up a tutorial, but it kept leaking very loudly and very annoyingly. Just enough to ruin your night.

So naturally, you knocked on his door.

Heeseung opened it a little slower than usual, like he was deciding whether or not to answer at all. He was in the same black shirt as the night before, hair slightly messy, one hand braced on the doorframe.

You leaned against the doorjamb with an innocent smile. “Hi, neighbor.”

He blinked. “What’d you break?”

“I didn’t break anything,” you said. “But my sink might be having a crisis. Thought I’d ask the guy with the screwdriver if he wanted to play handyman again.”

He hesitated. “Have you told maintenance?”

“I could,” you said. “But you do such a better job,” your hand goes to slightly run down his arm.

His eyes narrowed slightly. You didn’t miss the way he looked at your bare legs before dragging his gaze away.

“Come on,” you added. “I’ll owe you one.”

Heeseung stared at you for a second longer, then stepped out of his apartment without another word.

⸻

Your apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and laundry detergent. He paused just inside the door, looking around like he’d stepped into dangerous territory — which, to be fair, he had.

You watched as he walked past the bookshelf crammed with poetry books and old Polaroids, past the record player and the half-melted candle on your coffee table.

He looked everywhere but at you.

“The sink’s in here,” you said, motioning to the small kitchen. “She’s leaking.”

He rolled up his sleeves and crouched down under the counter, grabbing the pipe. “She?”

“All misbehaving appliances are girls,” you said, hopping up to sit on the counter beside him. “Boys just short-circuit and die. Girls at least give you warning signs.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “You’ve thought about this too much.”

You let your bare foot tap against the lower cabinet. “I think about a lot of things.”

Heeseung didn’t respond. He was busy adjusting the valve, fingers working in steady, precise movements.

You tilted your head and watched him.“Ever been inside a girl’s apartment before?” you asked casually.

He paused again. “Not answering that.”

“So you have.”

He glanced at you, lips twitching. “What about you? Ever lured a man over with plumbing issues?”

“Only the ones who pretend not to like me.”

This time he did look at you straight on, like he was weighing something in his head. “You’re not subtle, you know that?”

Honestly, it made your knees buckle slightly. “No fun in being subtle.”

Heeseung turned back to the sink, jaw tight. You caught the way his hand flexed on the wrench. He was trying so hard not to look again.

“I think it’s fixed,” he muttered, standing up slowly.

You stayed seated on the counter, knees almost brushing his chest. He didn’t move away right away, toying with everything to make sure of his work.

You smiled. “That’s it? No bill?”

His voice was low. “Thought I’d add it to your tab.”

“And what’s on that so far?”

Heeseung’s eyes dropped to your lips for a second too long, then back up. “Trouble,” he said. “A lot of trouble.”

You grinned. “That’s the best kind of anything.”

He stepped back then… weirdly fast. Like he realized how close he’d let himself get. He wiped his hands on a paper towel and continued to look everywhere but you.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice tight. “Inviting guys in like this.”

“Who said I do this with just anyone?” You bit your lip.

“You’re nineteen,” he said, like it was a defense.

You slid off the counter and took a step closer. “You already used that one.”

He backed up until his shoulder brushed the doorframe. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You stepped even closer, now just a few inches between you.

“Yeah?” you whispered. “Or maybe I just know exactly what I want.”

His breath caught.

And still, nothing happened.

You didn’t touch him. Didn’t lean in. You just looked him in the eye and let the silence carry every word you weren’t saying.

Then, calmly, you stepped back.

“Thanks for fixing the sink,” you said lightly, like your heart wasn’t pounding.

He opened the door to leave. But before he stepped out, he paused—one hand still on the knob. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That look,” he said without turning. “Don’t give it to someone like me.”

Then he left.

And the door clicked shut, soft but final. But that ache under your skin? That feeling stayed.

⸻

He didn’t answer your texts.

Not that you’d sent anything obvious — no hey, where’d you go? or miss me yet? You weren’t desperate. Just strategic. Just playful.

Just one message:

u still alive or did the police get u

No response.

You weren’t surprised.

Heeseung had been doing the whole avoidance damage control routine like a pro. No more porch run-ins, no more accidental eye contact in the hall. Even his mail pile vanished earlier now, like he was timing it to avoid bumping into you.

It would’ve been impressive if it weren’t so stupid and if it weren’t you he was avoiding.

So on a sticky, slow Wednesday night, when the air felt like it was sitting on your skin and your playlist (full of tame impala and mitski like artists) had hit its third repeat, you decided to make a move.

Of course, not a bold one, you were too embarrassed. Just cookies.

Soft, warm, chocolate chip with flaky sea salt on top, the kind that melted in your mouth and made people forgive you for anything.

You boxed them in a clear plastic container, scribbled “for the grump next door” on a sticky note, and padded barefoot down the hall. You placed it on his doormat and knocked once. Then you walked away like it meant nothing.

And you told yourself that it didn’t, you were still young after all, this was just flirting.

But the next morning, when you opened your door, the container was sitting on your mat. Empty.

No note. No message. No thank you. Just a cleaned out tupperware that used to hold cookies.

You stared at it, your chest blooming with something smug and sweet, and said aloud to the hallway, “You’re welcome.”

⸻

Two days later, the door creaked.

You were already outside, tank top, loose cotton shorts, a half-melted popsicle hanging limply between your fingers. It was past eleven, and the sky looked like wet ink. Your skin was still damp from your shower, hair thrown up into a messy bun, strands clinging to the sides of your neck.

You didn’t look at him right away.

Just let the sound of his door echo like thunder.

Heeseung stepped out slow, like he was testing the air. Gray sweatpants again. A white shirt this time, sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair was still damp too, probably showered after work. He leaned against the porch railing, almost mirroring you.

And no one spoke at this… at least not right away.

Until you broke the silence with a tiny, half-smile. “So you did like them.”

He didn’t turn his head. “They were alright.”

You licked a drip from your popsicle, letting the silence thicken.

“You ate all of them.”

“Didn’t want to be rude.”

You tilted your head. “Leaving the container without a note felt pretty rude.”

Heeseung finally looked at you then. Fully.

It was soft at first — just a glance, barely a pull of his brows. But then it dragged. Slowly. Over your legs. Your lips. The sticky pink smear on your wrist. His eyes flickered upward and met yours, like he hated himself for all of it.

“No more gifts,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Are you allergic to generosity or are you just emotionally unavailable?”

That almost got a smile. Almost.

“It’s confusing,” he said. “Makes it harder to pretend this isn’t…”

He trailed off.

You leaned forward, elbow resting on your knee. “This isn’t what?”

Another silence.

He didn’t answer. You didn’t need him to.

Heeseung looked exhausted, but not in the physical way, but like someone fighting a current he already knew was going to win. His fingers tapped against the porch rail once, then stilled.

“You looked better without the distance,” you said after a beat. “Three days of silence didn’t suit you.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“You’re hard to ignore.”

That one landed and his grip on the railing visibly tightened.

“Don’t do that,” he said lowly.

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I matter.”

You stared at him, the popsicle melting slowly in your hand. “If you didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have baked you cookies.”

“Cookies aren’t—”

“You ate all of them, Heeseung.”

He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek like he was trying not to smile. He didn’t succeed.

You let the tension stretch, let him stand there knowing you were winning this round too. And when you were sure he wouldn’t speak again, you said, quietly “why does it scare you?”

Heeseung blinked, startled.

“Me. Us. Whatever this is,” you added. “You act like I’m dangerous.”

“Because you are.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sharp honesty.

He stepped toward you, slowly, arms crossed over his chest. He was still a full foot away, but something about the shift made the porch feel smaller.

“You’re young,” he said.

You stood.

“You keep saying that like it’s a spell. It’s not. It doesn’t make you want me any less.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard. “You’re playing with fire,” he muttered.

You took one slow step closer. “Then stop standing so close to it.”

That did it.

His jaw tightened, like the fight was slipping. His chest rose with something deeper than breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then away, like he’d burned himself on the thought alone.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said.

You smiled, just a little. “I think you’re the only one who believes that.”

Another silence.

Then, quieter than anything else so far, he said, “Don’t flirt with people who might not know how to stop.”

You didn’t blink. “You just don’t want to admit you don’t want to.”

And then, like that, you turned. Walked past him. One bare foot after the other. But just before you reached your door, you paused. “I’ll leave it unlocked next time,” you said softly, not looking back.

Then you disappeared inside. And the door clicked shut like a promise. Heeseung didn’t move for a full minute. But his heart did. God, it did.

———

The sky was bruised purple, heavy with rain and the promise of a storm. You watched from your window as the first fat drops splattered against the glass, blurring the city lights into shimmering halos. The air was thick, charged, like the whole world was holding its breath.

Then the power flickered once, then twice and finally went out completely.

You sighed, the sudden quiet so different from the usual hum of the ceiling fan and streetlights. The apartment plunged into darkness except for the soft glow of your phone’s flashlight.

Perfect timing.

You grabbed a candle from your kitchen counter, lit it, and set it on the windowsill. The flickering flame threw dancing shadows across the room, turning your familiar space into something fragile and uncertain.

Just as you settled on the couch, the doorbell rang.

Your heart jumped and your mind grew curious, you weren’t expecting anyone especially not at a time like this.

Peering through the peephole, you saw him: Heeseung, soaked through, rain dripping from his hair and sleeves, eyes wild but holding something like relief.

You opened the door before you could think twice.

“Power’s out,” he said, voice low. “Thought you might need help.”

You swallowed the heat rising in your chest. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to come over.”

He stepped inside without waiting for an answer, shaking water from his hair. The smell of rain mixed with his natural scent, something earthy, warm, utterly him.

You moved aside, watching him carefully as he pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

“It’s gonna be a long night,” he muttered, scanning the darkened room.

You nodded, lighting another candle.

Heeseung sank onto the couch beside you, close but not touching. The silence stretched, heavy and electric.

“You never stopped,” he said finally, voice rough. “Not even when I tried.”

You met his eyes, bold and steady. “Did you want me to?”

He hesitated. “I wanted to do the right thing. But you… you make it impossible.”

You smiled softly. “Maybe we both stopped trying.”

Thunder rumbled outside, shaking the windows. Heeseung’s gaze dropped to your lips, then back up. “I’m not good at this.”

“You’re not supposed to be,” you said. “That’s why it’s real.”

The storm raged on, but in the quiet darkness between you, something fragile and fierce was born.

His hand brushed yours, just barely and it was enough. Enough to say everything without a word.

———

The storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean and the air crisp with early morning quiet. You woke to soft light filtering through your curtains, the scent of rain still lingering in the cool air.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Heeseung:

“Coffee? I’m down the hall.”

You smiled, grabbed your robe, and padded barefoot to your door.

Heeseung was sitting outside, a steaming cup in each hand. He looked… tired. The rain had left his hair damp, and the corners of his mouth were softer than you’d ever seen.

“Morning,” you said, taking the cup he offered.

“Morning,” he replied, voice low but steady.

You both sipped in silence for a moment.

“Last night was…” you started.

“Too much,” he finished.

You laughed softly. “I mean—”

“No regrets,” he said.

You looked at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded. “You make me want things I thought I should ignore.”

You reached out, brushing a stray damp strand behind his ear.

“I’m glad,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours, open and honest and something more. For the first time, the space between you didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt like home.

————

You hadn’t seen Heeseung all day.

Not in the hall, not on the porch, not in the quiet hours of late evening when the light turned gold and sleepy. You tried not to look for him, but the way your ears perked at the sound of footsteps gave you away. You kept your door cracked longer than usual. You left a second mug on the counter like it was instinct.

Still, nothing.

Until 10:47 p.m., when three soft knocks tapped against your door.

You opened it slowly, and there he was.

Gray hoodie, hands in his pockets, hair damp from a shower (his hair is always damp!). He looked like he was about to say something casual, probably something like “just wanted to check on you!” but the moment your eyes met, it died on his lips.

“Hey,” you said, voice quiet, warm.

He swallowed. “You doing anything?”

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Come with me.”

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to.

⸻

The rooftop was warm from the day’s leftover sun, and the air smelled faintly of concrete and summer wind. The city sprawled below in a thousand tiny lights. The hum of cars far off. Somewhere, someone played jazz through a half-open window.

You stood at the edge of the roof together, side by side, not speaking. The silence felt comfortable now, not awkward nor heavy. Just full.

Heeseung sat first, back against the short brick wall, long legs stretched out. You sat beside him slowly, pulling your knees to your chest, careful not to brush against him.

“Do you come up here often?” you asked softly.

“I come up here when I want to stop thinking.”

You smiled. “And how’s that going?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed somewhere far below, but his fingers twitched slightly where they rested against the concrete — like they wanted to reach for something but didn’t trust the space between.

“You always come up here?” you asked.

“Only when I can’t sleep,” he said. “Which is most nights lately.”

“Because of me?”

He looked over at you then, not smiling, not teasing but honest.“Yeah.”

The word landed like a ripple in your chest.

You let the silence stretch again, watching the way the wind tugged at his hair. How soft he looked in this light. How close.

“I thought you’d keep avoiding me,” you said.

Heeseung let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I did. For like five hours.”

“And then?”

“And then I wanted to see you more than I wanted to do the right thing.”

Your heart ached at that. Because it wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t clever. It was real.

You rested your chin on your knee. “What’s the right thing, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Not this.”

“But this is what you want.”

His voice dropped. “Yeah.”

You turned to face him more fully. “So take it.”

That hung between you — bold and unshaken. You didn’t look away. And he didn’t blink.

Slowly, his hand moved. Just his fingers at first, brushing against yours on the ground like they weren’t sure if they were allowed. You tilted your palm up.

He took it.His fingers threaded through yours — warm, steady, a little shaky. Neither of you said anything.

He looked down at your joined hands, then up at your face. His voice cracked just slightly when he spoke.“You make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I’m already halfway in.”

You smiled. “Nothing wrong with that. ”

His lips twitched. Then stilled.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Only that suddenly, his face was inches from yours, the air charged and humming between your mouths. He looked at you like he was waiting for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, barely louder than a breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Please.”

And then — finally — he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t wild. It was quiet and aching, like something he’d been holding in too long, like a secret finally spoken. His mouth moved over yours slowly, reverently, like he didn’t want to miss a single second.

His hand cupped your jaw. Yours curled into the front of his hoodie.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling, hearts not quite steady.

“I’ve wanted that for a while,” he said.

You smiled, barely able to speak. “Me too.”

The wind stirred your hair. A car honked far away. Someone downstairs laughed.

But here, up on this rooftop, it was just you and him.

And something that had started slow finally beginning to catch fire.

———

Heeseung didn’t kiss you again.

Not right away. Not after the rooftop.

You’d both sat there for a while afterward, legs tangled, sharing secrets you’d never planned to say out loud. You told him how lonely the apartment felt some nights. He told you he hadn’t let anyone in, not really, in over a year.

Eventually, he walked you to your door and stood there for a long time like he wanted to be invited in. But he wasn’t ready and you didn’t force it. You just reached for his hand one last time and said, “Goodnight.”

He didn’t say it back.

He just watched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

⸻

The next day, he acted like nothing happened.

Not in a cruel way. Just careful. Neutral.

You saw him on the porch that morning — hoodie sleeves pushed up, coffee in hand. You waved. He nodded. Said nothing.

You tried to match it. You leaned on the railing like usual, bare legs tucked under you, hair freshly styled. The breeze played with the hem of your shirt, and you saw him glance over, quick and sharp — then back down to his phone.

You bit back a smile. He was failing at pretending. Badly.

Good.

⸻

That evening, your doorbell rang once.

You opened it to find a small white takeout bag and no one standing there. But you heard his door click shut a second later.

You brought it inside.

Inside was a container of tteokbokki — still warm — and a napkin with messy handwriting.

Eat something. You forget. - H

Your stomach fluttered like a traitor.

You texted him:

thank u. i’ll return the favor. don’t think this gets you out of round 2 tho.

No response.

But a minute later, you heard the sound of his microwave.

⸻

By the time the sun went down, the apartment was too warm to be comfortable. You sat cross-legged on your couch in shorts and an oversized tee, flipping through shows you weren’t watching.

You were thinking about the kiss.

How it started slow. How it stayed with you.

How he hadn’t touched you since — not even a brush of fingers — and how that made you want him more.

You heard footsteps outside.

His.

Then a pause.

Then a knock.

And you opened the door without hesitation.

Heeseung stood there, hoodie zipped halfway up, hands in the pockets, eyes unreadable.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You nodded and stepped aside.

He didn’t sit right away. He stood near the counter, like he was thinking of a reason to stay or an excuse to leave.

You leaned against the arm of the couch and said, “You didn’t answer my text.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not regretting it, are you?”

He looked at you then — long, hard, like the idea offended him. “No,” he said, walking forward. “I’m regretting not doing it again.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “So do it again.”

He didn’t wait this time.

He crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed you like he meant it — deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that spoke of every second he’d spent trying not to think about you. His hands found your waist. Yours tangled in the collar of his hoodie.

You pulled him down onto the couch with you, your knees bracketing his hips, mouths still pressed together. This time, it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t shy.

It was need.

He pulled away just enough to look at you, lips swollen, breath uneven.

“I’m trying not to move too fast,” he whispered.

You laughed softly. “I don’t care.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.

You stayed like that for a while — him curled against you, your fingers brushing through his hair, silence thick with everything unsaid.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“This doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That’s because it never was.”

⸻

It started with small things.

Like how he didn’t knock anymore.

Some nights, he’d just show up — hoodie tugged over his head, eyes tired, hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. You’d open the door without a word and let him in. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just wanted silence and your shoulder.

Other times, he kissed you the second you closed the door behind him.

Like he needed it. Like he couldn’t not.

One evening, around 9 p.m., he texted you:

I’m outside.

You found him sitting on the stairs just beneath your porch, arms resting loosely over his knees.

He looked up as you stepped out, then nodded for you to join him.

“I like when it’s quiet,” he said as you sat beside him.

You rested your chin on your knee. “Me too.”

He tilted his head, gaze soft. “You look different out here.”

“More peaceful?”

He shook his head. “More quiet.”

You smiled. “And you’re still sitting next to me.”

“That’s the problem.” He said it so easily now. Like he’d stopped fighting it.

You nudged his shoulder with yours. “What problem?”

He didn’t say it. He just leaned in and kissed you like an answer.

⸻

It didn’t take long for people to start noticing.

Not because you were obvious, but because the energy shifted. You weren’t flirting anymore. Not really.

Now, you looked at him like he was already yours.

And he looked at you like he hated how much he loved that.

One night, your upstairs neighbor passed you both in the hallway as you leaned against Heeseung’s doorframe, laughing too softly for anyone else to understand. She paused. Smiled.

“You two finally figured it out?”

You blinked. “What?”

She just waved her hand. “Nothing. It’s cute.”

Heeseung’s ears flushed pink.

⸻

The first time he stayed the night, it wasn’t planned.

It was a Friday. You’d had a bad day — some frustrating texts from friends, missed deadlines, your AC rattling like it was about to die. Heeseung showed up just after midnight with a bag of snacks, two cold cans of soda, and a promise to fix the AC.

You didn’t even make it through the first half of the movie.

You fell asleep with your head on his chest and his fingers tangled in your hair, both of you tucked into the corner of the couch like you were afraid moving would wake the spell.

When you opened your eyes, it was morning. The sky was pale and the city quiet. Heeseung was still there, one arm wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against your neck.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to.

⸻

Later, as he slipped his shoes on at the door, you watched him with your arms crossed and a sleepy smirk on your face.

“Next time, bring a change of clothes.”

He glanced back at you, already smiling.

“You planning on keeping me here?”

You shrugged. “We both know you don’t want to leave.”

He didn’t argue, only leaned in, kissed your forehead, and said,

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And he was.

⸻

It was supposed to be a quick trip.

Just groceries. Maybe some snacks. You’d texted Heeseung out of boredom, and he’d replied three minutes later with:

“Pick me up.”

So now here you were, in a corner aisle of a half-empty store, laughing quietly as Heeseung leaned over your shoulder to read the label on a bottle of soy sauce you didn’t actually need.

“I swear you only come here to flirt in front of the ramen.”

You tilted your head toward him. “It’s the most romantic aisle. Obviously.”

He grinned, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Then I guess I’ll propose in front of the instant miso.”

Your laughter echoed softly through the aisle. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t scandalous. Just a kind of closeness that said we’re comfortable here — in this in-between space of almost something, almost everything.

