#but its not quite the same for the reader

[jincapableoflove]

A Jar Full of Us | one-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: best friend! jungkook, best friend! reader, college! au, unrequited love (?), idiots to lovers, best friends to ??? to lovers, angst, fluff, implied smut.

Summary: You never meant for him to find them. Hundred little confessions, folded away, never meant to be read. But now, they’re in his hands. And Jungkook—your best friend—knows everything. But he doesn’t say a word. He just watches you, with that same unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for something. And this Valentine’s Day, you might just have to find out what.

Inspired by: To All the Boys I've Loved Before

Word count: 10.2K+

Warnings: arguments, jungkook is a jerk, misunderstandings (a lottt of it), angstttt, reader and jk are huge idiots, mutual pining, implied smut (its not too detailed so that the story maintains the emotional connectivity), romantic intimacy, tooth-rotting fluff.

MOODBOARD

A/N: HERE IT ISSS! this is the longest fic ive written! tysm for all the support yall have given me in the teaser of this fic. i put out a taglist thinking no one would actually want to be a part of it but so many of yall asked to be tagged 😭 im so grateful! tysm i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writng it. lmk ur thoughts abt it after u read too <3 ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYY (someone date me pls)

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the dorm, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night—one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to study.

Joy, your roommate, is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside your bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box. You pull it out carefully, as if it were a fragile secret, and place it on your lap.

A soft breath escapes you as you grab a nearby pen and a book, neatly tearing out a tiny slip of paper. The motion is second nature now. Without even thinking, you let your emotions spill onto the paper, crafting a fleeting moment into something permanent.

Tonight’s memory is simple, but it still tugs at your heart. Jungkook had sent you another blurry picture of the moon, captioned with a casual, “Looks kinda pretty, right?” He knew how much you loved the moon—how it fascinated you in a way you could never quite put into words. And he had remembered. Of course, he had remembered.

A fond smile tugs at your lips as you write:

Jungkook remembers the little things.

Once the ink dries, you fold the note with care and add it to the collection. The box is almost full now, brimming with countless tiny confessions—whispers of feelings you’ve never had the courage to say aloud. A hundred little moments, a hundred little thoughts, all dedicated to the boy who had unknowingly stolen your heart.

Jungkook.

Jungkook, your best friend, who always saves you the last bite of his food, even when it’s his favorite. Jungkook, who sends you blurry pictures of the moon just because he knows you love them. Jungkook, who insists on studying with you, despite his major being entirely different from yours, just so he can make sure you actually open a book instead of procrastinating.

This little tradition of yours had started as a joke. One night, after an especially soft moment where Jungkook had wordlessly placed his hoodie over your head because you were shivering, you had scribbled on a piece of paper: Jungkook is warmer than the sun.

You had smiled to yourself as you rolled up the paper and dropped it into the box. It had felt oddly nice—preserving that moment, capturing the feeling of it in something tangible. So you did it again. And again. And again.

Until, one day, you realized you had written over a hundred of them.

You hadn’t meant to fall in love. And you certainly hadn’t planned to confess.

But each tiny slip of paper holds a truth your heart refuses to say aloud.

And you're going to keep it a secret forever.

You met Jungkook almost three years ago, during freshman year. The first time you met him, he had been infuriatingly kind.

You had been struggling under the weight of a precariously tall stack of books, barely able to see over them, when suddenly, a few disappeared from the top. Startled, you looked up to see Jungkook grinning at you, effortlessly holding the books you had nearly dropped.

"You looked like you were about to tip over," he teased, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

With a playful huff, you had responded, "Maybe I wanted it to tip over."

Jungkook had only laughed, shaking his head. "I'll catch you next time," he had promised.

That night, you had written a tiny note and slipped it into your box: He wants to catch me when I fall, even without me asking.

From that moment on, your friendship grew in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first. Midnight walks and late-night study sessions became routine, pulling you closer together with every shared moment. What had started as swapping notes for the one class you had together turned into sharing secrets. Somewhere along the way, before you even realized it, Jungkook had become your favorite person.