Heeseung tugged the cart behind him as you tossed in a bag of frozen dumplings. Your fingers brushed as you walked. You didn’t think twice before linking your pinky with his.

Neither of you noticed the guy standing at the end of the aisle.

Not until Heeseung froze mid-step.

You followed his gaze — and found a tall guy with messy hair and a smirk standing by the cereal section, arms crossed over his chest like he’d just stumbled across something way more interesting than Frosted Flakes.

“Hee?” the guy said. “Seriously?”

Heeseung’s hand slipped from yours instantly. His expression changed. Not guilty, exactly — but startled. Like something private had just been exposed to air too early.

You glanced between them. “Friend of yours?”

“Jay,” Heeseung muttered. “We… used to work together.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Used to?”

You stepped back slightly, giving them space, but Jay’s eyes flicked to you and then to Heeseung with a grin that said got it.

“I was just grabbing cereal,” Jay said, lifting the box like proof. “Didn’t realize you were busy.”

Heeseung shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s not—”

“Relax,” Jay cut in. “I’m not judging.”

He looked at you again, this time a little differently — not rude, not intrusive. Just curious.

“You his girlfriend?”

You opened your mouth, but Heeseung beat you to it.

“She’s… someone.”

Jay blinked, caught off guard. “Okay.”

Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re not really… telling people yet.”

Jay gave a small, knowing nod. “Then I didn’t see anything.”

You smiled a little. “Thanks.”

Jay winked at Heeseung. “She’s cute. Don’t mess it up.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the next aisle, humming to himself like the world hadn’t just shifted.

⸻

In the car afterward, Heeseung was quiet.

You didn’t press him. You let the silence sit, warm and humming, like tension without teeth. It wasn’t until you pulled into the parking lot that he finally spoke.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m ashamed.”

You looked over at him. “I know.”

He turned toward you, hand resting between your seats, thumb brushing yours gently. “I just… wasn’t ready for anyone to see it yet.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Hee.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I know. But you do.”

You raised a brow. “Me?”

“Yeah. You deserve someone who’s proud of it. Of you.”

The words sat heavy in your chest — heavier than you expected. You squeezed his fingers. “Then be proud.”

He looked at you, then down at your joined hands. “I’m trying,” he said softly. “Just… don’t let go while I figure it out.”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You expected him to disappear.

Not fully — but to go distant. To start second-guessing what this was, what you were. After all, someone saw. Someone knew. And the last thing Heeseung had ever been was careless.

But he didn’t go anywhere.

He texted you later that night:

Home safe?

You left your hoodie in the car. Smelled like strawberries.

Might keep it.

You stared at the last message for a while.

Smiled.

Didn’t answer.

Let him sit with the feeling of wanting more.

⸻

The shift didn’t come all at once.

It came in the details.

He stopped sitting on the other side of the couch. Now he pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, held you while you talked, laughed into your shoulder when you made a joke.

One afternoon, you were curled up with your legs across his lap, flipping through a magazine you weren’t really reading. He was scrolling through his phone. You glanced over at his screen and realized he was typing your name into a playlist.

“She likes sad music” was the title.

You tried not to melt. Failed.

⸻

A week later, you made the mistake of calling him your friend in front of a delivery guy.

“Yeah, my friend’s inside—he’s just grabbing the—”

“Friend?” Heeseung called from the kitchen. His voice sounded innocent, but you knew better.

You leaned against the wall, calling back: “Do you want me to say situationship to the man dropping off pizza?”

He poked his head out from the kitchen, holding two soda cans. “Roommate with benefits?”

You blinked. “That makes it sound like we split rent and trauma bond.”

He walked over, handed you a can, leaned in to kiss your cheek.

You were very aware of the delivery guy watching through the half-cracked door.

“Boyfriend,” Heeseung said, voice low against your ear. “Next time, just go with boyfriend.”

Then he turned around like he hadn’t just lit your entire chest on fire.

⸻

You didn’t call him that again.

Not for a while. But he’d said it. And the word kept echoing in your head, soft and dangerous.

The real surprise came on a Sunday.

You had fallen asleep on his couch after a long day, curled into a ball with your face pressed against his hoodie. It was raining again. Heeseung sat across from you at the kitchen table, scribbling something in a notebook you didn’t know he used.

When you woke up, he was gone.

But a piece of paper had been tucked into your hand. Folded once. Smelled faintly like his cologne.

You opened it slowly.

I’m bad at saying it, but I’m not scared anymore.

I want to stay.

———

It started with music playing too softly from your phone.

A lazy morning. One of those cloudy, sleepy Sundays where the world felt distant — the kind where time stretched long and warm and slow, and the only thing that mattered was the blanket wrapped around your shoulders and the boy sitting on your floor, quietly tying the laces of your shoes.

He looked up at you after the second knot, dark hair flopping into his eyes. “Your laces were a mess.”

You blinked. “You tied my shoes?”

“I live dangerously.”

You smirked. “You’re soft.”

“You like that.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Later, you were on the porch — two mugs, one blanket, and Heeseung sitting with his legs stretched out, back against the wall, his eyes somewhere on the horizon.

You watched him, the way he looked more at home now. The way he no longer pulled away when you touched him. The way he let his hand rest on your thigh like it belonged there.

“You never said what that note meant,” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. Just reached for his mug. “I thought it was pretty clear.”

“It was,” you admitted. “But I want to hear you say it.”

He stared into his coffee like it might give him the words.

Then, without ceremony, he said:

“I want this. I want you.”

You looked at him.

He still wasn’t smiling. But he was serious — in that quietly terrified way that people are when they’re finally telling the truth.

“I’m not good at big declarations,” he added. “I won’t do the speech or the fireworks. But I’ll wake up next to you. I’ll know your coffee order. I’ll call you when the streetlights turn on just because I know you like the sound of my voice at night.”

Your heart pulled tight.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “If you want me to.”

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned in and kissed him — soft, slow, like an answer. Like a yes.

He kissed you back, but he smiled this time, too. You felt it. You tasted it.

When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“You’re already here,” you whispered.

Heeseung nodded. “I know.”

———

That night, you shared his bed for the first time. Not rushed. Not messy.

You brushed your teeth together, bumping elbows. You stole his t-shirt. You crawled beneath his blankets and let him hold you like the world would still be waiting in the morning.

He fell asleep with one hand over your heart. And when you woke up — warm, tangled, safe — he was still there.

Not leaving. Not running. Just yours.

In all the ways that mattered

[yuzujjn]

APPLE CIDER ◟ LOSER HEESEUNG

𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗨𝗥或 ᪲ 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁. 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍, 𝗂 𝖽𝗈, 𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄

【 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 】 𝑙’ loser tutor!heeseung & fem!rea 8OO non idol au fluff oneshot incl. skinship slight jealousy ˊᯅˋ click

다니 ⦂ happy birthday @yeokii ! you are senior citizen now, hope u enjoy this

YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU'RE DOING.

“…so you’ll use this formula for these types of derivations,” he mumbles. “it’s not hard if you follow the pattern. the numerator should always,"

his glasses are slightly askew today, like he put them on too fast, and there's a slight smudge on the right lens. he hasn't noticed, of course. heeseung's too busy explaining derivatives like it's some love language, all soft pencil circles and furrowed brows. his voice is calm, patient, low. it's not fair how attractive he looks in this light—messy hair, rolled-up sleeves, shy eyes that barely meet yours unless you’re not looking.

and that's why you say it.

"you know, i think that one TA from econ is kind of cute."

you drop it casually, like you're not watching him from the corner of your eye, like you're not anticipating the pause he makes—just long enough to give him away.

heeseung doesn’t say anything, not for a second. he just… pauses. his pen halts mid-scratch, and when he lifts his eyes, they flick to yours fast, before quickly darting back down to the notebook like it offended him.

“cute,” he repeats, low and neutral. "hm."

you smile to yourself.

"yeah. he's smart too," you say, tone all sugary as you doodle little stars in the marigns of your worksheet. "you know the guy, right? marcus, i think?"

“i know him,” he says, flat. you’re dying. he’s so obviously pissed off it’s adorable.

and now he’s leaning back a little in his chair, arms crossed like he’s casual, like he doesn’t care at all—except you can tell by the slight clench in his jaw and the sharp little exhale he gives every time you say cute that he’s not casual at all.

you lean forward over the table, chin in hand. “honestly i feel like i learn better from him than anyone else.”

his pencil freezes on the paper. just for a second. and then he looks at you.

that gaze you know way too well, like he’s reading your entire thought process and rewriting it in his brain. “you come to me every tuesday and thursday.”

you smile sweetly. “yeah, but that’s just because your notes are color-coded.”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. “you got a 96 on your last exam.”

“maybe i just got lucky or i'm smart,”

heeseung leans forward slightly, arms crossed on the table. his expression is unreadable, but his eyes aren’t leaving yours now. “you think that was luck?”

you’re biting back a grin, twirling your pen. “i don’t know. maybe marcus's method just works better for me.” there’s a pause. like he’s calculating what to say next. like he’s choosing violence.

“you wanna switch tutors?”

“mm, i didn’t say that,” you hum. “just saying, he explains things really clearly. i like how direct he is.”

his jaw clenches. not hard. just enough for you to notice. “i can be direct.”

you raise an eyebrow. “really? because last week you took fifteen minutes to explain conditional probability with a metaphor about dice and divorce.”

his cheeks slightly flush. bingo.

he leans back a little, stretching one arm over the back of his chair, tapping his pencil against the table like he’s thinking hard. but his voice is sharp. “if you wanna test how good i am at explaining, i can throw out the worksheet and do this entire lesson from memory.”

you blink. “oh?”

“right now,” he says. calm. cocky. eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he knows he’s challenging you. “you can quiz me. pick any topic. i’ll explain it better than him. because i’m smarter than him.”

you laugh, bright and surprised. “heeseung—”

“i’m not kidding.” his voice drops an octave. “you think he’s impressive? cool. but i promise you—he doesn’t know you like i do. he doesn’t know what parts you get stuck on. how you read questions out loud when you’re unsure. how you underline things twice when you’re confident. how you always forget to label your axes.” he leans in closer, just a little, eyes flicking down to your lips for a split second before meeting your gaze again. “marcus doesn’t sit here twice a week and rewrite notes based on your learning style. i do.”

and you’re quiet for a second. your face feels hot. your stomach’s fluttering. god fuck.

heeseung shifts back, not smug—just sure. “you’re not switching tutors.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but you’re grinning now. “wow. territorial much?”

he shrugs. “not territorial. just confident.”

“mm. so you’re not jealous?”

he snorts softly, finally looking away, and you catch the hint of a smile. “he’s not even that tall.”

“oh my god,” you burst out laughing. “you are jealous!”

he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and mutters, “i could explain hypothesis testing better than that guy in my sleep.”

you smile, watching him as he goes back to your worksheet like he didn't just get jealous. your heart’s beating too fast. he’s so serious, so smart, so him.

you lean in again, voice low, teasing. “well, heeseung, if you wanna prove it... i’m free thursday night.”

heeseung finally meets your eyes again.

and smirks. “then thursday night, you’re mine.”

[applepiiex]

OFFICE SIREN ! ! ! ⋆. 𐙚 ⎚-⎚

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

It was simple, really. The minute you stepped into the building, walked into his office, you knew how this would end. You both did. This was your dance. Secretary and CEO. I mean, could I make it any more obvious?

⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻⋆. °⛧⛧°. ⋆༺♱༻

The second you stepped into Nanami & Co. headquarters, it was like dropping a match in a boardroom full of oil. Quiet, composed, and dressed like sin in slacks, you weren’t flustered or fumbling, you were intentional. Efficient. Too good at your job to just be “eye candy,” but too stunning for that not to be the conversation behind closed doors.

You were the new Executive Secretary to CEO Nanami Kento. And the office knew it the moment he first looked at you.

That first day, he didn’t blink when he met you. He barely spoke, except to offer a flat-toned, “You’re early. Good.” But there was a flicker, a tension, in the slight clench of his jaw, the way his hand paused before handing you a folder.

It wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. You weren’t the type to pretend not to notice. And he wasn’t the type to admit it.

It made the air between you thick with unspoken things.

The second week in, the HR representative was still pretending to “casually” check in on you. People from accounting suddenly had a lot of print jobs that needed to be picked up from the copier by your desk. One intern from Legal walked straight into a glass wall watching you adjust your sleeves.

You, as always, didn’t acknowledge any of it.

You just took notes in meetings —  immaculate notes, mind you — had coffee waiting before Nanami arrived, scheduled his meetings down to the minute, and somehow, still made time to sit with legs crossed in the lobby and read a novel on your ten-minute break. Like this whole building didn’t revolve around you now.

Nanami hated how much he noticed.

The shape of your hands on a pen. The way you leaned over his desk to pass him a memo. The sound of your voice when you called him sir in a tone that was 90% professional, 10% devastating.

He didn’t speak more than he needed to. But he always said thank you. Always met your gaze longer than necessary. Always waited for you to leave the room before exhaling like you’d taken the air with you.

You were in his office now, sorting through schedules while Nanami typed behind his desk. The clock ticked. The tension simmered.

“Mr. Nanami,” you said calmly, eyes on your tablet. “You have a meeting with the board at three. Followed by your review call with the Kyoto division.”

“I’m aware,” he said, not looking up “Thank you.”

A moment of silence follows between the two. Then, he added, more quietly, “You’re remarkably efficient.”

You looked up at him, slowly. Cool. Collected. “It’s in the job description,” you said smoothly. Then, after a beat, “But I appreciate you noticing.”

There was a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. It passed just as quickly as it came.

“I assume the presentation materials are already prepared?” he asked.

“They’re in your inbox. I took the liberty of refining the talking points for maximum board approval.”

Nanami closed his laptop. “You’re wasted as a secretary.”

You tilted your head, smirking just enough to keep him thinking about it later. 

“Maybe,” you said. “But I like working under you.”

The silence that followed was not appropriate for the workplace.

Nanami did not reply right away.

His fingers tapped twice, precisely, rhythmically, against the desk. Then, he leaned back slightly in his chair, expression unreadable, posture perfect, suit impeccable. But the vein in his neck twitched.

Outside the glass wall of his office, someone dropped a stack of papers.

“Is that meant to be a joke?” he asked finally, measured and dry, like you were discussing quarterly losses and not the way you just set his spine on fire.

You only smiled, softly. “Not unless you want it to be.”

And with that, you turned and walked out casually, like you hadn’t just declared subtle war. Your cologne lingered in the air. Nanami stared at the door long after you’d left, his jaw set, one knuckle curling against his temple in thought.

The next ten minutes of silence were absolute hell for him.

The office chatter dialed up after that.

“I swear he smiled at him,” whispered someone from PR.

“I heard he let Y/N skip the morning report,” another gossiped near the espresso machine.

"There's no way nothing's going on," muttered HR. "Have you seen the way they talk? It's like watching a legal liability form itself in real time."

You ignored all of it. You always did.

Until Friday afternoon after a board meeting you helped him absolutely dominate when Nanami called you into his office again.

And locked the door.

Click.

You turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong, sir?”

Nanami’s expression was as cold and unreadable as ever… but he had taken off his jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. And his tie was loosened just slightly, in that way that somehow made him even more intimidating.

“I’ve been patient,” he said, slowly, like each word was weighed against his better judgment. “Professional.”

You blinked, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips. “You have.”

“I’ve given you space to work. Room to show your skill.”

“You have.”

He stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough that your breath caught without you meaning it to.

“But if you continue making comments like that without consequence,” he murmured, voice low and firm, “you’ll make it very difficult for me to keep being professional.”

For once, the office siren faltered, just a flicker. You recovered fast.

“Well then,” you said, stepping closer with an infuriating calm. “Maybe I want to make it difficult.”

The clock ticked.

Nanami’s hand twitched at his side.

Someone knocked on the glass. “Mr. Nanami? Sorry — your three o’clock—”

“Reschedule,” he said, without looking away from you.

You smiled slowly. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course you will,” he muttered.

There was something about the way he said it, quiet reverence with a simmering edge, that made your whole chest tighten.

The following days, the office entered the Cold War of the century. 

You place a stack of files on Nanami’s desk. He glances up from a document, and for once, doesn’t look away right away.

“You got a haircut,” he says.

You pause. “I did.”

He stares for a moment too long. Then goes back to reading. “It suits you.”

You walk out of his office smiling, which does not go unnoticed by half the floor.

In the break room, someone mutters, “If I have to watch that man fall in love in real-time one more time, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

- You’re typing something into his calendar when Nanami walks in behind you.

He says nothing, just leans over to read what you're writing.

His tie brushes your shoulder.

You don’t flinch but your breath catches.

“Don’t forget the quarterly lunch,” he murmurs near your ear, and you swear he knows what he’s doing now.

You look over your shoulder, expression unreadable. “Don’t forget I’m in charge of your entire life, sir.”

He blinks.

“You’re right,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move for a beat too long.

- There’s a company-wide meeting. Big conference table. Full of execs. You’re seated just behind Nanami, taking notes.

At some point, he subtly pushes his coffee toward you.

You sip it without asking.

Across the table, the COO blinks. Slowly. “Am I hallucinating or are they—?” “They’re sharing drinks now,” someone whispers. “This is better than succession.”

-

You’re working late,again. He’s working late, again. It’s just you two and the silence of the 27th floor.

Nanami sets his pen down. “You didn’t need to stay.”

“I wanted to,” you say, eyes still on your screen. “Besides, who else is going to remind you to eat?”

Nanami watches you for a long time. “You're very good at taking care of me.”

You finally look up. Your gaze is even.

“You let me.”That shuts him up for a while.

- Someone from Legal corners you in the elevator. “So. How long until the two of you combust?”

You blink, deadpan. “I assume you mean from overwork. No comment.”

They grin. “Sure. We’ll call it that.”

When the elevator opens, Nanami is already waiting by the front doors. You walk to him without hesitation.

You hand him his forgotten phone. He gives you a rare, real smile.

The Legal rep watches the interaction with the expression of someone watching a slow burn romance anime in 4K.

- Rain’s coming down hard. You’re leaving the building, umbrella in hand, when Nanami appears beside you.

You glance up. “Didn’t think you were done.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I didn’t want you walking alone.”

You stare at him. “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”He doesn’t reply.

Just takes your umbrella and holds it over you both. He walks you all the way to the train station. Quiet. Close. He doesn’t brush your hand, but he wants to. You can feel it.

When you say goodnight, he only says: “Text me when you get home.” Because of course you have his number. 

-

Finally, the staff prepared for the company gala, a massive fundraising and charity event. It’s annual. Lavish. Hosted in a glass ballroom overlooking the city. Everyone who’s anyone is there—CEOs, board members, investors, and a lot of people who’d kill for a merger and a martini.

Nanami, of course, hates it. 

You, however? You thrive.

You're not just his secretary tonight, you’re the company’s most devastating asset. Crisp tailored suit. Collar unbuttoned just enough. That magnetic calm confidence you wear like cologne. You don’t cling to Nanami like the other assistants do to their execs. You orbit him.

Close. Measured. Professional. But every time you adjust his tie or whisper something into his ear, more than one person at the table has to look away. It doesn’t help that Nanami, for all his stoicism, is visibly tense.

A partner from a competing firm slinks over. "Mr. Nanami. L/N," she says, eyes flitting over you with the sharpness of someone trying to provoke. "Quite the asset you've brought with you."

You smile politely. Nanami’s voice cuts low. “He's far more than that.”

The woman raises a brow. “Oh?” Nanami blinks once, like he’s realizing what he just said.

“I meant professionally,” he adds flatly.

You chuckle quietly behind your glass. “Mmhm.”

Later that night the two of you are alone in the company car. You’re tucked beside him, fingers scrolling through emails. He’s staring ahead, jaw set.

You glance over. “You good?”Silence.

“Nanami.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time in hours. The tension in his shoulders has built up to his neck, his posture rigid, and his hands curl on his knees like he's holding something back.

“Why do you let them look at you like that?” he asks suddenly.

You blink. “Who?”

“The others,” he mutters, voice tight. “Everyone at that gala. At the office. The people who think you’re just...an accessory.”

There’s a pause. Then you say, quiet, “Because I know I’m not.”

He turns to you.

"And the only person whose opinion actually matters? He’s sitting right beside me."

His breath hitches. You smile slowly, eyes warm but not soft. “Unless, of course, you see me as just your secretary.”

Nanami exhales like he’s been holding that breath all year. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”

-

After the Gala, there’s a shift. Not dramatic. But tangible. You bring him his morning coffee. His fingers brush yours. He doesn’t move his hand.

At the team check-in, he glances up at you twice. HR gossips so loudly over Slack that IT temporarily disables the chat.

Then your phone dings. 

An announcement: the entire executive team is heading to a retreat. Out of town. Four days. Two nights.

Guess who’s organizing it? Guess who Nanami insists personally accompany him?

It’s a two-hour drive upstate. Forests. Fog. Secluded high-end resort with sleek wood cabins and private hot springs. “Team-building,” they said.

Nanami didn’t even blink when he insisted you ride with him instead of the company shuttle.

You’re in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on. He’s gripping the wheel a little too tightly.

“So,” you say casually, “shared rooms?”

“No,” he replies.

You raise a brow. “You didn’t want to share?”

“No,” he says again, quieter. “I... booked us a suite.”

Silence, heavy and lingering. 

“With two beds,” he adds stiffly “Obviously.”

You smirk, leaning your head against the window. “Obviously.”

-

Everyone gathers around a giant firepit with wine and half-burnt s’mores. You're seated beside Nanami, your knees nearly touching. He’s unusually quiet. Staring at the flames like they’ve insulted his mother.

“You hate this,” you whisper.

“I loathe this,” he murmurs back.

A tipsy intern walks past and says way too loudly: “If those two don’t hook up before the end of the trip, I swear to God—”

Nanami visibly twitches. You sip your wine and don’t stop smiling.

-

The suite is warm. Modern. Dimly lit.

You’re taking your tie off when Nanami steps out of the bathroom, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled.

He pauses.

You pause.

You both definitely pause.

You clear your throat and move to unpack your things. “...You’ve been quiet today,” you say.

He exhales. “I’ve been trying to remain professional.”

“And how’s that going?”

Silence.

Then, “Badly.”

You look up. Your breath catches. He’s standing closer now. Close enough to touch.

“I don’t just respect you,” he says quietly. “I don’t just trust you. I want you.”

You stare at him.

“And not just here. Not just at work. I want... all of it.”

Your voice comes out lower than expected. “So take it.”

-

When you wake up the next morning, There are two cups of coffee on the table. Yours has a note, 

“Meeting at 9. Your tie is under the bed. — Kento”

You walk into the dining hall 15 minutes late, hair still wet, and no fewer than four coworkers do a full double take.

Someone drops a croissant.

Someone else mutters, “So it finally happened.”

Nanami doesn’t say a word when you sit beside him, he just passes you a scone and doesn’t stop smiling.

Coming back from the retreat, things are different. You walk in precisely at 8:59 a.m. Button-down open just enough. Coffee in one hand. The tiniest, smuggest little smirk on your face.

And the office?Ferally quiet.

HR intern spills their yogurt. Three analysts whisper so fast it might as well be Morse code.

There’s already a Slack thread titled:

#kentoandsecretary???? with 84 unread messages and one blurry photo of Nanami brushing something off your collar during breakfast.

You pass by the breakroom.

“...he came in glowing. I swear, they didn’t even touch their second bed.”

“Did you see the way Nanami looked at him during the meeting? Like he was five seconds from committing arson!”

“I asked if he needed help filing something and he said he already has someone for that.’”

You smile sweetly as you walk by “Morning, boys.”They nearly implode.

Meanwhile, Nanami is back to being composed. Cold. Precise. Except… When someone else tries to get your attention? His jaw ticks. When a junior executive leans just a bit too far over your desk? His knuckles whiten on the espresso cup. When someone from accounting touches your shoulder while laughing? Nanami appears out of nowhere.

“You have something to say?”Flat. Deadpan. Terrifying.

“...N-no, sir. I was just—uh—asking about quarterly reports.”

Nanami doesn’t blink. “Then ask with your hands to yourself.”

The guy scurries off like he’s been personally marked by death. You watch the whole thing, sipping your tea like you’re watching your favorite drama.

He turns to you. “Is there a problem?”

You tilt your head innocently. “Not at all, sir.”

He narrows his eyes. You wink.

-

He calls you in for a “filing task.” You both know it’s fake.

The second the door clicks shut, “You’re doing it on purpose,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“...Smirking.”

You lean across the desk. “Maybe I like seeing you a little jealous.”

He exhales sharply, looking away. “It’s... unbecoming.”

You grin. “You didn’t seem to mind Saturday night.”

His ears turn pink.

Later that day, they finally call you in, HR. Just you. You think it’s for a report.

Instead, “We’re not... formally asking,” your HR rep says delicately, “but could you maybe... tone it down?”

You blink. “Tone what down?”

“The... aura. The vibe. Whatever happened on the retreat has caused a 62% spike in distracted employees and a 94% spike in caffeine intake. Half the floor is in emotional distress.”

You blink again. Then smile. “No promises.”

-

It happens over lukewarm coffee and passive-aggressive bagels in the breakroom. You’re at the counter, calmly stirring honey into your tea, when it happens. Bryce, two floors down, fake-deep voice, always wears too much cologne, walks up beside you. “So... what’s the deal with you and the CEO?”

You pause, blink, and smile. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, pretending like the whole floor isn’t holding its collective breath. “Just saying. You two came back from the retreat... different. And Nanami nearly bit my head off when I asked if you needed help yesterday.”

You sip your tea. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He frowns. “Come on, you expect us to believe nothing’s going on?”

You set your cup down gently. Turn to face him. “I’m Nanami’s secretary,” you say smoothly. “It would be incredibly unprofessional to imply anything else, don’t you think?”

He opens his mouth to argue—

Nanami walks in.

Silence. Absolute deathly silence.

You don’t even flinch. You smile, nod politely, and leave the room with your tea.

Nanami doesn’t say a word to Bryce. He just stares at him for a solid five seconds. Bryce almost drops his bagel.

-

It’s 4:43 p.m. You’re both the last to leave. You step into the executive elevator. Alone. Or so you think.

A hand stops the doors just before they close. Nanami steps in. Silent. Stone-faced. You glance up at him, all innocence. “Evening, sir.”

He doesn’t answer. He hits the button for the lobby. The doors close. The second they do— BAM.

He presses you against the mirrored wall of the elevator. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs.

“I’m just doing my job,” you whisper back, breath hitching. “Smiling. Being helpful. Professional.” His jaw clenches.

“You’re not just my secretary.”

You tilt your head. “Then what am I?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Just closes the distance between your lips and his with a slow, searing kiss.

You walk out first. Perfectly composed.

Your tie’s slightly askew. Your smirk? Deadly. There’s an intern waiting in the lobby.

He watches you walk past. Then watches Nanami walk out behind you, adjusting his cufflinks, not saying a single word.

The intern faints.

-

The day starts off normal. Too normal.

Emails. Meetings. Budget revisions. Nanami is in a sharp charcoal three-piece suit that he hasn’t worn since Q4 board reports. You’re wearing your best shirt, crisp, tailored, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the forearm tattoos everyone pretends they’re not staring at.

You’re good at your job. Unbothered. Unshakable.

But not unnoticed.

So when your inbox dings with another "quick check-in" from someone in analytics, followed by someone from HR offering to grab lunch "just to decompress", you already know where this is going.

The final straw comes just before 3 p.m. You're walking back from the copy room when Sara, the lead designer, corners you by the espresso machine with a conspiratorial smile.

“I just want to say,” she begins, twirling a pen between her fingers, “if you and Nanami aren’t exclusive or anything... I’d be happy to take you out. You know. No suits. Just fun.”

The room goes quiet. You take a sip of your drink, unfazed. “Sara,” you say with a smile, “I appreciate the offer. Really. But... I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

She blinks. “Why not?”You shrug. “It’s just not professional, is it? Us coworkers crossing boundaries?”

That earns a few nervous chuckles from those listening in. You start to walk away and that’s when you see him.

Nanami. Standing at the end of the hallway. Holding a folder from Finance. He hadn’t announced himself. He hadn’t needed to. His gaze is unreadable.

You don’t flinch. Just walk right past him. Calm. Collected.

But you don’t miss the subtle shift in his jaw. Or the way his fingers curl tighter around the folder.

-

You knock once before stepping inside.

“Sir, you asked for the personnel reports—”

“Close the door.” You pause. You do. Nanami doesn't look up right away. He’s sitting behind his desk, back ramrod straight, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the tight grip he has on his pen.

“You don’t have to entertain them,” he says quietly. “The others.”

“I’m not.” You fold your hands behind your back. “I told her it wasn’t professional.”

He looks up. And that’s when the mask drops. The careful CEO facade he’s worn for weeks cracks in half. Something darker flickers in his eyes, want, frustration, protectiveness all mixing under the surface.

“Good,” he says, standing slowly. “Because I’m getting very tired of watching them circle you like you’re available.”

Your breath catches, just for a second. “I never said I was.”

He steps around the desk. “You never said you weren’t.”

The air between you practically vibrates. You could hear a pin drop on the marble floors.

Then, “You don’t get to be jealous,” you say softly. “We never defined anything.”

“You’re right.”

Another step. Another inch closer.

“I’ve been acting like your boss because that’s what I am. But I’m also a man who’s very aware of what he wants. And what I want is you. Not as my secretary. As mine.”

You smile, slow and dangerous.

“You’re the CEO,” you say, stepping into his space. “I’m your secretary.”

His hands are on your waist before you finish the sentence. You’re pressed against the glass wall of his office before you take your next breath.

You kiss him like you’ve been waiting weeks for it. Because you have.

-

Rumors fly.

No one knows what happened in that office, but Nanami comes out with his tie loosened and a look of pure peace for the first time in weeks.

You come out ten minutes later. Slightly flushed. Smug.

Sara avoids eye contact. Bryce calls in sick the next day.

And from that moment on, not a single soul dares hit on the CEO’s secretary ever again.

Because everyone knows.

That desk? That office? That man?

All claimed. 

[sturniphone]

𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . . 𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃

in which . . . mean!chris fingers you in the library stacks, licking you stupid until you cum all over his hand, dazed and trembling

Chris is popular. Loud. The kind of boy who walks through the halls like he owns them, always flanked by his friends, laughing too loud, chewing gum with zero respect for the rules. He’s tall, tan, always in trouble, and never takes anything seriously. You’d never think someone like him would even look twice at someone like you. But he did. Or maybe he was just desperate to pass algebra.

He asked for tutoring with that cocky little smirk, voice slick with fake innocence. You had said yes because you were polite, because your teacher encouraged it, because even though he was mean, he was also stupidly beautiful, and it made your stomach flutter when he looked at you like that. You’d suggested the library. Quiet, safe. He’d just grinned. But he hasn’t touched his textbook once.

Now, you’re tucked between the shelves, hidden in the far back, where the older reference books gather dust and no one really wanders. It’s secluded. Still, it’s risky. And your heart thunders with every creak of the floorboards. but now The library is quiet, sun leaking through the tall windows in buttery streaks, dust dancing in the light. But you’re not in one of the open study areas—you’re tucked between the shelves, hidden in the far back, where the older reference books gather dust and no one really wanders. It’s secluded. Still, it’s risky. And your heart thunders with every creak of the floorboards.

You’re pressed back against a shelf, spines digging into your back, the hard edge of the metal uncomfortable against your shoulder blades. But you barely notice. Your glasses are slipping down your nose, breath shallow and fast. Chris is crouched between your legs, big hands pinning your thighs wide apart, and he’s got that awful, smug look on his face—the one that makes your stomach flip and your knees weak. ❝Stop squirming, nerd,❞ he mutters, mouth already glistening, eyes dark and hungry. ❝You’re the one who wore this little skirt.❞

You try to speak—some small protest, a whisper maybe—but it comes out as a pathetic little gasp when he hooks your panties to the side and dives back in like he owns you. His tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your cunt, and your knees threaten to buckle. ❝Don’t make a sound,❞ he warns lowly, pausing just long enough to drag his fingers through your slick and push two into you, slow and deep. ❝Unless you want someone to come see what the school nerd gets up to during study hall.❞

You shake your head frantically, biting your sleeve to muffle the pitiful whimper that escapes when his thumb circles your clit. You’re so wet already, soaking through the thin cotton of your panties, and it’s humiliating how easily you take his long fingers, how loud the wet sounds are in this quiet, sacred space. He chuckles against you, lips brushing your inner thigh. ❝Thought you were supposed to be shy, baby. Didn’t think you’d let me finger you in the damn library.❞

You look down at him through thick lashes, face burning, completely unable to form words. You’ve never done anything like this—never even thought you’d let someone see you like this. But Chris is relentless. Mean, cocky, gorgeous. His dark hair falls into his eyes as he works, mouth open and panting softly against your heat, licking messily like he knows how ruined it makes you. He flattens his tongue, dragging it over your clit again and again until your head thumps back against the bookshelf behind you. ❝Fuck,❞ he mutters, voice muffled, ❝tastes even better than I thought. Are you going to cum already?❞

Your thighs shake, and you try to close them, but he just grips tighter, spreading you even more. He slips another finger in, groaning at how tight your hole clenches around him, soaking and fluttering, sucking his fingers back in every time he pulls them out. ❝None of that, sweetheart,❞ he growls, curling his fingers inside you with practiced precision. ❝Take it. Be a good little slut and let me make you cum.❞

You cry out, barely holding it in, face buried in the crook of your elbow as you tremble. His fingers fuck into you fast now, slick and filthy, knuckles deep as he chases the way your pussy flutters and clenches. He tongues your clit at the same time—nasty and focused, licking you stupid, tongue soft and quick while his fingers thrust into your weeping cunt. Your free hand finds his hair, gripping and tugging, hips grinding shamelessly against his face.

❝Chris—❞ you sob out, ❝gonna—❞ ❝Yeah? Cum on my fingers, nerd. Let that pretty little pussy show me how grateful she is.❞ The coil in your belly tightens, then snaps all at once, your body jerking as you cum hard around his fingers, your tight little hole spasming, clenching and pulsing with desperate, wet sounds. Your thighs tremble, glasses slipping crooked on your nose, eyes wide and glassy.

He keeps going through it, mean and slow, licking between your folds like he wants every drop, tongue circling your clit again as your overstimulated hole sucks his fingers back in, milking them. Then finally, finally, he pulls back, fingers slipping from your pussy with a filthy squelch, licking them clean like he’s still hungry.

❝You should be thanking me, nerd,❞ he says, standing and dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. ❝Best tutoring session you’ve ever had.❞ And you just nod, dazed and flushed, clutching your notebook to your chest like it’ll keep you steady, brain still too foggy to remember your own name, let alone the equations you were supposed to be studying.

𝐋𝐎𝐋𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒 . . .  based on this ask, sorry if this is bad

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒 . . .  @chrepsi @ph3ebssturniolo @sturnsxbbyeilish @j21l91 @pip4444chris

⌗ © sturniphone

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson Part one, part two Info : Slow burn, duh. Mark’s perspective and him being an annoying little freak. General fluff before things get freaky W / C : 2.6k+. A / N : microsoft word didn’t wanna cooperate so i hopped in google docs and got to fucking work. mb for the delay, genuinely started tweaking out when i realized i was already behind schedule LMFAO

“Where do you live?”

The question was genuine and curious, as Mark sat there and let you use him as a lab rat. He was more emotional support than anything, actually, seeing as you didn’t really need to do anything too hard unless it was being the resident doctor. And, to be fair, he hasn’t seen you outside of the GDA unless you were placed out on the field for emergencies. That alone was a rarity.

You don’t even look up at him, sighing, “That sounds creepy. Like, scammer or stalker kind of creepy.”

He ignores the fact he technically is somewhat a stalker, instead focusing on the topic on hand.

“I’m serious. I’ve never even heard you mention anything outside of work unless it’s about Oliver or Eve.”

“Good,” leaning back in your new swivel chair—because Mark had broken the last one by pure accident—you look at him with a bored look in your eyes. “I like it like that. You already know too much.”

Mark shifts on the medical bed, not injured this time, which had become a more frequent thing. He’d drop by more often. Less bloody each time, but with heavier weights on his shoulders. It wasn’t something he bothered you with. Your presence alone seemed to remedy whatever ringing lingered in his ears.

“I don’t know what that means.” Mark shrugs, holding your stare. “The most I know is that you’re here, 24/7, using me as an emotional support pet.”

You snort. “You’re hardly emotional support, Markus. You’re an accessory at best. Every time I turn around, you’re there, and I don’t know why.”

“Do you have to?”

“Yes. I do, actually, because whenever Stedman catches you in here, we both get put on probation. Which is stupid considering I never tell you to come here. You’re like a dog,” You hum and set down your paperwork, done for the day. “And not in a cute way. I’d pet a dog, I’d castrate you.”

He winces at that, unable to help picturing the uncomfortable feeling of that. “That’s rude.”

You nod languidly, spinning around idly in your chair. The one he insisted on paying for because he wanted to know a little more about your preferences. If anything changed at all, if there was something new about you that he hadn’t noticed before and hadn’t made both mental and physical notes of.

“It’s supposed to be, Invinci-Boy,” You smile, but only faintly. It’s a sight that makes Mark pause every time he sees it, even if it’s barely noticeable by the untrained eye. He’s learned to watch close enough that even the smallest uptick of your lips has him stopping, just for a moment.

Over the last few months, he’s made slow progress. Slow, most definitely, but still more progress. You’re not as guarded. Mark himself isn’t sure if you’ve noticed it or not, but he’d prefer the latter. If you ever did notice how you ever so slowly relaxed around him, how you’d smile—despite it always being barely there—the longer he’d stick around. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’re wrong about him being like a dog.

Because you’re not wrong.

You’ve got him on a leash, and if you were to tug on it, he would follow.

“Please stop reminding me.”

“So this is your place? It’s. . .”

“If the right words don’t leave your mouth, I will gut you.”

The house itself on the outside was simple. A two story house, a light but faded blue color with a dark roof, actually quite the distance from the larger cities and areas that’d usually have crowds and countless buildings. It looked old. Something that had been passed down, for sure.

The interior, in Mark’s defense, was cute. Floral print walls that were slowly yet surely yellowing, dark wooden floors, and a plain white ceiling. It was cozy. Lived in; which was a surprise, considering how often you’d get to work early and stay late into the night. Years on years of memories scattered on the walls. People you don’t mention. Pictures you don’t talk about. Thoughts you don’t think about anymore.

“You live on your own?” He looks around, and there isn’t really any other indicator of anyone besides you living here besides those photos and decorations. Except for what looked like a cat’s food and water bowl, and a bag of what seemed to be really, really expensive cat food. But he’s not sure if a cat counts as a someone.

You’ve never mentioned a cat before. Mark supposes he should’ve known—you seem like a cat person. You have cat themed pens, and occasionally doodle weird looking animals on your reports to annoy Cecil. Maybe those were cats; even if they looked oddly misshapen. He can’t help but zone out as he thinks about it. Cats suit you, he figures. He buries the little fact deep inside his brain for later.

“I have a cat,” The words are nothing but a murmur as you crouch down, looking at the bottom of your couch with a slight furrow in your brow. With a huff, you reach under and pull out a small cat, which blinked as it woke up. “Her name is Apricot.”

“Apricot,” He repeats, testing the name on his tongue as he watches the cat in question purr and practically fall back asleep as you hold her. You don’t seem as jaded as you do when you are working. Fatigued, for sure, but you seem gentler. Softer around the edges. Something he wants to see every day. He’s surprised you’ve come around to the thought of him, enough to let him in.

It was strange. If it had been a month before this, or hell, a week before, you wouldn’t have trusted him enough. Not even enough to tell him your cat’s name.

As he said before. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

“Were you hungry when you named her, or?”

“I will let her claw your face off, Markus.”

Your home constantly smells of vanilla and something purely you, Mark comes to realize. There is always an extra carton of strawberries in your fridge thanks to him, and every time he drops by, you let him stay a little later. You let him stay until sunset. Then until the moon is hanging high in the sky, and then until the sun comes back up. It’s like you don’t notice, and if you do, you don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything, either. Doesn’t want to. This is something that is meant to go unsaid, Mark decided. It wasn’t every night, but it was definitely frequent enough to notice, even if no one said anything. He’s memorized the main floor of your house—knows the feel of the couch cushions, the smell of your air fresheners, the sound of rain against the windows. It’s something he’d subconsciously etched into his memory. Into the hollow of his bones, really. All the things he doesn’t want to forget.

The sound of both Apricot’s and your heartbeat is cemented into his mind. Mark’s never been much of an animal person, but your cat seemed to be an exception as she purred quietly against his leg.

“Why do you have a whole process for strawberries?”