The box was almost full now.

You had written so many things over the years, each note capturing a small piece of him, a fragment of your feelings. Some were simple observations:

Jungkook frowns when he eats something delicious.

His hair is always a mess in the mornings. He hates it, but I love it.

His eyes smile before his lips do.

But one night, you had written something different. Something deeper. Something that felt like the truest thing you had ever put to paper.

I love him.

The moment the ink dried, panic had set in. You had almost torn it up, almost removed it from the box as if keeping it there would somehow make it real. But in the end, you had left it. Because the box was safe. No one was going to see it.

Especially not Jungkook.

One afternoon, you came back from your classes, ready to relax and unwind before the stress of exams fully set in. You had been looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe even a movie marathon with Jungkook to take your mind off things for a while.

But the moment you stepped into your dorm, you felt something was off.

Joy was sitting on the couch, sipping her coffee, her expression smug—too smug. A knowing smirk curled at the corners of her lips as she watched you walk in, and instantly, your stomach twisted with unease.

You narrowed your eyes. "What did you do?"

"I did you a favor," she said casually, taking another slow sip of her coffee.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. "What favor?" you asked, dread creeping into your voice.

Joy grinned. "I found that little cute box of yours."

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"Don't look at me like that," she waved a hand dismissively, as if what she was about to say wasn’t about to shatter your entire world. "It was just sitting there collecting dust, and I thought—what a perfect Valentine's Day gift for Jungkook. So…I wrapped it up and dropped it off at his place."

Silence.

A deafening, all-consuming silence as her words echoed in your head.

"You WHAT?!"

Your entire body froze in place, your breath catching in your throat as horror washed over you in waves. Your chest felt tight, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Joy merely raised an eyebrow, seemingly unbothered by the sheer panic on your face. "You're welcome," she said cheekily—before promptly sprinting out of the room for her life.

But you couldn’t chase after her. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the ringing in your ears.

No. No. No.

This couldn't be happening.

Still desperate to deny the possibility, you dropped to your knees and scrambled to check under your bed, your hands shaking as you reached into the familiar space where you had hidden the box for years.

Empty.

It was gone.

The tiny wooden box that held a hundred little moments, a hundred little secrets—your secrets—was gone.

And now it was in Jungkook's hands.

Of all people…Jungkook.

Jungkook lived in an apartment a little further away from your dorm. The second the realization hit, you bolted out the door without a second thought, heart pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Your plan was simple—get to his apartment before he did. You knew his habits well enough to guess that he was probably grabbing a late lunch at that fast-food place near campus. If luck was on your side, you still had time.

He hadn’t seen it yet.

He couldn’t have seen it yet.

As you ran, your mind spiraled into chaos, bombarding you with every possible scenario—each one worse than the last.

What if he had already opened it?

What if he read through every single note?

What if he found the one that said I love him?

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

Jungkook was your best friend.

He was your person.

And now, he might know that you wanted to be more than just friends.

The mere thought made your chest tighten as memories of the two of you flashed through your mind. The times you spent together at the arcade, the countless movie nights, the time you and Jungkook had crashed Jimin’s birthday party with a ridiculous amount of booze.

And then…there was that moment.

The moment you almost confessed.

"I wish I could find someone who truly understood me," he had said one night, his voice softer than usual, lost in thought.

And you had almost said it. The words had been on the tip of your tongue, so painfully close—"I do."

But you swallowed them down.

Because what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if saying those words ruined everything?

And now, thanks to Joy, you didn’t have a choice anymore. The truth was out there, sitting in a neatly wrapped box in Jungkook’s apartment.

The thought of his reaction sent your mind into overdrive.

Would he laugh?

Would he think it was weird?

Would he—

Would he reject you?

No. No. No.

You shook your head violently as you rounded the corner, lungs burning from the sprint. You’re going to get there before he does. You’re going to take the box back, and he’s never going to know about it.

That was the plan.

It had to work.

As soon as you reached Jungkook’s apartment building, you barely paused to catch your breath. Your legs ached from running, but panic kept you moving. You made a beeline for the mailbox section in the lobby, frantically scanning the names, searching for his.