“Because just rinsing them doesn’t do anything,” You tell him as though he should know, drying off your hands as you leave the strawberries he’d gotten you to soak. It’s become a new piece of your routine. Whether or not you asked, or said no, there’d be a new container of strawberries left on your desk or in your bag.

You couldn’t be annoyed. Not at the fruit, anyway. You usually ended up baking them into something and feeding it to his little brother or Eve, or gave it right back to him just to hear him insist that he share his piece with you.

“I didn’t realize you were a germaphobe.” Mark comments, leaning down to pick Apricot up after she basically tried to crawl up his leg. The joke itself was a lie. You’re a healer, and he’s seen firsthand how particular you are about the cleanliness of your workstation and of the people you interact with. He knows about the little pet peeves that you don’t even know about, the small habits that are second nature to you.

It’s just gotten worse since you’ve let him a little closer. To Mark, it doesn’t matter if you realize how much you’ve come to trust him or not. As long as he can stay in a close proximity, it won’t ever matter. As far as he knows? He’s the only one you’re willing to let invade your space. The one he gets to rant to, even if all he gets in response are mumbles and scoffs—even the taunts and sly remarks you make. He enjoys it. Revels in it, really, and he refuses to have it any other way unless it means getting even closer.

“You’re stressful. Like a toddler.” The words that leave your mouth come out as more of a yawn, and the quiet of your home accompanied by your heartbeat is what peace sounds like to him. “I wish nothing but nightmares and despair on you, Markus.”

“You know you are literally the only person who calls me that. It’s disturbing,” He hums, wandering over into the living room and is secretly delighted by the way you follow behind.

All day, you were working your ass off. Paperwork, Cecil, patients, and a last minute emergency where you had to be out on the field. Healing people with your own two hands seems to drain you, something Mark wishes he’d noted sooner. The solutions you’d made to avoid healing with your hands were depleted, unsurprisingly, with the sudden spike in injuries amongst the heroes.

The amount of times you’d berated people in the last month were too many to count. Still, the insults you would hurl towards his way still amounted to more, and he wouldn’t change that for anything—as dumb as that sounded.

It’s a comfortable silence between you two when you both settle on the couch. Opposite sides, of course, a quiet boundary that Mark couldn’t be bothered to break. Just being this close to you was enough.

At least, that was what he would keep telling himself until it wasn’t enough, and he’d crave more again.

He’d always crave more when it came to you. 

“I’m staying the night,” He rests his head against the back of the couch as he stares at the tv, which wasn’t even on. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t feel like he had to ask anymore, and you never protested. He’d leave if you told him to, but you don’t. Instead, it’s quiet for a few moments, before he can hear you sigh.

“I know.”

Mark can’t help but smile at that, noticing the way you curl up ever so slightly, shifting to get comfortable on the couch as Apricot crawled off of him and onto you. He can’t help but stare for a few moments, even if those moments are something he wants to last forever, and he blinks when you tilt your head to look at him. As usual, it’s blank. Tired, physically and emotionally. You don’t look like this whenever you’re on duty, but it is a look that he’s seen more as he spends more time with you outside of work.

Your heartbeat sounds like peace.

“Go grab the blankets from upstairs, you freak,” You lean your head on your hand as you reach for the tv remote and ignore the way he is seemingly snapped out of a trance. Slowly, he nods and stands up, wordless as he goes upstairs.

There are framed pictures hung on the walls of people. Not people you’ve mentioned before, and probably not anyone you could even remember yourself. They looked old. Aged, despite the moment being timeless and put behind glass and a wood frame to be hung up and looked at by those who could remember them. The wallpaper was somewhat chipped, little pink and blue flowers slowly fading and peeling. Every step he takes makes the stairs creak under his weight, and oddly enough, it feels comfortable.

You keep your blankets folded neatly in your room, on rare occasions. This is, what, the third time Mark’s stayed over? The second time he’d stayed, the blankets were sprawled on your bed, set up in a way you’d probably found comfortable enough to sleep on. He would figure it out at some point. Surely.

You’re still scrolling through movies and shows by the time he comes back down with all the blankets, setting them down beside you on the couch before sitting down next to you. Indecisive on what to put on, or if you even wanted to watch anything as you would doze off.

“What do you wanna watch?”

“Are we friends?”

Both questions come out at the same time, Mark’s voice being quieter than he had originally intended. He can hear the hitch in your breath, sees the way you stop scrolling through mindless television at his question. It’s been a nagging thought for some time, one that’d taken root barely even a month after he had met you a year ago. He wants to pretend that if anytime were a good time to ask, it’d be now.

When your heartbeat is slow and steady, calm and beating. When the creaks in the house have settled, when the sound of Apricot purring soothes the both of you, when he can’t help but feel his fingers twitch with want and feel his chest ache with so many thoughts swarming his head, he just can’t seem to focus on one.

You’d tilted your head slowly, a slight scowl on your face, and Mark can feel a lump in his throat.

He hadn’t felt this type of nervousness since high school—which, admittedly, felt like a lifetime ago after getting his powers, since moving on with his life. It was strange. A creeping feeling up his throat, his spine, his very soul. Down to the root.

“Friends.”

“Friends,” He repeats, nodding slowly. At best, you’d probably call Eve another coworker, Oliver an occasional nuisance, and Mark a constant pain in your ass that refused to leave no matter how much you turned him away.

The quiet that follows makes him want to claw at his throat, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. Whether or not it’s from embarrassment isn’t something he wants to think about right now, because he was certain he’d stopped being embarrassed around you quite some time ago, but it seemed that that wasn’t quite true.

And, again, you sighed.

“You know what? Sure. We’re friends,” You shrug, going back to focusing on the tv after making such a simple statement. As though Mark hadn’t felt like he was going to throw up just a few seconds ago. “Now, what do you wanna watch? Or else I’m putting on those obnoxious sleep noises and wait for a hell playlist to pop up and give you nightmares at like, three in the morning.”

He blinks, mouth opening for a moment before closing, and then opening again.

“Hell. . . Playlist?”

“I can show you. If I have to go through it, you do. I’d have to be smitten by the gods themselves if I didn’t torture you psychologically.”

As if you hadn’t done that enough just by existing, but Mark says nothing. He just laughs—relieved. You were willing to let him just a little bit closer, and that was enough. It had to be enough. Just for now, it was enough.

Until he’d start to crave more, just as he always did.

TAG LIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @pookiei-bookie @tokoyamisstuff @koilikesthefishy @treeteaofversailles @astrelz @tryingandfailingtowrite @vghjvvhhj

[noorpersona]

Pregnancy: Kuroo (NSFW)

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe sometime last week, maybe even before that—but the switch flipped quietly, without warning. One minute you were just a little tired, a little bloated, trying to get comfortable with the weird limbo that is second trimester pregnancy. And the next?

You were staring at your husband like he was carved from marble. Like every movement of his arms under that damn fitted black t-shirt was offensive. Like the way his voice dipped when he answered a work call should be punishable by law.

You hadn’t touched him in days—partly because you were tired, partly because the two of you were still adjusting to the wave of appointments and vitamins and new routines. But now, now your skin feels too tight for your body. You can’t stop thinking about his hands. His stupid smirk. The stretch of muscle across his stomach when he reaches for the top shelf. You keep shifting in your chair at the kitchen table, thighs pressed together as you half-watch him move around the apartment, trying not to combust every time he bends to grab something or stretches his arms over his head like a personal attack.

You're four months pregnant, and your hormones are holding you hostage.

But how the hell are you supposed to say that? Hey honey, I want you so bad it’s making me delusional? You’re turning me on just by walking?

You'd rather burst into flames.

So instead, you sit quietly, pretending to scroll through your phone while your eyes flicker up to him every ten seconds like a heat-seeking missile. You’re trying to be subtle. You really are.

Unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou has known you long enough to spot a mood shift from fifty paces away—and he’s been watching. Smugly. Patiently. Waiting.

The first hint that you’ve been caught comes when he strolls by with a bowl of chopped strawberries, casually plucks one from the bowl, and leans over to offer it to you without a word. You’re caught off guard, lips parting automatically as he feeds it to you. Your teeth graze the tip of his fingers, just barely, and his lips twitch.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you chew. Slow. Calm.

Then, in a voice dipped in dry amusement: “You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes.”

You blink, swallow. “I haven’t.”

“Mm,” he hums, straightening up. “Sure you haven’t.”

You grit your teeth. Heat burns your cheeks. You can already feel the spiral beginning.

He doesn’t press. Just walks around the kitchen like he didn’t just call you out for mentally undressing him on the spot. His movements are so casual it’s infuriating. He grabs a dish towel, wipes down the counter, opens the fridge, all while your brain is on fire.

You stare down at your phone, eyes unfocused, and will yourself to get it together. You just need to act normal. You’re not gonna combust. It’s fine. It’s just hormones.

“You okay?” he asks, voice far too neutral. You glance up. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over that broad chest, eyebrow lifted in feigned innocence.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re flushed.” His head tilts. “You hot?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You shift in your seat, pressing your knees together. “Yes.”

Another pause. Then:

“You hungry?”

Your eyes shoot to him instinctively—and that’s when you realize he knows. Not just suspects. Not maybe. Knows.

And worse: he’s enjoying it.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look away again, hands gripping your phone like it might save you from yourself.

When he crosses the room, you don’t even notice until he’s crouching beside your chair, resting one arm on the armrest, the other hand brushing lightly over your thigh. You freeze.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in syrup, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to climb me.”

You blink rapidly. “That’s not—”

“You sigh every time I stretch.” His fingers trace up to your knee. “You squirm when I talk. You’ve eaten, slept, and had your iron supplements. So unless there’s a sudden new strawberry emergency—”

“Tetsuro.”

“—I think,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “there’s something you’re not saying.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “This is so embarrassing.”

He laughs softly, warm breath fanning over your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s adorable.”

“It’s feral, Tetsu. I feel like a monster.”

“Monsters don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low against your skin. “They don’t whimper every time I bend over.”

You groan louder, but your body leans into him on instinct.

“Say it,” he teases. “C’mon. Say you want me.”

“I hate you.”

“You want me.”

“I’m four months pregnant and deranged, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, baby,” he grins, pulling you gently into his lap, “you’re carrying my kid and horny for me? I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

Mortified beyond recovery, you squirm your way out of his lap, muttering something unintelligible as you bolt from the kitchen. It’s half an attempt to escape, half a desperate grab for your dignity. You make it three steps into the hallway before you hear him laugh—low and knowing—and then feel his hands at your hips.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your ear as he tugs you back against him. “You’re not getting away from me after saying all that.”

You fumble for a response, but it vanishes the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin with unbearable slowness. You tilt your head back without thinking, breath catching.

“Tetsurou—”

“Yeah?” he answers, already kissing down your neck, voice infuriatingly calm. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hands find his wrists and guide them higher. You melt into him like wax to flame.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your jaw. “That’s more like it.”

Before you can catch your breath, he has you gently turned, your back pressing against the hallway wall. His hands settle firmly on your hips, then slide lower, fingers working with a confidence that has your knees buckling. You gasp when he pops the button of your pants, the sound deafening in the quiet space between your bodies.

“Tetsurou—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your collarbone with the lightest graze, voice so low and deliberate it sends a pulse through your spine. His hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear with a languid slowness, his knuckles dragging along your skin like he wants you to feel everything.

“Let me take care of you, yeah? You’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”

You inhale sharply as his fingers slide deeper, seeking out the ache you’ve been trying to ignore for days. When he finds it—you—it’s like your body short-circuits. Your breath stutters, hips jolting forward as if your body’s been waiting for this exact moment, this exact touch.

His fingers move with maddening precision—expert and unhurried—stroking you in a rhythm that melts the strength from your knees. He presses you harder into the wall, not with force but weight, anchoring you there while your body twists and trembles under his control. His mouth trails along your neck, slow kisses blooming across your pulse point as you gasp, the sound catching in your throat.

"Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "Let me make it better."

Your hands cling to his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as your body arches into him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, strung high by weeks of restrained want, the heat of your own embarrassment fueling the need. He murmurs low praise into your skin—good girl, so soft, so perfect, so fucking sweet like this—and the words alone nearly undo you.

And when you do come, it’s a quiet, raw thing—your body trembling in his hold, face tucked against his shoulder, a muffled cry of Tetsurou slipping from your lips like confession. He holds you steady through it, one arm around your waist, the other still curled low, fingers easing you through every last tremor.

When your breathing slows, when the fog begins to lift, his hand gently slips free and he cradles your face, brushing back damp strands of hair with the same fingers that just unraveled you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “My gorgeous, needy wife. All mine.”

Your breath comes out in short, shaky bursts, still reeling, still trembling in his hands. “I can’t believe I—” you start, but the words collapse in your throat, too breathless, too flustered to finish.

Tetsurou chuckles softly, and before you can even think about collecting yourself, he’s hooking one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with effortless strength.

You yelp, arms flying around his neck as he princess carries you down the hallway, your face burning hot against his shoulder. “Tetsu—! What are you doing?!”

He glances down at you, grin smug, eyes molten. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he murmurs, already walking with you in his arms toward the bedroom. His voice is velvet and heat, wrapped around every word, promising more. “I’ve got you all night, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

[shohrrts]

pairing: megumi x reader

cw: none, fluff

🌟: one bed trope :p megumi and reader have feelings for each other and confess all sweet vibes!!

me when i finally get a fic draft posted anyways i hope u enjoy!!

the mission had gone longer than expected. you and megumi had been sent out on a last-minute assignment, which turned out to be much more exhausting than anticipated (gojo told you it was a easy mission). by the time you both found your way back to the small hotel room you’d booked, it was well past midnight.

you threw your bag onto the floor, rubbing your eyes. "i’m so tired," you muttered, and megumi nodded in agreement, slumping against the door frame.

"yeah. i didn’t think we’d be out this late," he said, his voice hoarse from the long fight.

the hotel room wasn’t fancy by any means, just a small, cheap place with a single bed. you noticed the moment you entered the room.

"only one bed," you muttered dryly, crossing your arms. you tried to keep your face neutral, but a slight warmth crept up your neck. you had shared close quarters with megumi before—hell, you'd worked together countless times, but something about this felt different.

megumi glanced at you, then at the bed, and then back at you. his usual unreadable expression softened for a second, a flicker of something in his eyes that made your heart skip.

"you can take the bed. i’ll sleep on the floor," he offered with a shrug, but his tone suggested more concern than you were used to.

you quickly shook your head. "no, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor." you couldn't help but notice the way his gaze lingered on you, it made your heart race a little faster and your cheeks heat up a little more. it wasn’t like you’d never been close, but the tension tonight felt… different.

he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a small, almost smirk. "well, unless you want to...?" he trailed off, a mischievous glint in his eye.

you could feel your pulse quicken, and you fought to keep your composure. "i’ll just… take the side of the bed," you muttered.

as you both changed into more comfortable clothes, the silence was thick with an underlying tension. The kind of tension that had been building between the two of you for a while now, but obviously neither of you had addressed it.

when you finally got into bed, your back facing megumis, you felt the heat radiating off him, despite the space between you. he sighed softly, and it made your breath hitch.

"i—uhm, thanks for… offering the bed," you said, your voice a little quieter than usual. there was something in the air, a subtle shift that made everything feel more intimate.

he didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, you thought maybe you’d misread the situation. but then, his voice was low and steady. "i don’t mind," he said softly, but there was something unspoken in those words. "really."

it was a simple thing, yet it meant everything in the moment.

the silence stretched on, but it didn’t feel awkward. it was comfortable, like a quiet understanding that neither of you wanted to break. slowly, the quiet rhythm of your breathing seemed to sync up with megumi’s. you were both exhausted, but the exhaustion didn't seem to dull the electricity that crackled just beneath the surface.

when megumi spoke again, his voice was softer than usual. "i—"

before he could finish, you turned to face him. you didn’t know what you were doing, but you couldn’t stop now. the warmth of his body and the way his gaze softened as he looked at you made it feel like everything was finally falling into place.

"i know," you said, voice barely a whisper, but enough for him to hear.

there was a short pause, and then Megumi moved slightly closer, his face inches from yours. "you know?" he asked, voice low, and filled with uncertainty.

you nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "i think i’ve known for a while."

he didn’t pull away, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. there was a gentle tension between you, something that had been building for a long time. The world outside that little room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you.

just before you could say anything more, megumi closed the gap between you. his lips met yours in a soft, lingering kiss, eliciting a small gasp from you. it was gentle, cautious, as though he was asking for permission in the most quiet way. you responded without hesitation, your hand finding its way to his chest, the beat of his heart steady against your palm.

when you pulled away, you both stayed close, sharing the same air. his forehead rested gently against yours.

"guess we don’t need two beds," megumi said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

you chuckled softly, your heart lighter than it had been before. "yeah, i guess not."

for the first time that night, you both finally relaxed, letting the warmth of each other’s presence lull you into a peaceful sleep.

➽──────────────❥

ahhh!! so cutee o̴̶̷᷄ ⤙ o̴̶̷̥᷅ i hope you liked this, pls pls pls send me requests my brain is like almost incapable of thinking of prompts!! Im hoping to get a fic out maybe every 1-2 weeks but im in college and our folders are almost due in (cram time💔) so it will most likely change BUT pls do keep sending me request i love to see them in my inbox!

[etherealyoungk]

ramen & fate | boo seungkwan

SUMMARY: in which you meet a rich guy at the convenience store during a late night ramen run.

PAIRING: chaebol!seungkwan x reader

THEMES: strangers to lovers, meet cute kinda

WARNINGS: fluff, use of curse words

WORDCOUNT: 2.4k

A/N: @wheeboo happy birthday my love! this is a little gift from me to you! this is such a silly idea but i thought i'd write it out for you and i hope you like it <3

you walk into the convenience store and walk inside and the faint sound of pop music hums from the speakers overhead, blending with the quiet hum of the refrigerators in the back. you barely notice any of it though because your mission is clear - ramen. you really needed a ramen fix right now.

you make a beeline for the ramen aisle, the craving gnawing at you and nothing else would do now, not after the day you've had. there's a strange comfort in that little cup of noodles, in its simplicity, in the way it tastes exactly how you expected it to. your eyes scan the shelves and you spot your favourite ramen, only to find one left on the shelf. you immediately reach for it without a second thought, but so does someone else.

your fingers brush against another hand, and you pause, startled. your eyes follow the hand, trailing up a crisp white sleeve, past a perfectly tailored suit jacket, until they land on the face of the man reaching for the same cup of ramen. he’s tall so you have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze. his expression is cool, almost unreadable, his jawline sharp and sleek, his styled hair making him look like he just walked off the set of some corporate drama.

"oh," you say, blinking as your hand hovers over the cup.

he looks down at you, his brows lifting slightly as if in mild surprise, but he doesn’t immediately pull his hand back. "looks like we’ve got the same taste," he says, his voice smooth.

you blink at him and wrack your brain for a response before you let out a nervous laugh. "well, it is the best one", you reply as you look at him.

he smirks faintly, tilting his head. "i agree, but there’s only one left."

there’s a pause, the moment stretching out as both of you keep your hands over the cup of ramen and suddenly this feels like some sort of high-stakes negotiation situation.

"i—uh—had a long day," you say, trying to justify your claim, though you immediately feel silly for doing so. "i really need this ramen".

his smirk softens into something resembling amusement. "and you think i don’t?", he counters, raising a brow at you. "i’ve had back-to-back meetings since seven this morning", he says.

"well, i’ve been running around non-stop too", you protest, your grip on the edge of the shelf tightening. his gaze flickers between you and the ramen before he exhales, and lets out a small resigned sigh and to your surprise, he takes his hand away.

"alright," he says, stepping back slightly. "you win, take it", he says as his hand swings down. "really? thanks," you say, though your tone is cautious, like you’re not entirely sure this isn’t some kind of trick.

he gives you a small nod, then glances at his watch, grabbing a different ramen from the shelf and walking to a different aisle without sparing you another glance. you blink, a little confused but get about on your mission to get the ramen. you grab a few more stuff, some kimbap and something to drink and make your way to the cash counter when you spot the man in the suit again.

"i'm sorry sir, but i don't have change for such a big bill", you hear the worker say. "unless you buy items for that amount, i don't really have a way to give you back your change", the worker continues.

you walk front and put your stuff on the counter. "i'll pay for his stuff", you say and he looks at you.

"i've got it, i'm sure i have smaller bills somewhere", he says as he pulls out his wallet and your eyes nearly pop out with the fat wad of cash you see in it, all big bills. what the fuck. you decide to ignore what you just saw and by the time the man in the suit is digging his wallet, you've already paid for your stuff, his included.

you take your things and towards the corner of the store to cook your ramen. once the ramen is done, you take a seat and that's when the man in the suit appears again. he’s got his own ramen cup in hand, the sleeve of his tailored suit pushed up slightly to reveal an expensive looking watch. he moves methodically, peeling back the lid of his ramen cup and pouring in the hot water with a steady hand, there's no hesitation and no fumbling. he catches your gaze, and you quickly look away, suddenly very interested in your own noodles. you can feel his eyes on you for a moment, but then he goes back to his ramen, silent and composed. you sneak another glance at him and think to yourself - he is pretty handsome.

you’re halfway through your noodles, the warm broth hitting just the right spot on a cold night before you hear the shuffle of footsteps coming towards you.

"mind if i sit?" he asks, his voice smooth and you nod. he sits down with a kind of effortless grace, setting his ramen down in front of him and adjusting his sleeves like he’s dining at a michelin-star restaurant instead of a dingy convenience store. you focus on your noodles, hoping he won’t notice the way your gaze keeps flickering back to him and you watch as he stirs his ramen and takes a bite.

"you didn’t have to pay for my stuff, you know," he says after a bite, breaking the silence.

"it’s not a big deal," you reply with a shrug. "maybe you should carry smaller bills next time", you tell and you can see the faint smile on his face.

"i swear i thought i had change on me", he says, rather to himself.

"doesn’t seem like you need to worry about it," you remark before you can stop yourself. “i mean, with a wallet like that.”

his smile widens slightly, and he leans back in his chair, resting an elbow casually on the table. "appearances can be deceiving," he says, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent you can’t quite place.

you raise an eyebrow. "right, and expensive suits and fat wads of cash are just a camouflage?", you ask.

"something like that," he replies, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes now like he’s enjoying this back and forth talk, like he's amused by you.

you huff out a soft laugh as you shake your head. "well, next time you’re low on change, i suggest hitting the ATM before wandering into a convenience store", you tell and he nods.

"noted," he says, and there’s a warmth to his voice now.

"i’d like to pay you back", he says after a moment, but you shake your head.

"that's not necessary," you reply, waving a dismissive hand. "it’s just ramen", you say.

and he just looks at you, and it looks like he wants to say something more, but he settles for giving you a small smile instead. "alright, if you’re sure".

after finishing his meal, he gathers his things, straightens his perfectly tailored suit and offers you a polite, "thanks again," before leaving.

you think that’s the last you’ll see of him, until you notice something on the table, his sleek black leather wallet, the kind that practically screams expensive. your eyes widen as your hands reach out for it and you mutter under your breath.

grabbing the wallet, you flip it open and find a few crisp bills (all large denominations, of course), some credit cards and a single business card tucked inside, but there's no name, just a logo and a phone number. you hesitate for a moment before you decide to call the number, but it goes straight to voicemail.

for the next few days, you keep the wallet with you, figuring he’ll eventually call back or text or come looking for it, but nothing. it’s not until a few days later, when you’re rushing through a crowded sidewalk with a bag of groceries in one hand and your phone in the other, that fate decides to intervene. you’re trying to balance too many things at once, not paying attention to where you’re going, when you collide hard into someone coming from the opposite direction. the impact sends your phone clattering to the ground and your grocery bag spilling open. "oh, come on!" you groan, crouching to pick up your things.

"sorry about that", a familiar voice says, and you freeze mid-reach.

you glance up to see him, the ramen guy, in his perfectly tailored suit guy, crouching down to help. he looks as polished as ever, his suit immaculate despite the chaos of the street and he notices you at the same time, and his eyes widen slightly.

"you," he says, clearly surprised.

"you," you reply, just as surprised. "i've been looking for you, you left this", you say after you've gathered all your groceries and stand up. you dig into your bag and bring out his wallet, handing it over to him.

his expression shifts. "i didn’t even realize it was missing until yesterday, but by then, i figured it was gone for good", he says as he looks at you.

"well, lucky for you i found it,” you say as you hold it out for him. he takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, and his smile softens. “you have no idea how much this means, thank you", he says

"you’re welcome," you reply and he looks down at the wallet in his hand, then back at you.

“i owe you, again", he says. "let me buy you dinner, it's the least i can do, please", he asks and you blink, caught off guard.

"dinner? that's...", you trail off as you chew on your lip, considering his offer. "but you don't even know me?", you say, unsure.

"i'll take my chances", he says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“alright,” you say, nodding. “dinner sounds nice.”

the smile that spreads across his face is slow and warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds and it softens his polished, professional look, making him seem boyish almost.

"i didn't get your name", you ask.

"i'm seungkwan", he says, holding out his hand and you reach for it, shaking it, the warmth of his hand engulfing you. "yn", you say, giving him a small smile.

you both exchange numbers and you head home, and it's only then that you wonder if he'll actually follow through. and a few days later, your phone buzzes with a text from him.

ramen guy: this is seungkwan, does friday evening work for dinner? let me know what time works for you.

you reply quickly and his response comes almost immediately.

ramen guy: perfect, i’ll take care of everything, looking forward to it.

when friday arrives, you find yourself standing in front of the address he sent—a restaurant that looks like it was plucked straight from a luxury travel magazine. the building is sleek and modern, its glass walls shimmering in the golden hour light. your nerves spike as you step through the grand entrance and suddenly you're thinking that this must be some kind of joke, that he must have sent you the wrong address by mistake because holy shit, you could barely afford this place. a host greets you with a warm smile when you walk inside. “you must be here for mr. boo seungkwan” they say, their tone polite but knowing. boo seungkwan?

the person guides you towards a private dining room and it's a beautifully set table near the window that overlooks the city skyline. you spot him waiting there and he stands up the moment he spots you, a smile lighting up his face.

he was wearing an all-black suit, and it was perfect for him, tailored to perfection, the fit making him incredibly handsome and attractive and the fit made him look effortlessly sophisticated, yet there was an ease to his posture that made him seem grounded. his dark hair was styled just enough to look intentionally tousled, a few stray strands falling over his forehead. there was something about the way he carried himself, confident but not cocky, poised but not stiff. his smile was the same: genuine and unpretentious, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, yet somehow, in that black suit, he couldn’t help but leave an impression.

“you made it,” he says, his tone warm as he steps forward to pull out your chair for you. "yeah", you say softly, still trying to take in the posh ambience around you.

as the evening unfolds, you’re surprised by how easy he is to talk to. he’s incredibly down-to-earth and he listens intently, laughs at your jokes, and is just so sweet, a complete gentleman. his genuine interest in you, paired with his relaxed nature, made the evening feel warm and comfortable and didn't make you feel intimidated anymore.

“so, what exactly do you do?”, you ask, looking at him.

he hesitates for a moment, then shrugs lightly. “family business,” he says, clearly trying to downplay it. “it’s not that exciting.”

"so what exactly is this family business?", you ask but seungkwan only chuckles softly in response. "it's not as cool as you think. let’s just say it's a lot of paperwork, meetings, and business stuff", he makes an exaggerated motion of his hands like he was emphasizing the mundanity of it all. the date ends on a good note and he even offers to drop you home, but you decline, not wanting to impose on him anymore.

it isn’t until days later, when you’re scrolling through your phone that you stumble across an article and you realize just who he is.

heir to the boo family conglomerate, boo seungkwan spotted at his newest restaurant with someone: who’s the mystery guest?

your jaw drops as your eyes scan the article, which details his family’s massive business empire—including restaurant chains, luxury hotels, and even media companies. the photo accompanying the article shows him stepping out of the very restaurant where you had dinner with him, wearing the same outfit he had that evening, looking effortlessly handsome and polished as always.

and just then your phone buzzes with a new message from him at that exact moment:

ramen guy: i hope you enjoyed the dinner last time. let me know when you’re free again, i owe you another one.

taglist: @joshuaahong @paindivinemp3 @fallingforshua29 @itsveronicaxxx @frankenstein852

@weird-bookworm @mirxzii @naaaaafla @wheeboo @icyminghao

@lvlystars @gyubakeries @wootify @ihrtboo @n4mj00nvq

@yoozuku

[the-s1lly-corner]

Calling various slashers pretty boy

Oh yeah we are cooking today

Characters: Jason Voorhees, Brahms Heelshire, Bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, OG Michael Myers

Notes: reader is GN, admin is writing this in bursts so any noticable difference in energy is due to that LMAO, written on mobile

CWs: blood mentions but it's very small

JASON

It takes him a while to believe you think hes pretty since it's so deeply ingrained in his mind that hes got a face only a mother could love

He doesn't reject the nickname, it just takes him some time to truly fully believe you when you call him pretty boy!

The first time he pauses for a moment before turning his gaze towards you... very intense stare

Absolutely melts into your arms when you pepper his bare face with kisses while calling him pretty boy

Hes careful not to smoosh you under him buts hes basically draped over your lap and pressing his face into your stomach

MICHAEL

Little to no reaction when you call him pretty boy, if there IS a reaction hes just the slightest head tilt as he stares you down

He doesnt care all that much, at least as far as you can tell... Michael... isnt the easiest to read

But you're more than sure that he would stamp it out if he didnt like it, so at least you have that going on!

Doesnt take his mask off around you at all so you dont.. actually know what he looks like... you sometimes wonder if he thinks you're just saying the term without actually meaning it

Affection with Michael alwaus feels a little one sided but you know he st least partly cares for you.. maybe..(/lh/hj)

BRAHMS

Oh look what you've done... now hes going to expect you to keep going-

Tell him just how pretty he is, what you like about his looks... he might even insist you call him Pretty Boy in place of his name!

Not that that he isnt going to return at least some of the energy, hes totally obsessed with you and hes not about to let you go feeling unloved

Call him pretty boy while the two of you are cuddling and hes going to grab your face and just.. stare intently..

Then saying you're beautiful in return, likely saying something specific about your face

BUBBA

No ones ever called him pretty boy before... let alone pretty..!

Totally melts when you call him that, pauses his work on whatever hes doing at the moment to process what you've called him before giving a soft giggle

He wants to show you how pretty he thinks you are, too, typically shows that by touching your face and tracing your skin, sometimes playing with your hair

Its... best not to call him pretty boy when hes working on carving up some meat, hes become desensitized to blood..

Unless you're okay with the upcoming mess!

THOMAS

The only person who's really complimented his looks, at least before you came along, was family members

Needs a minute to turn over what you said in his mind, and for a moment you may even wonder if you said something to upset him

Very gently takes your hands and traces them along the sides of his face, against his mask if hes wearing it

Then he holds your face in his hands... it's not a new piece of affection, he occasionally traces his fingers along your skin as the two of you snuggle

Hes going to be thinking about the name for a while, but hes not going to let it get in the way of his work and chores

[mimiyaru]

Inamorata

Yandere emo x (slight) bimbo reader

Erm.. part two is here.. btw this isn’t proof read. Part one is here

Tw- a bit suggestive…yeah

Yandere emo who has to be touching you in some way once he’s set on making you his.

Walking together? He either has his arm around your waist or around your shoulders. What? It’s totally normal for friends to do this! He just doesn’t want you to get lost if the both of you are in crowded places.

Sitting next to eachother? He has his hand placed on your thigh while he scrolls on his phone or working on whatever assignments his shitty teachers assigned.

Yandere emo who starts buying you even more expensive things. You said you wanted an eyeshadow palette but it costs $80? Next day at school during lunch he pulls out the same eyeshadow palette and hands it to you.

He spends so much money if the two of you are at the mall together. Oh you stared at some cute short tops or stared at some mini skirts that look like they barely cover your ass? He’ll get it for you but you have to try it on infront of him. It’s only fair because he practically bought your whole wardrobe.

Not that you mind, you always stand infront of him with a smile on your dolled up face.

“What do you think??” You excitedly asked, showing off the mini skirt you had your eyes on ever since you saw it on display.

He could only stare at the perfect curves of your body and had to hold himself back from grabbing your waist and pushing you up against the wall.

“Looks.. good” he shrugs but looks away from your gaze so you don’t notice the blush slowly forming on his face.

He loves it when you show up to school wearing the clothes he bought you but hates it when other guys stare at you as you walk by them, some even try to talk to you. Don’t worry he takes care of them later at night

Yandere emo who actually hates going to public places but goes out just to hang out with you. And to make sure that no one is hitting on you But if it were up to him, he would much rather have you hang out in his room where no one else can look at you.

Yandere emo who stares at you in bewilderment when one day during lunch you showed him some matching hello kitty keychains you bought.

“I thought these looked so cute and I really wanted to match with you! Unless you don’t like it…” you stared at him bashfully waiting for an answer.

You wanted to match with him?

You thought about him?

“I know it doesn’t go with your style but..!” you paused when you saw his scarred hand reaching towards the keychains and grabbing one with the utmost care as if they were fragile.

“The colors aren’t my favorite… but since you gave it to me I guess it’s alright” he muttered while staring at the keychain with such fondness.

Yandere emo who sometimes wishes you weren’t so dumb and oblivious.

Yandere emo who wishes that you would notice how he would frown for a moment everytime you called him your best friend.

Yandere emo who wishes that he could just ask you out, but this is all so new to him, he never expected that he of all people would be in love, not to mention in love with someone like you.

Yandere emo who wishes he could just kiss you roughly everytime you talk about another guy. What’s so good about him? He probably only wants to use you for your body.

The gifts he gets you start increasing, he even gave you a big bouquet of flowers that said I love you (Much to his dismay, he thought it was corny but maybe it would give you a sign that he loves you romantically?) it didn’t.

As the days pass by he’s starting to get impatient, he tried everything yet you just never seemed to get the hint.

So don’t be surprised when the next time you mention a guy he roughly grabs your shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. Doesn’t matter if he does it in public or somewhere private, he’s tired of you thinking that he just wants to be your friend.

“Are you really that dumb or are you just pretending?” He murmurs, his face inching closer to your neck after the kiss and his hands are now holding your waist tightly while your own hands grasp onto his shoulders.

“You really think I’d waste hundreds of dollars on a friend? Fuck, I love you, why can’t you see that?” You yelped when you felt him roughly bite your neck. You tried wriggling out of his grasp but his hold only tightened. He didn’t plan on letting you go.

“Or maybe I need to show you how much I love you in a different way?” He slowly lifted his head to look right at you.

His gaze was different this time, it was much darker.

If he has to fuck that pretty body of yours in order for you to understand that he loves you, then he’s all for it.

He would do anything for you, after all.

I spent 30 dollars in order to get phainon and it was so worth it lmao

also why is this one even more buns than the first one.. 🥀

[ak319]

Lovesick bubbly hubby x fem reader

ミ☆ Slice of Life

♥︎ Syno: Narin and you had a baby, and it's a boy! ♥︎ Warnings: bxg but matriarchal themes e.g. mpreg mentions! Fluff and lots of it and a bit of spice too..;) ♥︎ previous

If someone had told Narin how different his life would be now, he would pause, blink, and then smile. Because they’d be absolutely right.

In the small moments carved out of his busy routine, as your dearest, only, and unquestionably prettiest husband of the century, and now, as a papa too, Narin finds himself glowing. He’s the proud father of the cutest baby alive: Mylo. Your son. His son. A perfect blend of everything he finds magical in this world. From this marriage to the beautiful home you’ve built together, Narin can’t stop thanking God.

Even his parents, especially his father, noticed a subtle shift in him, something like maturity. Narin, the boy who once barely finished assignments on time, now insists on knowing every detail about how to feed Mylo, how to burp him, how to swaddle him just right, how to lull him to sleep, and still find time to cook your favorite meals.

You and his parents have gently suggested hiring a maid, just to ease the pressure.

But Narin? Absolutely not.

"Are you kidding!? A MAID!? What if he flirts with you!? What if he tries to seduce you while I’m in the nursery, elbow-deep in diaper duty? DON'T EVER SAY THAT!" he’d shriek and break stuff, already imagining dramatic betrayal scenarios.

No stranger was stepping into this home. This sanctuary. His wife, his baby, his perfect little life, he was going to protect it with every inch of glittery, sleep-deprived resolve he had.

Speaking of...

🍭 "Do I look fat? Have I changed a lot? Have I lost the baby weight or no-"

"My little angel, cupcake, you’re perfect as alwa-"

"YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT!"

And there come the tears.

As if cradling Mylo and keeping him quiet wasn’t enough already. One wrong movement and that baby will erupt. Two crying babies? Definitely not what you signed up for after coming home completely knackered.

"I say that 'cause it’s true, babe!"

"Oh really?! Then why did your brother TAUNT me about-"

"I told you to ignore what my family says! Why do you always listen to them-"

Insert loud wailing from Mylo.

Perfect timing.

"Shh, it's okay. Your father is just having a moment-"

"EXCUSE ME?!"

Oh no.

His routine is even more exciting for him now! From you cuddling them both in the morning for at least an hour, showering your boys with kisses, to him getting himself and Mylo ready before you come back from work-

Absolute heaven.

And do you think that after having a baby, he lost his own flair? That cunning, minxy flair? Think again.

🍭 He leans back into your chest as you cuddle him closer, your arms wrapped around him and Mylo nestled peacefully on his lap. Narin hums softly, inhaling the familiar scent of his beauty products and the sweet, distinct baby smell clinging to Mylo’s blanket.

"How’s work going, Coco? I hate seeing you… work yourself this much…" he murmurs, his fingers absentmindedly stroking Mylo’s tiny sock-covered foot. But you...

You weren't listening. Too busy nuzzling his neck and stpping yourself from devouring him right then and there.

"I mean, I get it, you’re amazing and a hard working woman, wife and all, but maybe... maybe just lie down here? Just for a bit? On me?" he whispers, tilting his head back to look at you with those wide, pleading eyes. "I promise I won’t move. Not even a twitch."

The way he's acting all meek--God, he's gonna get it.

He shifts slightly so the blanket covers your legs too. "I even warmed your favorite one. See? I planned this nap. It’s romantic."

Then, a pause.

"...Unless you’re leaving again. Are you leaving again?" His voice wobbles, and his lower lip starts to jut out, slowly, dramatically.

That pout. That ridiculous, practiced, award-winning househusband pout.

If you even hint at standing up, he’ll clutch your sleeve like a Victorian widower watching his love go off to war.

"Mhm...who said anything bout' leaving, mhm?."

You shift slightly behind him, your chin resting on his shoulder, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Y’know," you murmur, "for someone who says he’s too tired for anything but naptime, you sure know how to trap me under a warm blanket like you’ve got an agenda."

Narin gasps, actually gasps, his hand flying to his chest like you accused him of a crime.

"Excuse me?! I’m a sweet, innocent papa trying to get his hardworking wife to nap! How dare you-"

You trail a finger down the curve of his waist, slow enough to make him shiver.

"Mmhm. Innocent, huh? That why you keep wearing those silk pajama pants around me like you don’t know what they do to my self-control?" You gave the side of his hip a firm swat.

Narin’s cheeks go red immediately, cherry blossom red.

"Th-they’re just comfy! And breathable! And postpartum-friendly!” he stammers, clutching Mylo like a tiny shield. "Besides, I-I don’t control how good I look in them, okay?!”

You smirk against his neck. "Sure you don’t."

He lets out a tiny squeak, torn between wanting to argue and silently bask in the fact that you’re still that into him, he keeps fussing over, and the fact that he hasn’t done his skincare routine in two days.

You hum against his skin, and then, without warning, press a slow, deliberate kisses to the side of his neck. Just below his ear. Right where you know it’ll make him flinch and curl his toes.

Narin freezes.

You feel his whole body tense in your arms, his breath catching in his throat like a cartoon character short-circuiting.

"H-Hey… hey-C-coco…" he whines, his voice high and wobbly. “You c-can’t just-! I’m holding the baby!"

Ignoring him, you kiss him again softly on his neck, biting in between.

His head tips back against your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in surrender.

“You missed me?” he breathes out.

You grin. "Of course...so much, my doll...."

Another kiss, this time to his cheek, and then one right at the corner of his mouth. His fingers curl tightly around Mylo’s blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him from completely melting.

You finally press a rougher kiss to his lips full of passion to shut his quiet whining. He doesn’t even move at first, just sighs into it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, letting you bite and suck his pouty plump, fruity lips.

When you pull back, he’s blinking up at you with that dazed, heart-eyed look.

"…Okay," he says, dreamy and breathless. "Maybe I do have an agenda."

Damn right he always did, from the moment you stepped in the house, with your sleeves rolled up and the loose tie.