Box 109.

You yanked it open.

Empty.

Your stomach sank.

Maybe his roommate took it upstairs? Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe it was sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, still wrapped, still safe, still unseen.

You latched onto that sliver of hope as you rushed up the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the elevator. By the time you reached his floor, your hands were shaking. You raised a fist and knocked on the door, urgency making your knuckles sting.

No response.

You knocked again, harder this time.

Then—finally—you heard shuffling from inside. A few footsteps. The creak of the floorboards. A pause.

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

Standing right in front of you, framed in the dim light of his apartment, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that draped over his frame in a way that shouldn't have been so unfairly attractive. His dark hair was slightly damp, messy from a shower, strands falling into his eyes. His lips were parted in surprise, his brows slightly furrowed, and the expression on his face—confused yet soft, dangerously soft—made your already erratic heartbeat lurch violently.

But then, your gaze dropped to his hands.

And the world stopped.

The box.

The open box.

Your box.

Your secret, sacred collection of unsent confessions, of words meant only for the safety of your own solitude. The pieces of your heart you had never dared to show him.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

No, no, no, no—

"You—" You gasped, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling rapidly as you fought for air. "You opened it?"

Jungkook blinked, holding the box loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the edges as if he had been going through its contents just moments ago. He tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah," he said simply, as if the weight of the universe hadn’t just come crashing down on you.

Oh. Oh no.

Your legs wobbled. You had to physically stop yourself from collapsing right there in front of him.

His gaze flickered downward, and you followed it instinctively. In his other hand, he held one of the notes. One of your notes. The handwriting was unmistakably yours, a little smudged, a little rushed, but still legible.

He cleared his throat, then read aloud.

"I don’t know when it happened. But one day, he became my favorite person."

Silence.

It stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

You thought you might actually pass out.

"Jungkook, I—" Your voice cracked, but before you could even attempt to explain, he looked up and met your eyes.

And then, to your absolute horror—

He smiled.

Not a teasing smirk, not an awkward grimace, but a real, genuine, knowing smile. A little shy, a little amused, as if the weight of what he had just discovered didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it did you.

And then—oh god—he spoke again.

"So… do you still think my hair looks best when it’s messy?"

Your breath hitched.

Your brain went blank.

You wanted to scream.

The change was almost instant.

In the days that followed, Jungkook became… different.

Not in the way you had imagined, though.

You had been bracing yourself for a talk—a conversation where he’d tell you gently, maybe even apologetically, that he didn’t feel the same way. Or, at the very least, a moment of awkwardness before things slowly went back to normal.

But instead, Jungkook just… pulled away.

It started subtly at first. He stopped texting as much. The late-night calls that once lasted for hours dwindled into one-word replies and seen messages. The casual lunch meetups, the spontaneous arcade runs, the easy, natural way he used to gravitate towards you in a crowded room—all of it changed.

And yet, despite the distance, he never fully let you go.

Instead, he turned it into a joke.

Like today, when he leaned in—far too close for comfort—during your shared class. His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of his breath fanning against your ear.

"So, I’m warmer than the sun, huh?"

You stiffened instantly, your hands tightening around your pen. He pulled back with a smirk, his dark eyes glittering with mischief as he watched your reaction unfold in real-time.

It was unbearable.

He kept doing it.

Whenever you tried to talk to him—really talk to him—he would either dodge the conversation entirely or turn it into something lighthearted, something unserious.

Like the time you finally found him alone, determined to just get it over with, to ask what had changed between you two. Before you could even get the words out, he cut you off with another one of those smirks, his voice laced with amusement.

"So I look best in black? Good to know."

And then he walked away.

That was when you finally got the message.

Jungkook had taken it as a joke.

He didn’t care about your feelings.

It was like the caring, affectionate boy you had known for years had vanished the moment your heart had been laid bare. Like now that the truth was out in the open, he didn’t know how to handle it—so he chose to mock it instead.

And worst of all?

He was pulling away from you completely.

The time you used to spend together? Gone. He was hanging out with other people now, filling his days with anyone but you. And when you did manage to cross paths, he only acknowledged you through those insufferable little comments, those cruel reminders of the things you had never meant for him to see.

It hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

Because maybe—just maybe—you had hoped that if he knew how you felt…

He wouldn’t push you away like this.

The next week brought the on-campus career fair—an event mandatory for all students. You weren’t particularly excited about it, but at least it was a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied.

Or so you thought.

Because that’s when you saw him.

And he wasn’t alone.

He was walking around with Hana, a junior from your college. They moved easily through the crowd, side by side, completely immersed in conversation. And then, to make things even worse—he laughed.

A real laugh. The kind that made his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle, the kind you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

Your stomach twisted.

You weren’t expecting him to make it this obvious.

If he wanted to reject you, fine. If he didn’t feel the same way, you could live with that. But did he really have to parade it around like this?

Maybe this was his way of sending a message. Maybe he wanted you to know, without actually having to say it out loud.

A silent rejection.

What a jerk.

These days, you barely have the motivation to attend classes. You go through the motions—waking up, dragging yourself to campus, sitting through lectures—but your mind isn’t really there.

Because no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, the brutal reality of rejection lingers like a shadow, following you everywhere you go.

Jungkook threw away your feelings like they meant nothing.

You should have expected it, right? You should have known this was how it would turn out.

Maybe you were never meant to be anything more than a friend to him. Maybe, the moment he realized you held deeper feelings for him, he got scared. Or worse—maybe he just didn’t care at all.

The thought makes your chest ache.

Jungkook has always been a romantic at heart. You’ve seen it in the way he talks about love, in the way he watches romance movies with a dreamy look in his eyes. But clearly, you were never part of that dream.

And now, because of your stupid feelings, you’ve ruined everything.

You used to be his best friend. The one he joked around with, the one he trusted, the one he leaned on.

But now?

Now he barely looks at you.

And if he does, it's only to throw some teasing remark your way—like your feelings were some kind of joke.

The person you were most angry at was Joy.

Not Jungkook. Not yourself.

Joy.

Because none of this would have happened if she had just left that damn box alone.

That day after the box incident, the moment you stepped back into your dorm, she was there, lounging on the couch like nothing had happened. She glanced up as you walked in, a smirk already forming on her lips.

“I didn’t expect you to come back so early. I thought you guys would—” she wiggled her eyebrows—“get freaky after the whole confession, you know?”

She laughed, expecting you to groan or throw a pillow at her like usual.

But then she saw your face.

Her laughter faded. “Wait… what happened?”

You didn’t answer. You just walked past her and sank into the couch, staring at nothing, your mind still replaying every moment from earlier—Jungkook’s teasing, his smirk, his distance.

You heard Joy shuffle closer, her voice softer now. “I… I’m sorry. Did I send the gift too early? Did Jungkook not like it?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, no, he loved it.” You turned to her, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you so much for your help, Joy.”

Her expression faltered. “Wait… what do you mean?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Jungkook probably thinks I’m pathetic now.”

Joy winced. She sat beside you on the couch, guilt written all over her face. “I— I really thought—” she hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I was so sure, though. That boy always had heart eyes for you.”

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Well, now you know he didn’t.”

Silence settled between you both.

And for the first time, Joy didn’t have anything to say.

The next time you see Jungkook, he’s with Hana again.

They’re standing by one of the campus notice boards, deep in conversation. You don’t mean to eavesdrop—you’re not even sure why you stop—but the moment you hear them talking, something in your gut tells you to listen.

Hana tilts her head, her voice low but clear. “Are you sure she won't find out?”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know… Maybe it's better this way”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your first instinct is denial—maybe they’re not talking about you. Maybe it’s about someone else entirely. But deep down, you know.

As far as you’re aware, there isn’t another she in Jungkook’s life. Not before. Not when you were still close.

You’ve already been replaced.

Your chest aches as you piece it together. He doesn't want you to find out—because he's probably in a relationship with Hana now. Because he doesn’t want to hurt you with a direct rejection, he thinks hiding his relationship with her is the kinder option.