But of course, this little vixen of yours would see your child as a perfect tool to manipulate you. Like, duh. As if groveling to him alone wasn’t humiliating enough, now you’ve got two people to apologize to: one with dramatic eyeliner and the other in a fluffy cat onesie. And honestly? It scares you. The way Narin can just pack a bag and threaten to take Mylo to his parents’ place the second he’s mad. You’re never sure if he fully understands the kind of hurt that leaves behind, or if he does, and simply doesn’t care. It only took one real scolding from you, one sharp, serious reprimand, for him to shrink back, eyes wide and glistening, murmuring apologies with shaking hands. He hasn't dared to do it again since. Not openly, at least. But deep down, he’d been a little pleased. Pleased to discover a weakness in you. That just by giving you a son, he’d carved himself into your life so deeply that no matter how angry, how exhausted, how heartbroken you got... he’d always be a permanent fixture. You weren’t just his love now. You were bound.

🍭You unlock the door, stepping in with tired shoulders and your work bag slung low. The house smells like baby lotion, leftover pasta, and ....suspicious amounts of drama.

Silence.

Too much silence.

Then you spot them, curled up on the couch. Narin’s in his robe, hair up in a little bun, Mylo nestled in his lap with his tiny face squished against his father’s chest.

Narin doesn’t even look at you.

"Oh," he says. Flat. Chilly. "Look who decided to come home."

You blink. "Babe, I told you I had a late meeting-"

He holds up a hand, still not facing you. "No, no. You don’t get to ‘babe’ me right now. We had plans. Mylo and I were going to watch that cheesy prince movie together, and I made themed snacks. Themed, COCO! Do you realize the effort in that?!"

You try to step closer, but he scoots dramatically to the side, shielding Mylo’s ear like he’s protecting a witness.

"Don’t talk to him," Narin says in a stage whisper. "He doesn’t want to hear it. Do you, Mylo?"

Mylo just hiccups and chews on Narin’s robe tie.

"That’s right," Narin murmurs, leaning down conspiratorially. "She abandoned us. Left us to suffer. Alone. No goodnight kisses, no evening cuddles. And we looked so cute today too, didn’t we?"

"Narin-"

"Shh." He gently taps Mylo’s lips with a finger. "Don’t say anything to her, baby. Silence is power."

"You are coaching our son against me again?"

Narin gasps theatrically, clutching Mylo to his chest. "Cover your ears, baby. She’s using the Voice. That rough, work-weary, tempting Voice that ruins our boundaries."

Mylo lets out a giggle.

Narin gasps. "Traitor."

You try not to laugh as you make your way to the couch and lean over, kissing both of their foreheads in one go. "I’ll bribe you both with cookies and twenty minutes of undivided attention if you forgive me."

Narin narrows his eyes.

"…Fifteen minutes of forehead kisses."

"Deal."

"Only cuz', you are hot."

You grinned. "I know."

He slides you a smug, victorious grin while Mylo coos and shoves his foot in your face anyway.

Great coaching, no doubt.

[yoonmoonn]

taste me┃jjk

04┃show stopper┃masterlist ┃taglist

note: why do i lowk hate it 😐 might rewrite later (also i definitely didn't fell asleep last night while editing this...)

You walked into the arena with a coffee in hand and a swing in your step, humming under your breath like the world was yours and no one else had even been invited.

“Why are you singing that early in the morning?” your manager asked, squinting at you over the rim of his tablet.

You just sipped your drink—half milk, half espresso, a little chaos on top—and twirled once in place, your platform sneakers squeaking lightly on the polished floor.

“Why not?” you shot back, grinning like the devil in lip gloss.

Something was off. Not in a bad way, just...off. You were suspiciously happy. Suspiciously put together for soundcheck. You weren’t pacing, weren’t barking about mic frequencies or annoyingly cold weather. You weren’t even late. You were early.

You, who barely showed up on time for your own birthday.

The venue crew was already buzzing around, and you drifted past them like you belonged in the middle of it all. Half-humming Taste to yourself, fingers snapping along with the beat in your head.

It was going to hit so hard tonight.

Your voice wasn’t tired. It was sharp. Your tone had that sweet, teasing edge that always made your fans scream like they were in on a joke you never told them. You moved from the edge of the stage to the wings and back, spinning once, letting your hair fall over your shoulder like you were in a music video and not just rehearsing.

You walked past one of your stylists and tapped her shoulder.

“Did the tights come in?”

She blinked, nodded. “Yeah. You mean the custom sheer ones?”

You grinned wider. “Mhm. The ones with taste me written just below the hip. In black script. Looks like a tattoo, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, half-shocked, half-impressed. “It’s... intense.”

You just shrugged, eyes glinting under your sunglasses. “It’s for Act I.”

Act I: the corset bodysuit—the baby blue one with rhinestones. The tights would sit underneath, skin-colored and nearly invisible unless someone really looked. But you knew who’d look.

Act II: the black lace capri catsuit. Always made you feel like sin on Mary Janes.

Act III: the two-piece top and micro skirt covered in Swarovski crystals that danced under the lights. That one always got the loudest reaction.

Tonight, though, Act I was the one you were counting on.

You didn’t say anything else. Just sipped your coffee, swaying slightly to the rhythm in your head. Humming again.

By now, everyone around you had noticed.

You weren’t nervous.

You weren’t bitter.

You were dangerous.

Like someone who had something to prove and had already planned exactly how to prove it.

You sang a few lines under your breath again, leaning against a wall, lips curling around the words like they tasted sweet.

“You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you”

Yeah. You were ready.

And if he was watching?

Good. That was the whole point.

The venue was already buzzing when you stepped into the wings.

Cameras flashed like fireworks. Lights swirled across the crowd in glittery loops, and the hum of the pre-show electricity lit up your veins more than the iced latte you'd downed in your dressing room. You adjusted your in-ear monitor with a smirk, fingers tapping along a random beat in your head as the opening scene was played across the big screen.

It was the last show of the tour leg. You should’ve been exhausted.

But you weren’t.

You were alive.

You knew he was here before you even saw him. The air shifted. That strange intuition that always warned you of Jungkook's presence tugged at your spine, made you glance out into the crowd right before the start of Act II.

And there he was. Front row. Black hoodie, hands folded, head tilted like he was trying too hard not to be impressed.

But it wasn’t him that made you pause.

It was her.

Standing next to him like she belonged there, like she hadn’t been the girl that once broke his heart—now suddenly smiling, screaming, recording every second of you on her phone.

Jumping around.

Singing along.

You almost laughed. Of course she was a fan.

Of course he brought her here.

By the time you reached the last track, the air in the arena was thick with anticipation. The crowd was already feverish from the last set, and you didn’t say a word before the music started.

The beat hit—slick, disco-infused, glittering under the lights like a mirrorball cracking open.

Your hips moved with the rhythm, sharp and purposeful, the lyrics pouring out with sugar-laced venom.

"Oh, I leave quite an impression—

Five feet to be exact

You're wonderin' why half his clothes went missin'

My body's where they're at..."

You kept your gaze wide, teasing and cocky, letting your voice carry high over the bass. But you saw him.

He wasn’t leaning back anymore.

His jaw was tense.

“Now I'm gone, but you're still layin'

Next to me, one degree of separation

I heard you're back together and if that's true

You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you...”

You moved across the stage with a steady, practiced grace, a smirk tucked in the corner of your lips. Not loud. Not bitter.

Just surgical.

And when you reached the final lyric—when your voice slipped into that final note, slow and honeyed and sharp as glass—you did it without flinching.

“You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you...”

You pointed.

Right at them.

The lights exploded behind you.

The crowd lost its mind.

And in that tiny flicker of a second before the blackout, you caught it—Jungkook’s face, still as stone.

His girlfriend frozen next to him, hand lowered from where she’d been clapping.

You turned on your heel and walked offstage, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at your temples.

You didn’t look back.

You never needed to.

Backstage was chaos.

Glitter trailed your heels like stardust as crew members buzzed past, voices tangled in shouts and laughter, someone waving a towel, someone else yelling about lighting cues, someone crying over a broken mic pack. But it all bled into static.

You didn’t hear any of it.

Not really.

You walked straight down the hallway, past the green room, past the stylist trying to stop you for a post-show touch-up, past your manager calling your name. Your matching set was still on, the Swarovski crystals catching every low backstage light like small, sharp bursts of memory. Your lungs burned under the top. You felt too full and too empty at once.

Your heels clicked against the concrete floor, steady and sharp.

The silence inside you, though—that was deafening.

Your dressing room door swung shut behind you, and that’s when it all hit.

The adrenaline dropped like a weight down your spine, dragging heat and ache and a wild thrum of something unplaceable with it.

Your chest rose and fell like you couldn’t get enough air. You reached for the vanity, palms flat against the marble top, eyes closed as you leaned in, forcing your body to stop shaking.

You didn’t know what you were feeling.

Power?

Relief?

Rage?

A sob wanted to claw its way up your throat, but you swallowed it whole. No. Not here. Not now.

You stared at your reflection—flushed cheeks, sweat-damp hair at your temples, eyes wild and rimmed in liner that somehow didn’t smudge. You looked untouchable.

You didn’t feel it.

You felt cracked open.

Like every lyric of Taste had carved something out of you in front of 20,000 screaming fans.

Like you gave them blood in glitter wrapping paper.

You’d seen his face.

That was the worst part.

Not the shock in it. Not even the guilt that flickered there for half a second.

It was the way he watched you like he knew.

Like he always knew you could wreck him, and still let you.

You leaned forward, gripping the edge of the vanity so tightly your fingers went white.

You were supposed to feel better.

That song, that moment, that silence right after—it was supposed to be the closure you never got.

But it wasn’t.

Because somewhere in your chest, under all the performance, under all the glitter and venom and tight stagewear—he still lived there.

Uninvited.

Unwanted.

But there.

You slid to the floor before your knees could give out, the cold tile biting into your skin, arms wrapped around your legs, chin on your knees. You weren’t crying.

Not yet.

You were remembering.

The way he used to show up after soundcheck with coffee just the way you liked it.

The way he always said your voice sounded different when you were angry—hotter.

The way he used to trace your name on your shoulder with his fingers when you were half-asleep and wouldn’t remember.

You pressed your forehead to your knees.

The show was over. The crowd was gone.

There were no encores. No more songs to hide behind.

No more lights to blur the truth.

Just silence.

And you—still half-hoping, half-hating—that he’d find his way back here.

Still kind of wanting him to come backstage.

Still kind of wanting him to beg.

The elevator ride felt like a lifetime.

Your condo was quiet the second you stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you like a final period to a sentence you hadn’t wanted to write. The city buzzed beyond the windows—horns, sirens, muffled bass lines from someone’s party—but inside, everything was still.

You dropped your keys onto the marble counter with a clatter that echoed louder than expected. Your sneakers came off next, the shoe laces hitting the ground with the softest sound as you kicked them aside and padded barefoot across the floor.

Every muscle ached.

Your back. Your neck. Your voice box.

But mostly your heart.

You made your way to your bedroom without turning on any lights, letting the dim gold glow of the skyline wash over everything. Your room still smelled faintly of hairspray and perfume, the scent trailing you as you pulled your hoodie off your body and threw it somewhere in the room. The cool air kissed your bare skin. Your body felt like it was still vibrating from the bass.

You threw on an oversized shirt—his, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. Too many pieces of him had ended up here. Too many traces of something that was never meant to last.

You walked back into the living room, collapsed onto the arm of the couch, tucking one leg beneath you. The room felt too big. Too quiet. Too clean.

Your phone sat screen-side down on the coffee table. You hadn’t touched it since the car ride home.

You could still see his face in the crowd.

Not just watching you—but studying you.

His new girlfriend had been jumping around like a fangirl, singing every lyric. Singing your lyrics. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling, your heart still racing even though it had been hours since you stepped off that stage.

You should feel proud.

That song was good.

You looked hot. You sounded even better. You did exactly what you came to do.

But here you were. Alone. Wearing a shirt that wasn’t yours, mascara still clinging to your lashes, throat raw, with no one to carefully tie your hair up or ask how you felt.

No one to say, you did good tonight.

No one to pull you in when you didn’t want to be strong anymore.

A shaky breath left your lips.

Because the truth—the kind that clawed at you when the noise faded—was this:

You didn’t write that song for him. Not really.

You wrote it for you. To remind yourself that you weren’t just something to be left behind. That you meant something. That he’d feel it—your absence—in every touch he gave her. In every kiss. In every goddamn memory that wouldn’t let him go.

You weren’t the kind of girl you forgot.

And he was gonna remember that.

Even if he didn’t come back.

Even if you didn’t want him to.

It was stupid—how much you missed him.

And even more stupid how you let yourself.

You never wanted to put a label on it. You were the one who kept saying no. You had your career, your image, your press team. The spotlight didn’t leave room for real love—not the kind that didn’t crack under pressure.

But he had made you feel something. Something steady. Something warm. Something that slipped through your fingers the second you tried to hold it too tight.

You closed your eyes and let the silence swell around you.

“He’s not what you need,” you whispered out loud, your voice barely a breath.

You said it again.

And again.

“I don’t want him back.”

And maybe if you said it enough, you’d believe it.

Maybe if you kept singing, kept dancing, kept doing what you did best—being untouchable—his name would stop echoing in the places he never should’ve touched.

You weren’t going to beg.

You weren’t going to break.

You just had to keep pretending you didn’t still want him.

The apartment smelled like vanilla.

Your perfume was still in the air, sweet and sugary the way you liked it—too much, always too much. Jungkook sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hands clasped tightly together between his knees. His hoodie stuck to his back from the sweat and heat of the crowd, but he didn’t bother changing.

The concert played over and over in his mind, but not in a nostalgic way.

Just...annoying. Loud. Unavoidable.

That song.

That look.

You pulled the stunt right in front of them, in front of everyone. Typical. Flashy. Petty. Just like you.

His jaw tightened.

He hadn’t told his girlfriend about your past—why would he? It hadn’t been anything real. Not to him, anyway. Not something worth confessing. You messed around. It was fun. It got messy. You liked playing games. He let you. That was it.

And now you turned it into a spectacle.

His girlfriend walked out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair, wearing one of his t-shirts and some sweats, eyes narrowed and hesitant. Her voice broke the silence.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?”

He didn’t even look at her at first. Just shook his head, slow and dismissive.

“Jungkook.”

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered, finally standing up and heading to the kitchen like he needed space just to breathe.

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe that the biggest pop star in the world basically just performed a song about you while staring you down from the stage?”

He opened the fridge. Took out a water bottle. Twisted the cap slowly. “It’s not my fault.”

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“She’s dramatic. Always has been.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She does this.” His tone was flat now. Distant. “It’s what she’s good at—getting attention.”

His girlfriend looked stunned. “So you were with her.”

“For a while. Yeah.”

“You didn’t think that was important to tell me?”

“It didn’t come up,” he said, sharp. “It wasn’t serious.”

“You didn’t think I’d find out?”

“She’s not my problem anymore.”

That hit. Her face shifted, hardening. “Wow.”

He took a long drink of water, like he needed something in his mouth to keep him from saying more.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I made you come tonight because I thought it would be fun. I thought it’d be this cool thing we did together. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t even look at me.”

He met her eyes, cold and expressionless. “Maybe I didn’t want to be there.”

She stared at him, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

“Are you still into her?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“But you’re not over it.”

“She doesn’t matter,” he said, flat and final. “She’s just good at acting like she still does.”

Her eyes glossed over but she blinked fast, like she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Right.”

She grabbed her bag off the dresser and pulled her jacket over her shoulders without another word.

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t even flinch when the door closed.

Just stood there, arms still crossed, the cold bottle sweating in his palm.

And when his phone buzzed five minutes later with a dozen tagged videos from the concert—you, spinning around in glitter and spotlight, dripping with attitude—he hit mute on all of them.

He’d played the game. He was done now.

Or so he told himself.

please don't claim or copy any of my work

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[writteninessence]

Backstage Pass pt. 3 idols!Hyunjin x Felix x Chan x manager!reader

Chan stepped back, and you remained frozen.

“I won’t kiss you until you ask me to,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll be here. When you’re ready.”

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, 18+ NSFW, black!reader implied, though not directly stated, fem-aligned, polyamorous dynamics, established emotional tension, unresolved romantic tension, smut, jealousy/possessiveness, light power dynamics, rough kissing, multiple partners kissing reader, partial nudity, lap sitting, breast play, oral teasing, no penetration (yet), but heavy heated buildup, I am indeed an unreliable narrator, emotional vulnerability, reader doesn't choose-she wants them all, probably a couple that I missed Word Count: 3.5k+ Tags: @chasinghxran @aria-again @skyearby @jinniesgirl @imagine-all-the-imagines Enjoy <3 Backstage Pass Backstage Pass pt. 2

Two and a half weeks.

That’s how long it had been since their confessions.

Two and a half weeks since they stood across from you in that tiny conference room, stripped bare of their pride and saying words they hadn’t dared to say until everything was too messy to hide.

‘We want you.’

‘All of us.’

‘We don’t want you to choose.’

And they’d meant it; you could see it in their eyes, feel it in your chest.

That was the problem.

You were still pretending you could do your job like none of it had happened.

That first week was brutal.

Every meeting, every rehearsal, every van ride was wrapped in a thick, electric silence—not tense like before, but still heavy, almost intimate, like a secret none of you knew what to do with.

They didn’t push, not with their words, because their bodies spoke loud enough.

It wasn’t flirting, not really. Every interaction was edged in something warm, something soft. Every glance held for just a second longer than it should have, and every touch lingered like they didn’t want to be the first to let go.

And you… You were a mess beneath the surface.

Because now you couldn’t unsee it.

The way Felix looked at you like you hung the moon, or the way Hyunjin’s eyes flicked to your mouth every time you talked. The way Chan… didn’t say anything at all, but moved like he’d always belonged near you.

You found the earrings after a long, hellish day of shoot delays and weather drama.

Gold, dainty, sun-shaped.

They were sitting in a black velvet box on your desk with no note, no name.

But you didn’t need one.

Felix had been beside you that day in Tokyo, so many months ago. You’d paused in front of a street vendor, admiring those same earrings, and said something offhand like “Those are cute.”

That was it.

You hadn’t even realized he was listening.

You found him curled on the studio couch the next morning, hoodie over his head, laptop open in his lap. When you stood in front of him, he didn’t even pretend not to notice you.

“They reminded me of you,” he said, voice soft, like saying it any louder might scare you off. “You don’t have to wear them.”

You did wear them.

Not that day, but three days later, when your hair was pulled up and the earrings were the last thing you clipped on before heading out the door.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his smile lingered when he saw them.

Hyunjin gave you pure chaos.

It was a random Tuesday, and you were juggling two calls, three schedules, and a makeup artist who insisted on using the wrong foundation shade on everyone.

You were already on the verge of snapping when he appeared beside you, arm outstretched.

In his hand was a tall iced coffee, oat milk, and honey — your exact order.

You looked at him, one brow raised. “And what’s this for?”

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“It was on the way,” he muttered.

Liar.

There was no way that drink was just on the way unless he’d sprinted across the street between call times. But you took it anyway, sipped it, and let the sweetness sit heavy on your tongue while he watched you with that unreadable expression.

Your whispered thanks went unanswered, but you saw the way the corner of his mouth tilted upwards before he walked away.

Chan didn’t give you anything.

No notes. No little surprises.

What he gave was worse.

He gave you space.

He didn’t crowd you, didn’t flirt. He didn’t steal lingering touches like the others did. He just watched the way you moved. Noticed when you were overwhelmed and kept Hyunjin from pushing too far. He pulled Felix back when his emotions started spilling into his actions.

You were the manager, but he was managing you in ways you couldn’t admit.

And that made you feel seen in a way that wrecked you.

Chan let you have your little two-week break before approaching you. 

It was after a performance—small venue, high energy, adrenaline still buzzing through the air. The others had gone to clean up, but you stayed, checking on mic packs and final counts.

He’d stayed too, because of course he did.

You tried to act like it was normal. Just another post-show wind-down.

But you felt him behind you. His heat, his presence.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just… existed there. Close enough to feel but not touch.

Then—“You alright?”

You nodded. “Tired.” Busied yourself wrapping up some wires before responding, “You?”

“Yeah.” A pause, then, “No.”

You turned, already finding his eyes locked on yours.

“I hate this,” he said.

“Hate what?”

“This waiting, pretending. Walking around like I didn’t say what I said.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. And opened again.

“Chan—”

“I know you’re scared,” he said quietly. “So I’ve been patient, I’ll keep being patient.”

“But it’s messing with your head? Mine too,” you admitted.

He stepped closer.