It isn’t.

You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to step back, turning away from the scene before you can hear any more.

You decide then—no matter how much it hurts, no matter how pathetic it makes you feel—you can’t bear being apart from Jungkook.

Even if he doesn’t love you back.

Even if he only sees you as a friend.

Losing him completely? That’s not something you’re ready for. Maybe you never will be.

So, you do the only thing you can think of.

You wait for him after class.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you watch the door, your hands clammy with nerves. When Jungkook finally steps out, your breath catches. He looks the same—same hoodie, same soft brown eyes—but everything feels different now.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward.

"I get it, okay?" you say, voice firm despite the way your throat tightens. "You don’t like me. And that’s fine. I hope she makes you happy."

Jungkook halts mid-step.

His jaw clenches. His fists curl at his sides.

"You don’t understand," he mutters.

"Then make me understand, Jungkook," you plead. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to keep going, even as your last shred of dignity slips through your fingers. "Can we still be friends, at least?"

Silence.

Jungkook doesn’t reply.

And somehow, that hurts more than rejection ever could.

There's a party happening, hosted by one of the biggest party animals on campus. Everyone is invited, and Joy insists that you go.

After much convincing, you finally give in. You've mended things with her—finally forgiven her. Maybe it wasn’t entirely her fault. Maybe you just needed someone to blame.

You decide to go, hoping for a distraction. Maybe the music, the drinks, and the endless chatter will help you forget, even if just for a night.

But you already know Jungkook will be there.

Probably Hana too.

And that's fine.

You'll just stay out of their way.

The party is in full swing when you arrive—loud music, flashing lights, bodies moving wildly on the dance floor, and the unmistakable smell of booze in the air. Bottles are being passed around, and the energy is electric.

A few friends from your classes spot you and pull you in, offering drinks. You take them all without hesitation, reaching for the strongest ones, letting the alcohol burn away the ache in your chest.

Jungkook is nowhere in sight.

Good. Maybe he didn’t come. Maybe you can actually enjoy yourself tonight.

With the alcohol settling in, your limbs feel lighter, your mind a little hazy. You dance to the outdated playlist blaring through the speakers, laugh with strangers, and let yourself let go—just for a while.

But after some time, it all feels like too much. The heat, the noise, the overwhelming buzz in your veins. You slip away from the crowd and make your way to the rooftop, breathing in the crisp night air, letting it cool your flushed skin.

And then you sense it—someone else's presence.

You turn, your head spinning slightly, and there he is.

Jungkook.

You blink, wondering if you're imagining him, but his gaze is fixed on you, a slight furrow between his brows. There's something like concern in his expression as he watches you, taking in your drunken state.

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

The alcohol makes everything feel lighter—your body, your thoughts, your inhibitions. So when you see Jungkook standing there, looking at you with that unreadable expression, the words just spill out before you can stop them.

“I liked you, you know,” you mumble, swaying slightly. “But now I realize… I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook doesn’t react. No apology, no denial, not even a flicker of emotion across his face.

He just exhales softly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be fine,” he says simply, then turns on his heel and walks away.

Just like that.

The cool night air suddenly feels suffocating, the weight in your chest heavier than ever. You watch his retreating figure, your heart shattering all over again.

The next morning, you wake up with the nastiest headache ever. Your head throbs, your mouth is dry, and your body feels like it’s been wrung out. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as the hazy memories from last night slowly piece themselves together.

Jungkook. The rooftop. The way he just… walked away like he didn’t care.

You shake the thought from your mind, dragging yourself out of bed. There’s no point dwelling on it. Your exams are approaching, and you need to focus.

Deciding to get some studying done, you head to the library. The quiet atmosphere should help clear your head—or at least distract you from the mess that is your life.

But the moment you step inside, your breath catches.

Jungkook is sitting at the table you both used to frequent, completely absorbed in scribbling something into a notebook. For a second, you consider turning around, but then something catches your eye.

He rips out a small piece of paper, folds it neatly, and—without hesitation—slips it into a glass jar sitting beside him.

Your heart clenches.

Is it for Hana?

You don’t stick around to find out. Before Jungkook can notice you, you turn on your heel and walk away.

February 10th. Your birthday.

You wake up with a small flicker of hope. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Jungkook had been ignoring you all this time because he was planning something—some kind of surprise. That had to be it, right?

Surely.

So you wait.

By 3 PM, your phone is filled with messages—friends, family, even distant relatives reaching out to wish you. Everyone but Jungkook.

Not even a single text.

The hope that had carried you through the day starts to crumble, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You don’t go to class. What’s the point? This might just be the worst birthday ever.

That’s when Joy bursts into your room with a grin.

"You got a package!" she announces, holding out a neatly wrapped box.

Your heart leaps.

Jungkook?

You rush over, fingers fumbling as you tear open the wrapping—only for your stomach to drop.

It’s from your parents.

Disappointment washes over you, but you push it aside. They went through the trouble of sending you something, and you should be grateful. You take a deep breath, forcing a smile as you pick up your phone and call them.

"Thank you," you say, voice steady. Because at least someone remembered.

There was still time.

It was only evening—plenty of hours left before midnight. Jungkook would surely text before then. He had to.

Joy, noticing your gloomy mood, tries to lift your spirits. "Come on, let’s go out drinking. Have some fun, at least for your birthday."

But you shake your head. "I’m not in the mood."

She sighs, clearly frustrated but doesn’t push you. Instead, she flops onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. "I hate this," she mutters. "I hate seeing you like this. And I hate him for treating you this way."

Her voice is laced with anger, but there’s something else there too—guilt.

Because deep down, Joy still blames herself.

If she hadn’t sent that gift early, if she hadn’t tried to play cupid, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe you wouldn’t be spending your birthday like this—waiting for a boy who might never come around.

Jungkook didn’t text that day.

He forgot your birthday.

You waited all day, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for a message that never came. Midnight passed, and still—nothing.

The realization settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. You feel pathetic.

Pathetic for hoping. Pathetic for waiting. Pathetic for still caring.

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day.

You can’t afford to miss any more classes. You haven’t stepped foot on campus since your birthday, but today, you decide to go.

You have no motivation to see or talk to anyone. You tell yourself that you’ll just quietly attend your classes and head straight back home. No distractions. No unnecessary interactions.

But as soon as you reach campus, you notice a crowd gathering. There’s some kind of matchmaking event happening for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.

Great. Just great.

Everything about it feels like the universe is mocking you, rubbing salt on an already raw wound. Heart-shaped decorations, pink confetti floating in the air, and couples laughing—completely oblivious to how suffocating it feels for you.

You try to move past the crowd, but suddenly, someone pushes forward, and you get caught in the chaos. You stumble, losing your balance—bracing for impact—

But you don’t hit the ground.

Because Jungkook catches you.

His hands grip your arms, steadying you out of instinct. His touch is firm and warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

For the first time in days, you look up at him. And for the first time in days, he looks right back at you.

He doesn’t let go of you immediately.

His grip stays firm, his fingers pressing into your arms like he’s grounding himself, like he’s hesitating. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly—like he’s about to say something.

The music playing in the background fades into a distant hum. Everything around you slows. The laughter, the chatter, the festival lights—it all blurs.

All that’s left is him.

Still holding you.

Your voice barely comes out, a whisper against the space between you.

“Do you even care, Jungkook?”

His hands tighten for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenches. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you think you see something—something raw and unspoken flash through his eyes.

But then, like a switch flipping, he lets go.

So fast that you nearly stumble again.

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words cut through the air, sharp and merciless.

Then he turns. Walks away.

And you’re left standing there, alone in the middle of a festival meant for love.

This is it.

This is your answer.

Jungkook has made his choice.

And now, it’s time for you to make yours.

You have to move on.

That night, you decide—Jungkook was never meant to be yours.

It’s a painful truth, one you’ve been avoiding, but tonight, you accept it.