“I think about you all the time.”

The air snapped taut between you.

“And not just in the ways you’re afraid of,” he added, voice like gravel and silk. “I think about what it means to hold you when you’re tired, or to make sure you eat. To be someone you trust, not just someone you want.”

Your throat burned.

His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—fingers ghosting over your jaw. You should’ve stopped him.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You could feel his breath now.

Your noses brushed.

If you leaned in—

Someone called your name down the hall.

The spell broke.

Chan stepped back, and you remained frozen.

“I won’t kiss you until you ask me to,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ll be here. When you’re ready.”

And then he walked away.

And you just stood there.

Still wanting.

Still waiting.

Still unraveling.

And then you slipped. You hadn’t meant to, not really, but another week had passed since your almost kiss with Chan, and your walls were beginning to crumble. You couldn’t pretend anymore.

Couldn’t pretend you weren’t unaffected, or untouched.

You were already in too deep.

But you didn’t confess, didn’t chase them down, and fall into their arms.

You just started letting yourself… show it.

Little things.

Moments that slipped out when you weren’t watching yourself.

Felix noticed first.

It was subtle, very intentional.

You were in the van—he was rambling about a late-night snack he’d made with some weird combo of honey, cheese, and bread. It sounded awful. He was so proud of it.

He was mid-laugh, voice bubbling, when you reached over without thinking, plucked a crumb from the corner of his mouth, and brushed your thumb across his lip.

He froze.

Eyes wide, voice faded.

Your fingers hovered just a second too long.

And then you pulled back like it was nothing.

“Crumb,” you said, voice neutral, like your skin wasn’t still buzzing from the contact.

He blinked slowly, his entire expression shifting—open, reverent, a little wrecked.

And when you looked out the window, you could feel him watching you.

The whole ride home.

Hyunjin wasn’t as easy to throw off.

He flirted too naturally, too often.

But that day, he was painting in the lounge, headphones on, smudges of soft pink across his fingertips. You passed behind him, reading off updates from the new photo schedule.

When he looked up at you, a smear of paint on his cheek, you didn’t stop yourself.

You licked your thumb and leaned in, gently swiping the mark from his skin.

He held completely still.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

You wiped it away, eyes focused on his mouth, just briefly. 

“There,” you murmured. “Pretty again.”

His mouth parted, but no words came.

You walked off without waiting for a response, heart hammering, palms tingling.

Behind you, his breath hitched audibly.

And you knew exactly what you’d done.

Chan was last.

And with him, you didn’t touch.

You didn’t have to.

It was a rehearsal day, full of stress. One of the choreographers was riding him too hard, pushing for corrections mid-routine. You were across the room, watching him grit his teeth, jaw flexing, patience fraying.

He caught your eye, just for a second.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

You held it.

Steady and calm..

Your expression didn’t say I’m your manager.

It said I see you. I want you to breathe. I want you to come to me when you don’t know where else to turn.

You didn’t smile, didn’t speak.

You just gave him that look.

And something in him shifted.

His posture straightened, his movements snapping back into control, like your gaze alone had steadied him.

Later, when he passed you in the hallway, you let your fingers trail along the hem of his sleeve as he walked by.

Barely a brush.

But he stopped walking for a full two seconds before continuing.

You didn’t look back.

That night, you were barely in your hotel room five minutes before the knock came.

Hard and quick. Urgent almost.

You opened the door to find Hyunjin, hoodie on, jaw tight, breath shallow like he’d sprinted from the elevator.

“You trying to kill me?” he asked without preamble, eyes burning.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That thing you did earlier,” he snapped. “The paint. The ‘pretty again.’ You think I’m gonna sleep tonight after that?”

You opened your mouth to respond when the door swung open again, Chan this time.

His shoulders were tense, his eyes sharp. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly calm.

“You two already started?” he said, stepping inside. “Great, let’s all talk then.”

Your stomach dropped. “What the hell is going on—”

And then Felix burst in behind them.

He didn’t speak.

Just slammed the door shut behind him, chest rising fast, curls a mess, lips parted like he was trying to catch up to his own heartbeat.

Hyunjin turned to you. “I want to know what that touch meant.”

Chan folded his arms. “I want to know why you looked at me like you could see through my soul.”

Felix’s voice cracked when he finally spoke.

“I want to know if you’re playing with us.”

Your hands went up. “Hold on. You’re all barging in here like you’re not the ones who confessed your feelings and turned my whole life upside down—”

“You touched my face like I was yours,” Hyunjin cut in. 

“You looked at me like I was your anchor,” Chan growled. “I’ve been holding back, and you know it.”

“I’m losing it,” Felix whispered, and his voice made the room stop.

All three of you turned to him.

His gaze was locked on you.

Flickering.

Pained.

“I can’t keep doing this. Pretending I’m okay with crumbs. I’m not.”

“Felix—”

He crossed the space between you in two strides.

Lifted his hands.

Placed them gently, but firmly, on either side of your face—his palms warm, trembling, framing you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

His forehead touched yours first.

He didn’t speak.

He just breathed.

And then—he whispered it.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because you were already falling forward, already chasing the heat of his mouth before he even moved.

And when his lips met yours, everything else disappeared.

There was no hotel room.

No Chan, no Hyunjin.

Just the crush of Felix’s kiss, soft and aching, his mouth moving like he was memorizing you, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second he met you.

He pulled back slowly.

Eyes glassy, breath shaky.

“…You didn’t stop me,” he whispered.

You looked at him.

Then at Hyunjin.

Then at Chan.

And said, voice low, and shaking:

“…I didn’t want to.”

You didn’t breathe.

None of you did.

Felix’s kiss still lingered on your lips, and the weight of your confession—“I didn’t want to”—hung in the room like smoke after fire.

Three boys stood before you.

One had kissed you.

The other two?

Staring, shocked.

And then—

Hyunjin scoffed, a low and dangerous sound, almost amused.

“Oh…” he said, stepping forward, voice dark with something unhinged. “We’re stealing kisses now?”

Your heart slammed against your chest.

“Hyunjin—”

He was already in front of you, hand in your shirt, fist clenched around the fabric near your collar like he didn’t trust himself to be gentle.

He yanked you forward.

Your chests collided.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

Hot.

Mouth crashing into yours with none of Felix’s softness—all hunger, all sharp edges and frustration and ‘God, I’ve wanted this for too long.’

He didn’t give you time to gasp.

Didn’t let you think.

Just took.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, gripping—not to hurt, but to hold you there.

Like he was scared you’d run.

Like he’d chase you if you did.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was wrecked.

“You kissed him. You kissed me.”

And then—

A hand on his shoulder.

Not aggressive.

Just there.

Hyunjin froze, breath heaving.

There was Chan.

Still silent, still unreadable.

His fingers curled tightly around Hyunjin’s hoodie, tugging once.

Hyunjin’s jaw clenched.

He let go of your shirt and stepped back, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Chan didn’t speak until Hyunjin was clear.

Then he looked down at you.

And oh God—

That look.

That slow burn in his eyes.

Like he’d waited.

Like he’d let them go first.

But now?

Now it was his turn.

His hand rose to cup your cheek—bigger, rougher, and steady.

“You sure you don’t want to choose?” he asked quietly.

Your breath caught. “I—”

He didn’t wait for you to respond.

He kissed you to silence.

And it was devastating.

Not rushed.

Not angry.

Just deep and possessive in a way that made your knees buckle.

His lips moved slowly, like he wanted you to feel every second of it, like he had all the time in the world but no patience left at all.

When he pulled back, you were dizzy.

Your body leaned forward, chasing him without realizing.

And from behind—Hyunjin’s voice.

“Yo,” he snapped, breathless. “No fair.”

Chan’s thumb brushed your lip, smug. “Didn’t see your name on her, did I?”

Felix, from the side—still flushed, still watching with wide eyes: “…I’d like to file a complaint.”

You actually laughed, and it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing right then and there.

Because now?

There was no going back.

Your breath was still shaky.

Your shirt wrinkled from Hyunjin’s fist, your lip still tingling from Chan’s last kiss, and you swear Felix’s scent is still on your skin.

The air feels wet with tension. Heated.

You can’t tell if your legs are trembling from adrenaline or desire.

But then Felix moves, and you forget how to think altogether.

He’s in front of you again, gently shoving past Chan. His hands are curling around your waist, eyes wild with something soft and wrecked all at once.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs.

Then his lips are on yours once more.

And they’re starving.

Not just want—but relief. Like he’s been waiting, needing, holding it back, and finally—finally—he can kiss you the way he’s been dreaming about.

His hand slips beneath your shirt—just at your waist, not going further—but his thumb traces a slow circle on your skin, and your knees damn near give out.

But a warm body presses into your back, holding you up.

Hyunjin’s taller; you feel him before you hear him—his breath on your neck, fingers curling over your hip, grounding you like an anchor tied to a storm.

You gasp into Felix’s mouth.

And Hyunjin laughs. Low and dirty.

“You let him have you first?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s cute.”

Felix growls softly against your mouth but doesn’t stop kissing you.

Hyunjin’s hands slide up your sides, over the curve of your ribs, until he tilts your face back—gently—and replaces Felix’s kiss with his own.

And his is rougher, hungrier.

He kisses like he’s trying to break a rule, with one hand fisted in your hair, while the other traces down your front until you whimper into his mouth.

That’s when Felix shifts—he’s kissing down your neck now, whispering something you can’t hear, but feel all the way down your spine.

You’re shaking, and then Chan’s voice cuts through the haze.

Calm. Dangerous. Full of command.

“She’s mine.”

Before you can blink, Hyunjin’s pulled away, and you’re yanked forward, pressed full against Chan’s chest, his hand cradling the back of your head like you’re precious.

And then—he kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Dominant.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for the right moment to end you.

And now that it’s here, he’s going to take his time.

His tongue drags along yours in a rhythm that makes your spine arch.

Your hands fist into his shirt, clawing at his chest for something real to hold onto because the rest of you is floating.

You feel Felix still kissing your shoulder.

Hyunjin’s hands are back on your waist, mouth brushing the side of your throat.

Your brain stops, and you can’t breathe.

You barely whisper, voice wrecked: “Wait… who’s—who was—”

Someone groans against your neck.

“Does it matter?” Hyunjin murmurs, biting just under your ear.

Another mouth is back on yours—Felix this time, you think—but it’s getting hard to tell.

Your body sways. Someone’s hand is on your thigh. Another at your back. Another tugging gently at your wrist.

Three mouths. Three voices.

All saying your name in three different languages of worship.

And for the first time—

You don’t want to choose.

You want this.

All of it.

You’re not sure who kisses you next.

Lips blur together, tongues tangle.

Your name becomes a prayer in three different voices—low, desperate, and reverent.

Hands roam your waist, your thighs, your arms—like they can’t decide what part of you they need to memorize first.

You’re barely holding onto reality when a pair of arms suddenly scoop you up from behind.

Strong and solid, and your gasp is swallowed by Felix’s lips.

But your back lands against a firm chest a second later, your thighs pulled over thick legs, your body dropped straight into a lap.

And when you blink—oh, you’re in Chan’s arms.

His hoodie’s already gone, and his skin burns against yours. His thighs are spread wide under you like a throne.

His arms wrap around your waist like he doesn’t plan to ever let go.

“Finally,” he mutters into your ear. “Been dreaming of this since day one.”

Then—

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt.

And lift.

You let him, and now your top is gone.

You’re bare from the waist up, sitting in Bang Chan’s lap, surrounded by two other men whose eyes go dark with need.

You cover yourself on instinct—but Hyunjin’s already kneeling in front of you, his mouth at your chest, his hot breath grazing your skin. His eyes drag up to meet yours as he grits out, “Don’t you dare.”

He moves your hands away with a growl, kissing you right on your nipple.

His tongue follows, flattening to drag a slow lick across the hardened peak, and it’s filthy.

He doesn’t ask, he takes.

Then Felix’s shirt hits the floor behind you with a soft whump.

He’s pressing kisses down your arm now, murmuring “So soft… so fucking pretty…” between each one.

Chan’s hand slides up your thigh, splaying across your stomach, his voice low and rough in your ear:

“Still want all of us?” he breathes.

You nod without thinking.

“No, baby. I need to hear it.”

You exhale shakily, writhing in his lap as Hyunjin’s tongue flicks.

“Yes.”

Felix nips your shoulder.

Hyunjin moans.

And Chan?

Chan pulls your head back and kisses you like he’s going to make you say it again with your entire body.

Hyunjin groans, unlatching from your breast just long enough to declare: “You taste like everything I’ve wanted.”

You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his curls, nails grazing the delicate skin of his neck, desperate to mark him as much as he’s marking you.

Your senses spiral—skin tingling, lips swollen from their kisses, your chest rising and falling too fast.

You can’t tell where one man’s touch ends and another’s begins; it’s a symphony of sensations, a dance of lips and hands and whispered names.

Chan’s mouth captures yours again, slow and demanding, tongue teasing, searching, claiming.

Hyunjin’s hands travel lower, sliding beneath your waistband, fingertips tracing the sensitive curve of your hipbone, cherishing hearing you gasp.

Felix’s lips find the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing, sucking a bruising kiss that leaves you breathless.

Your hands roam over their bodies—over firm shoulders, along hard arms, under shirts that have long since been discarded.

The heat between you all is a tangible thing, thick and heavy and impossible to ignore.

You’re drowning in desire, in affection, in the messy, beautiful chaos of being loved and wanted by three men who see you—truly see you—in every breath and every touch.

And as their lips and hands claim you again and again, you know, deep in your soul, this is just the beginning.

To be continued

-E

[jikookncity]

Nerdy!Jaehyun x Popular!Reader

Y/n needs tutoring and she's surprised to see another version of nerdy Jaehyun in private.

WC: 2.5k, Dom Jaehyun, unprotected sex, oral sex, car sex, abs riding, dirty talk, degradation, I think thats it 

-----------

The coffee shop was always loud during the lunch rush—students cramming, baristas shouting orders, espresso machines hissing—but somehow, Jaehyun never seemed to notice. He sat tucked in the far corner, like always, headphones in, a black hoodie draped over his shoulders and sleeves tugged over his knuckles. His glasses slid down his nose as he bent over his history textbook, scribbling in the margins with a well-worn mechanical pencil.

Y/N noticed him before he noticed her. She always did.

Jaehyun was hard to miss—not because he demanded attention, but because he avoided it so well. He was the kind of boy people whispered about in classes, the one who never spoke unless called on, but always had the most perfect answers. Quiet. Brilliant. A little awkward in the most endearing way. And somehow, he had never once looked directly at her.

Until today.

“Hey,” she said, approaching his table with a hopeful smile and a coffee in her hand. She wore her usual sunny energy, a soft sweater sliding off one shoulder, a high ponytail bouncing as she stopped in front of him. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Jaehyun blinked. Then blinked again.

“I—I mean, it’s fine,” he stammered, immediately tugging out one earbud and pushing his glasses up nervously. His voice was soft and low, like he wasn’t used to being heard. “You, um... need the table?”

“Nope.” She plopped the coffee down in front of him. “I need you.”

He froze.

“I mean for tutoring,” she added quickly, grinning as her cheeks turned warm. “World history is kicking my ass. And I heard you're the best in class.”

Jaehyun stared at the cup for a moment, like it was a bomb. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“You’re going to be tutoring me,” she said matter-of-factly, pulling out her iPad. “That’s worth at least a coffee, if not ten. Plus, you don’t even charge. I think you’re underestimating your value, Jeong Jaehyun.”

The way she said his name made his stomach twist in the best way.

“…You know my name?”

She looked up, amused. “Of course I do. I sit two rows in front of you. And we’ve been in the same class all year.”

“Oh.” He looked down, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “I didn’t think you noticed me.”

“I’ve noticed you a lot.”

His head snapped up again, and she smiled wider. Her tone had shifted slightly—less teasing, more sincere. She liked the way his ears flushed pink.

For the next hour, they went over the Treaty of Versailles and the causes of WWII, their shoulders slowly inching closer as Jaehyun’s voice steadied and grew more confident. He explained things in a way that made everything click for her—so precise, so thoughtful. And he blushed every time she leaned over to peek at his notes.

“You’re really good at this,” she said finally, chewing on the end of her pen.

“I like history,” he mumbled, eyes focused on her lips for a split second before looking away. “It’s just patterns. Cause and effect. You figure out the why.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you’re willing to help me.”

He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Same time tomorrow?”

She paused, then nodded. “Yeah. And I’ll bring your coffee again.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Her smile was softer now. “And maybe next time… we don’t just study.”

He blinked at her again, mouth slightly open.

“Maybe you tell me a bit more about yourself,” she added, biting her bottom lip. “Unless history’s the only thing you like.”

Jaehyun’s heart stuttered in his chest. She had no idea what she was doing to him—or maybe she did.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Next time.”

-------------

The next day, the same coffee shop buzzed with energy, but their little corner felt private, tucked away from the noise. Jaehyun was already there when Y/N walked in—hoodie sleeves rolled up this time, head bent over a thick textbook, sipping from a paper cup.

“Hey,” she greeted, sliding into the seat beside him instead of across. She didn’t know why. It just felt right.

Jaehyun looked up, and this time, his smile came faster. Real. Warm. Dimples deepening on both cheeks.

“Hey,” he echoed, voice low and velvet-smooth, and something about it made Y/N’s stomach flutter.

She hadn’t remembered his voice sounding that deep yesterday. Or maybe she’d just been too distracted by the war summaries and bullet-point notes. But now, sitting this close, hearing him murmur her name as he passed over his perfectly organized study guide—

“Y/N, here. I printed this out for you.”

It hit different.

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, her fingers brushing his as she took the pages. He didn’t flinch—just watched her with that shy, steady gaze, eyes flickering to her mouth for a fraction of a second before flicking away.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she murmured.

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “You said the reading felt overwhelming. I broke it down by themes and key dates. Color-coded.”

“Color-coded?” she teased, eyes scanning the soft pastel highlighter shades. “You really are a dream student.”

He laughed, a low, rich sound that rumbled from his chest—and Y/N felt it. Her breath caught as her thighs pressed instinctively together beneath the table.

Where the hell had that come from?

And then—he stretched. Casually. Rolled his shoulders back and tugged one arm across his chest to crack it. The movement pushed his sleeves higher, revealing forearms she hadn’t expected. Veins. Subtle muscle. His skin a shade darker there, warm and smooth under the light.

She blinked. Her gaze lingered too long.

Who knew the quiet guy in the corner had arms like that?

“You okay?” he asked, voice a little concerned, a little curious, pulling her out of her spiral.

“Mhm,” she said, trying to hide the flush rising to her cheeks. “Just… taking it all in.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “The notes?”

“No,” she said, lips twitching into a smile. “You.”

His mouth parted slightly in surprise, eyes wide behind his glasses—but then he looked down, biting back a smile of his own. A shy, boyish one that made her want to lean in closer. Those dimples again.

“I’m not that interesting,” he muttered.

“I think you’re underestimating your effect,” she replied softly.

The air felt heavier now, slower. Her knees brushed his under the table and neither of them moved away. He glanced down at the contact, then back at her face.

“Do you… wanna keep studying?” he asked, the question a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure what was happening between them but didn’t want it to stop either.

“Yeah,” she breathed, leaning in just a bit more. “But I think I might be even more distracted than yesterday.”

Jaehyun didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her, pink dusting his cheeks, but his eyes holding something new—curiosity. A spark.

And just before he looked back down at the textbook, his voice dropped even lower.

“Me too.”

Y/n needed him and she needed him now.

-------------

Y/N didn’t bother pretending she wanted to study today.

She’d sent Jaehyun a sweet text—“Come over? I’m still not getting those Cold War timelines 💔”—but her outfit said something else entirely. The mini skirt clinging to her hips, her cropped tank barely brushing her ribcage, no bra in sight. When Jaehyun showed up at her door, textbook in one hand and coffee in the other, he paused for a moment, eyes flicking down, expression unreadable.

“Hi,” she said innocently, biting her glossed lip. “Right on time.”

“Of course,” he murmured, following her inside.

They settled on the couch, books in their laps, but Y/N was barely pretending to follow along. Every few minutes she stretched—arms up, chest arching toward him—or leaned over to grab her pen, giving him the perfect view of her ass and panties as she knelt on the cushions. When she sat beside him again, her thigh brushed his. She didn’t move away.

“God,” she sighed, reaching out to squeeze his forearm gently, her voice laced with sugar. “How are you so good at this?”

Jaehyun gave her a soft chuckle, dimples flashing. “I like patterns, remember?”