Needing a distraction, you start clearing out your closet, pulling out old clothes, forgotten trinkets, anything to keep your hands busy. That’s when you see it.

The pink heart-shaped box.

Your breath hitches.

You had snatched it from his hands that day, barely able to meet his gaze before bolting out of his apartment and driving straight back to your dorm. You had shoved it deep into your closet, hoping that if you buried it away, you could bury your feelings too.

For a moment, you consider throwing it away. What’s the point of holding onto it now? Jungkook knows. He read the notes, saw every piece of your heart laid bare. And in the end, it changed nothing.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid.

One by one, you pull out the little folded papers, unfolding memories you once held so close.

"I don’t know when it happened, but one day, he became my favourite person."

"His laugh is my favorite sound."

"I wish he knew how much he means to me."

Tears blur your vision.

You never wanted him to know.

Because you never wanted to lose him.

And now, you have.

The weight of it crashes over you all at once, and before you can stop it, the tears spill over, hot and relentless.

You clutch the notes to your chest as silent sobs wrack your body.

You’ve been holding the pain in for too long.

So tonight, you let the dams break.

And you cry yourself to sleep.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

You feel miserable.

Forget having a Valentine this year—you don’t even have a best friend anymore.

So you stay in bed all day, buried under the covers, refusing to acknowledge the world outside.

Your mind drifts, unbidden, to last year’s Valentine’s Day.

You and Jungkook had gone out for dinner—not as lovers, not as anything more than friends, just two people who didn’t have dates. You remember how he laughed at the terrible restaurant music, how he stole fries from your plate like they were his.

You miss it.

No—wait. You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Shaking off the thought, you grab your Nintendo Switch and start playing, trying to distract yourself.

Then the doorbell rings.

You ignore it. Joy is probably home—she’ll get it.

But it rings again.

What is Joy doing?

Then it hits you—she probably stayed over at her boyfriend’s place last night.

With a groan, you push off the covers and make your way to the door. You swing it open, ready to shoo away whoever it is—

But there’s no one there.

Your gaze drops to the ground.

And then you see it.

A singular jar, placed carefully on the doormat.

You stare at the jar, a strange sense of familiarity creeping in, but you can’t quite place it.

Where have you seen something like this before?

Your mind scrambles for an answer, flipping through memories like pages in a book, but nothing surfaces.

With hesitant fingers, you reach down and pick it up, feeling the cool glass against your palm. It’s heavier than you expected.

That’s when you notice the writing on the lid, scrawled in red marker.

"To Y/N."

Your heart stutters.

You blink, trying to steady your breath, but the moment feels unreal—like you’ve stepped into a dream.

It’s only then that you notice the jar is filled with tiny rolled-up notes, crammed inside like secrets waiting to be unraveled.

Your mind starts spiraling.

What is this? Who left it? Why does it have your name?

Your hands tremble as you twist the lid open, the slight pop of the seal echoing in the silence.

You reach inside, fingers brushing against the countless little slips of paper.

With bated breath, you pull one out.

You carefully unroll it, eyes scanning the words scribbled in rushed, familiar handwriting.

"I lied."

That’s all it says.

Two words.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes trace the messy yet unmistakable handwriting.

Jungkook.

Your fingers tighten around the note as your pulse quickens.

It’s his.

The realization slams into you with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned.

Your breath turns shallow as the memory crashes into you—

Yesterday.

The crowd. The music. The overwhelming blur of people around you.

You had stumbled, nearly falling, only for Jungkook to catch you. For a fleeting moment, he held you close. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.

You had searched his face, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you even care, Jungkook?"

You had wanted him to say yes. Even a little. Anything to make the ache in your chest feel less unbearable.

But instead—

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words had cut deeper than you ever thought possible.

And then he had let go. So fast, like touching you had burned him. Like you meant nothing at all.

You remember the way your heart had cracked, the way he had disappeared into the sea of people, leaving you stranded in the middle of a festival meant for love.

But now—

Now you stand here, gripping a jar full of his words.

"I lied."

Your hands fumble as you reach into the jar again, pulling out another note.