“I like your patterns,” she murmured, letting her fingers slide just a little up his arm. She batted her lashes. “And your arms.”

He glanced down at her hand—still on his bicep—but didn’t say a word. His face was flushed, ears pink, but his jaw was set. Controlled. Too controlled.

She pouted.

“You’re so…” Her voice dropped to a whimper. “You’re such a perfect gentleman.”

Jaehyun turned to her slowly.

She gave him her most exaggerated, needy pout. “I’ve been flirting with you all week. All day. And you haven’t even tried to kiss me. Are you not into me?”

His response was a deep, low laugh. Not nervous. Not shy.

Dark.

“Y/N,” he said, voice suddenly dripping with something else. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he murmured, setting the book down slowly. “Trying to focus. While you walk around in that…” His eyes trailed down her body like a caress. “Batting your lashes, moaning every time I explain a date, bending over right in front of me.”

He leaned in until his mouth brushed her ear.

“And you’re gonna sit here and whine that I’m too much of a gentleman?” he whispered.

Y/N blinked up at him, lips parted in shock.

“Don’t act surprised now,” he said, before pressing her back against the couch, one strong hand sliding to her thigh, pushing it apart. “You wanted my attention, baby. You’ve got it.”

She gasped as his mouth met her neck—hot and rough now, nothing like the shy smiles from earlier.

“I was trying so fucking hard to behave,” he growled against her skin, rocking his hips forward just enough for her to feel how hard he was through his jeans. “But you’re being such a fucking tease. So slutty for me, aren’t you?”

Y/N let out a whimper, legs wrapping around his waist without thinking.

“You want it rough?” he asked, teeth dragging against her collarbone as his hand slid beneath her tank top. “You want me to ruin that whole ‘perfect’ image you have of me?”

She could barely speak, but she nodded frantically, chest rising and falling beneath his touch.

“Then stop acting so surprised,” he said darkly. “And take it.”

Jaehyun’s lips crashed onto hers like he’d been starving for it—hands rough on her waist, dragging her up and close until she was straddling his lap. His kiss wasn’t shy or sweet. It was open-mouthed, possessive, full of teeth and tongue and need.

Her hands reached up to cup his face, fingertips brushing the frame of his glasses.

“Off,” she whispered against his mouth, tugging them gently away.

He slipped them off, tossing them blindly onto the coffee table before diving back in, lips finding hers again, deeper this time—closer, hungrier. And then his hands moved, grabbing the hem of his hoodie and tugging it over his head.

Y/N gasped.

“What the—”

Jaehyun just watched her, lips swollen and slightly parted, chest rising and falling as her eyes devoured him. His lean build had always been hidden behind oversized clothes, but now—now she could see it all. Defined abs, sharp lines cutting down his torso, the dip of his hips peeking just above his sweats.

“Jae…” she moaned, hands trembling as they slid over his abs, fingers tracing each ridge, thumb swiping along his V-line. “You’ve been hiding this under those hoodies?”

His lips curled. “You gonna keep worshipping, or are you gonna use me?”

Her breath caught. That voice—deep, cocky, dark.

She whimpered as he leaned back, arms thrown over the back of the couch, slouched a bit down, his spread thighs making space for her to do anything she wanted. He looked so fucking good like that—half-lidded gaze, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, abs flexing as he waited for her to make the next move.

“Come on,” he said lazily. “Climb up, baby. Show me how bad you want it.”

She slid up his lap and positioned herself over his abs, grinding down slowly, panting when the hard muscle pressed perfectly against her clit through her panties.

“Oh my god,” she cried, hips rolling as slick soaked through her fabric. “You feel so fucking good—”

Jaehyun groaned under his breath, watching her ride his abs, her head thrown back, her little tank top riding higher with every grind.

“You’re such a fucking mess,” he murmured, one hand gripping her hip. “Rubbing that needy little pussy all over me. This what you were planning when you invited me over?”

She nodded, moaning like she was about to fall apart right there.

“Then come here,” he growled, gripping her by the thighs and dragging her back into his lap.

She barely had time to react before he pushed her panties to the side, grabbed himself, and slid into her in one hard thrust.

“Fuck—Jaehyun—!”

He groaned low into her neck, the tight heat of her making his head spin. “Shit, you’re so fucking wet. I should’ve done this the first time you batted those eyelashes at me.”

Y/N bounced in his lap, whining into his shoulder as his hands gripped her ass, helping her move, grinding her down hard onto his cock until she was shaking.

“Look at you,” he hissed, dragging his mouth over her jaw. “You like riding me like this, huh? Can’t get enough?”

She sobbed out a moan, clinging to his shoulders, her walls fluttering around him.

And then—he moved.

One hand tangled in her hair, the other hooked under her thigh as he flipped her effortlessly, pressing her chest to the couch cushions and pulling her hips up.

“I’ve been patient long enough,” he growled behind her, dragging his cock slowly down her slick folds before slamming back in. “Now I’m gonna fuck you the way you’ve been begging for.”

Her scream was muffled in the cushions as he pounded into her, hips snapping hard and fast, rough hands gripping her waist as he drove deeper, harder, every thrust hitting so deep she saw stars.

“You think I’m still a gentleman now?” he groaned, voice wrecked.

She tried to answer, but all that came out was a desperate cry, her body trembling as he pushed her over the edge again.

Jaehyun cursed under his breath as she clenched around him, his pace stuttering just before he buried himself to the hilt and came with a ragged, broken groan, collapsing over her back, mouth pressed to her shoulder.

They stayed like that, tangled, sweating, breathless.

Then he kissed the back of her neck, voice low and teasing again.

“Same time tomorrow, right?”

-----------

Want more? Read with part 2 with more fluff/smut/drama on my Patreon as an early exclusive! Will Release on my Tumblr in a few weeks. Or if you'd like to give a lil tip, do so here!

Sneak peak of part 2:

“You don’t care about studying, do you? Just wanna suck my cock and make a mess.”

She whimpered around him, eyes watering, saliva pooling at the corners of her mouth.

He chuckled darkly. “That’s right. You’re my filthy girl now. Look at you—so fucking needy.”

Her pace slowed even more, just like he liked it, her eyes locked on his as she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper.

Jaehyun leaned back fully, head hitting the cushion, thighs still wide, his hand guiding her rhythm. His abs flexed every time she gagged around him, a deep, broken groan slipping out.

[konoha-forbidden-scrolls]

Soooo... A few of the Naruto characters reacting to their s/o using Naruto's sexy justsu on them, please? No specific characters in mind other than Itachi, so go wild! Looking forward all the future Naruto content! 🧡

These are very unserious, but I hope you enjoy!

Characters: Itachi Uchiha, Shikamaru Nara, Kakashi Hatake, Sai, Naruto Uzumaki

Contents: gn!reader, nudity

Itachi Uchiha

Given that he's got the Sharingan, you're highly unlikely to ever snare Itachi in a genjutsu, but that doesn't mean he can't see them or react to them.

That, and even Itachi can be taken by surprise when his guard is down. He notices you enter the room in his peripheral vision, but doesn't outwardly react, just a page in his book. There's his habitual cup of tea steaming on the low table in front of him, coils of steam rising from the clear green surface.

Only to be blown away by the puff of smoke as you initiate your jutsu.

Itachi looks up, blinking. His Sharingan activates almost by itself, as he struggles to come to terms with what he's seeing. His lips part slightly, his tomoe spinning.

"...is there a particular reason you're floating naked amidst some clouds?" he asks patiently. "Or is this just a treat?"

Genuinely baffled, but appreciates the view nonetheless.

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru used to hang around Naruto when they were kids, so he's definitely familiar with the Sexy Jutsu—mostly when Naruto used to use it on authority figures to get out of trouble. Does he expect you to know it? Does he expect you to use it on him?

Hell no.

He might be a tactical genius, but some things are so far out of left field they can take even him by surprise. He's just minding his own damn business, when he sees you approaching. Normally, nothing to be concerned about, but there's a glint in your eye that has him tensing.

Ram hand seal.

"Oroike no Jutsu!"

Shikamaru's eyes almost bug out of his head. He stares at you, then instinctively looks away, before his gaze slowly inches back.

"What the hell?" he asks, as his ears slowly burn red. He clears his throat. "Where did you even learn that technique?"

He doesn't turn away again, though. Lazy or not, he's a red-blooded young man and you're the one who decided to use such a titillating jutsu on him. Can't blame him for looking!

Kakashi Hatake

Kakashi is widely regarded in Konoha as a bit of a pervert because of his habit of reading Icha Icha in public, but the novels really aren't that extreme. Kakashi's just the shinobi equivalent of a Booktok girly reading smut.

He's not exactly a hardened degenerate, so when you hit him with a Sexy Jutsu out of nowhere, he almost drops his book. You can only see a quarter of his face, but his visible eye darts back and forth, his face slowly reddening, as he takes in the sight of your naked, cloud-wreathed body.

"Book three," he says reverently. "Chapter thirteen. Page seven."

Unlike him, you don't have an encyclopedic knowledge of the books.

"Is that what happens in that scene, or is it what you want to do to me?" you ask.

"Both," he says, reaching through the genjutsu to grasp you by the hips.

Sai

This isn't going to give you the big reaction you were possibly hoping for, although if you've been with Sai for any length of time, his blank stare shouldn't be that much of a surprise.

He watches with mild interest as you make the Ram hand seal, but his expression barely flickers when the sultry illusion appears before his eyes.

He looks expectantly at you for a moment, before he starts rummaging around for a blank scroll.

"What are you doing?" asks the floating, naked babe.

"I'm going to draw you," Sai says, before pausing and turning to look at you. "Unless this is your way of asking for sex?"

Naruto Uzumaki

Naruto's come a long, long way since he was a snot-nosed kid with one pervy jutsu to his name, but he's of the opinion you should never forget your roots.

He doesn't whip out his Sexy Jutsu at the drop of a hat anymore, not if he wants to be taken seriously as a candidate for Hokage, but never think he doesn't still have it up his sleeve.

How does he react when you, his beloved s/o, turn his own jutsu on him? Do his nasal blood vessels exploded in a glorious spray, the creator finally felled by his own creation?

Not quite?

With a wide, wicked grin, Naruto initiates his own, improved "Sexy Jutsu: Adonis Version" which is just him, naked, with the barely-there clouds, and he gives you notes.

"You're hot, but you gotta make the clouds wispier! It's all about the suggestion that you're gonna see something you shouldn't. C'mon, try it!"

"I'm alarmed by how much thought you've put into this thing, Naruto."

[gothicxreylover]

Hi!! I don't know if my request sounds weird, but can you do some slightly suggestive or fluff scenarios of the uppermoons with an extremely quiet and shy darling? Like, they love them back, but are just too shy and bashful to be in the same room with them because their darling has never really felt as much love as they give them? And maybe add in their darling had a rare human condition like Vitiligo or Heterochromia and how they demons react to it?

Sorry about uploading your request late I hope you enjoy!

Kokushibo (Upper Moon One)

Kokushibo was never one to pry, but he noticed how you always avoided him despite your affections being painfully obvious.

He could hear the way your heart raced whenever he was near, see the way your eyes darted away when he so much as glanced in your direction. But the moment he moved toward you?

You would flee.

Tonight was no different. You were sitting quietly in a dimly lit room when he entered, and the second you realized he was there, your entire body tensed like a deer caught in a trap. Your hands clenched the fabric of your sleeves as your heterochromatic eyes flickered toward him—one a deep shade, the other an ethereal, striking hue.

Kokushibo exhaled slowly, his six eyes watching your every movement. “Why do you tremble before me?”

You swallowed hard, gripping your kimono even tighter. Because you make my heart feel things I don’t know how to handle, you wanted to say. But the words wouldn’t come.

His gaze softened, and without another word, he was suddenly kneeling before you. His clawed fingers reached forward, barely grazing the edge of your sleeve.

“Do not fear me.” His voice was quieter this time, low and deep, vibrating through your very bones. “I have no intention of harming you.”

His hand shifted, cupping your cheek. His thumb traced over your vitiligo-marked skin, his expression unreadable. “Your beauty is rare,” he murmured. “Much like you yourself.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could stop yourself, you buried your face into his shoulder, too overwhelmed to even look at him.

Kokushibo let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Ah… I see.”

For once, he allowed himself to indulge, his arms slowly wrapping around you, caging you in a warmth that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You will have to grow accustomed to my presence,” he whispered against your ear. “For I have no intention of letting you go.”

Doma (Upper Moon Two)

Doma found your shyness adorable.

The way you would become so flustered in his presence, how you would stammer and look away whenever he got too close—he lived for it.

“Aw, my little darling, why do you look like a scared rabbit?” he cooed, resting his chin on his palm as he watched you from across the room.

You didn’t answer, instead curling further into yourself. Your hands were clenched into small fists on your lap, your entire body screaming nervousness.

Doma sighed dramatically before suddenly closing the distance between you in a blur.

You barely had time to react before he was leaning in, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Come now, pretty thing. How can you love me if you can’t even look at me?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was too close.

Doma hummed, his fingers dancing along the patchwork of vitiligo on your skin. “This is rather charming, you know. A rare, delicate pattern… suiting for someone as special as you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to meet his gaze.

He chuckled. “So shy~! I could just eat you up.” He paused, then grinned. “Figuratively, of course. Unless… you’d like me to be literal?”

The way you whimpered had him laughing, pulling you into a tight embrace before you could bolt.

“I was joking, my sweet,” he purred, pressing a playful kiss against your temple. “But do stay close, won’t you? I do love watching you squirm.”

Akaza (Upper Moon Three)

Akaza didn’t understand your behavior at first.

He knew you loved him. He could hear it in your heartbeat, smell it in your nervous sweat. But every time he tried to spend time with you, you would shrink away, barely able to handle his presence.

It frustrated him. Not in an angry way—no, more in a desperate way.

So tonight, when you tried to escape his company once again, he finally reached out and grabbed your wrist.

“Enough.” His voice was firm, but not unkind.

You froze, eyes wide as you dared to look up at him.

His grip was gentle, but unyielding. “Why do you run?”

You swallowed hard, your free hand trembling. “I… I just…”

Akaza’s cerulean eyes softened. With deliberate slowness, he lifted your hand and pressed it against his chest—right over where his heart should be.

“Feel that?” he murmured.

You did. Or rather, you didn’t—there was no heartbeat, just an empty, unnatural stillness.

“I don’t have a heart,” he whispered. “But when I’m with you… I swear, it feels like I do.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him, hiding your burning face against his chest.

Akaza stiffened for half a second before his entire body relaxed, his arms slowly wrapping around you in return.

A rare smile graced his lips. “There we go… no more running.”

Hantengu & His Clones (Upper Moon Four)

Hantengu’s clones all had vastly different ways of reacting to your overwhelming shyness. Each one had their own way of handling you, and none of them were particularly subtle about their affections.

Sekido (Anger)

Sekido had no patience for your avoidance. He wasn’t angry at you—no, he was angry at himself for not knowing how to handle you properly.

Every time he entered the room, you would flinch, avoid eye contact, or look ready to disappear into thin air. It frustrated him to no end.

One evening, he had enough.

“Stay,” he ordered, blocking the doorway before you could slip out.

You tensed. “I-I just need some fresh air…”

“Lie.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You always run.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the edges of your kimono.

Sekido exhaled sharply, his hand suddenly grasping your chin—not roughly, but firmly enough to make you meet his gaze.

“Look at me.” His voice dropped to a near-growl. “You fear nothing. No one can harm you. Not while I exist.”

Your heart raced. The way he stared at you, as if claiming you, sent shivers down your spine.

Then, in an unexpected moment of gentleness, he brushed his thumb over your vitiligo-marked skin, his frown softening.

“You are not allowed to hide from me.”

You swore he looked almost flustered himself when you buried your face against his chest in response.

Karaku (Pleasure)

Karaku found your shyness deliciously entertaining.

“My, my~ You really are a delicate little thing, aren’t you?” He chuckled, watching as you practically shrank the moment he leaned in.

You turned away, your face burning. He was too much.

Karaku tilted his head, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. Then, without warning, he slid behind you, arms snaking around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You gasped, squirming in embarrassment. “K-Karaku—!”

He hushed you, his breath tickling your ear. “Shhh… you’re always so nervous. Relax, won’t you?”

One of his fingers traced absentmindedly over the unique patterns on your arm, his touch featherlight. “This is cute. Just like you.”

You shivered, too overwhelmed to respond.

Karaku loved this reaction.

He hummed, pressing a teasing kiss just below your ear. “If I kiss every inch of you, will you finally stop hiding from me?”

Aizetsu (Sorrow)

Aizetsu understood your feelings. He, too, was prone to melancholy, and your bashful nature only made him more drawn to you.

“You are too sweet,” he murmured one evening, watching as you fidgeted nervously under his gaze.

You peeked up at him but quickly looked away, your face burning.

Aizetsu sighed, resting his head against his palm. “It makes my heart ache when you avoid me…”

Guilt pricked at your chest. “I-I don’t mean to,” you whispered.

He perked up at the sound of your voice. “Then why?”

You swallowed. “I… I don’t know how to handle this much affection.”

For a moment, Aizetsu was silent. Then, gently, he reached out, his fingers ghosting over your cheek. “I don’t know how to handle it either.”

Your eyes widened.

His expression softened. “But… if it’s with you, I think I’d like to try.”

For the first time, you held his gaze—and the sheer adoration in his eyes nearly stole your breath away.

Urogi (Joy)

Urogi was the most relentless when it came to your shyness.

He thrived on making you flustered, whether it was through playful teasing or sudden displays of affection.

One night, he swooped down from nowhere, grabbing you and lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

“U-Urogi!” you squeaked, gripping onto him for dear life.

He grinned, his golden eyes alight with mischief. “Ooooh? You’re holding onto me so tightly~ How bold of you, little bird!”

You tried to push away, but he only tightened his hold. “Nope! You’re staying right here.”

His talons lightly traced patterns over your exposed skin, stopping when he reached the distinct markings of your vitiligo. His expression turned curious.

“This is beautiful,” he mused, dragging his claws along the contrast.

You shuddered, overwhelmed by his touch.

Then, he licked the side of your neck playfully, his wings flaring out. “Mmm, I should keep you forever~”

Gyokko (Upper Moon Five)

Gyokko was obsessed with beauty, so the moment he laid eyes on you, he became fixated.

Your heterochromatic eyes, your vitiligo-marked skin—it was something otherworldly, something he had never seen before.

“You are art,” he had said upon first meeting you, his voice dripping with reverence.

But your unbearable shyness only made him more impatient.

“Why must you avoid me?” he huffed, watching as you tried to keep a distance. “Do you not understand how rare you are?”

You bit your lip, fingers trembling. “I… I’m just not used to this much attention.”

Gyokko clicked his tongue, displeased. “Ridiculous. You deserve to be worshiped.”

And before you could react, he suddenly caged you in with his tentacle-like arms, pulling you way too close for comfort.

His eyes gleamed. “Shall I carve your beauty into porcelain? Preserve it for all eternity?”

You squeaked in alarm, your entire body overheating. “G-Gyokko, you can admire me without turning me into a vase—!”

He chuckled darkly. “Mm… I suppose. But I’ll settle for never letting you out of my sight.”

Gyutaro & Daki (Upper Moon Six)

Gyutaro

Gyutaro had never thought of himself as someone who could deserve love.

So when he realized you loved him—despite your overwhelming shyness—he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“You really do like me, huh?” His voice was low, almost disbelieving, as he watched you fidget.

You nodded shyly, avoiding his piercing gaze.

Gyutaro scoffed. “Then why do ya always act like you’re scared of me?”

You swallowed hard. “I-I’m not scared… I just… I’ve never felt this much love before.”

His heart twisted painfully at that.

Without warning, he reached out, yanking you into his lap, arms tightening around you possessively.

“You better get used to it,” he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. “’Cause I ain’t ever letting you go.”

Daki

Daki was dramatic about your shyness.

She hated how you avoided her.

“Ugh! Why won’t you look at me?!” she whined, grabbing your face and forcing you to meet her eyes.

You immediately turned red, your heterochromatic gaze flickering everywhere except at her.

Daki huffed, her fingers tracing over your vitiligo with fascination. “You’re so weird,” she muttered.

You flinched. “I-I—”

“But I like weird,” she interrupted, smirking.

Then, with zero warning, she kissed your cheek, making you squeak in surprise.

Daki laughed. “Aw~! You’re so easy to tease.”

She rested her chin on your shoulder, her arms wrapping around you smugly. “I think I’ll keep you all to myself~”