Unrolling it with shaky fingers, you read:

"I thought if I pushed you away, it’d be easier for you to move on. But the truth is, I don’t want you to."

A sharp pang strikes your chest.

Your mind reels, and suddenly, you're back at the rooftop party—drunk, vulnerable, spilling your heart out in slurred words.

“I liked you, you know? But now I realize I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook had stood there, silent, unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

No apology. No denial. Nothing.

And then, just as effortlessly, he had turned away.

"You'll be fine," he'd said before walking off, leaving you alone in the cold night.

The memory burns like an open wound, and yet, here you are, standing in your doorway, holding the truth he should have told you that night in the palm of your hands.

Your fingers tremble as you pull out the next note.

"I missed your birthday on purpose because I wanted to give you something that lasts longer than a text."

Your breath hitches.

He didn’t forget?

He chose not to text?

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, but it fades just as quickly as the weight of his words settles in.

You reach into the jar again, pulling out another note, heart pounding against your ribs.

What you didn’t know was—

Jungkook had spent hours writing your birthday note.

He had sat at his desk that night, a dozen crumpled papers around him, rewriting the same message over and over, never satisfied. His hands had been shaky when he finally folded the note and slipped it into the jar.

Because words were permanent.

Because he was afraid.

Because deep down, he knew—if he told you how much you really meant to him, he wouldn’t be able to push you away anymore.

And that terrified him.

Your grip on the jar tightens as you pull out the next note.

"I was scared you’d see me in the library that day. And you did. I almost stopped writing. But I wanted to finish this for you."

Your breath catches in your throat as a memory rushes back—

The library.

That afternoon, when you had finally dragged yourself back to campus to study for your exams, you had seen him sitting at your usual table, scribbling something into his notebook.

At the time, you thought nothing of it—until you watched him tear out a tiny slip of paper and slip it into a jar.

A jar.

The very same one you now hold in your trembling hands.

Back then, you had turned away, assuming it was for Hana.

But it wasn’t.

It was for you.

Every note in this jar was for you.

Your vision blurs as you stare down at the tiny rolled-up messages still waiting to be read.

He had been writing to you all along.

By the time you reach the last few notes, your hands are trembling. Maybe you can’t even read them through the tears clouding your vision. The weight of all those misunderstandings—every ignored confession, every painful silence, every moment you thought he didn’t care—crashes down on you all at once.

Your breath is uneven as you unroll another slip of paper.

"You thought I didn’t care. But I did. I always did."

A sob escapes your lips, the ache in your chest unbearable.

You clutch the jar against you like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held—because it is. Because it’s him.

Every unspoken word. Every hidden feeling. Every truth he was too afraid to say aloud.

And now, you finally know.

Your breath catches as you reach the bottom of the jar, realizing the significance—there are exactly 100 notes, just like the box you once gave him.

With shaky hands, you pull out the 99th note.

“I was always bad at saying things out loud. So I wrote them instead. I just hope it’s not too late for you to read them.”

Your chest tightens.

You take a deep breath and reach for the last note, your fingers trembling. Slowly, you unroll it, heart pounding in your ears.

“Y/N, will you be my Valentine?”

The paper almost slips from your fingers as your vision blurs with fresh tears. A shaky laugh escapes your lips, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.

After everything, after all the silence, the pain, the misunderstandings—he’s finally saying it.

And suddenly, all that matters is what you’ll do next.

The moment the words register, you don’t think.

The jar nearly slips from your grasp as you scramble to your feet, your heartbeat hammering louder than the thoughts racing through your mind. Jungkook. He couldn’t have gone far—he must have just dropped it off.

You fling the door open, barefoot, barely even stopping to grab your keys. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don’t care. You sprint down the stairs, nearly stumbling in your rush to get outside.

Your eyes dart wildly around the street, your breath coming out in frantic puffs. Where is he?

Then, you see him.

A few feet away, Jungkook is walking slowly, hands in his pockets, head low like he’s already bracing for disappointment. Like he’s already convinced you won’t come after him.

But you do.

“Jungkook!”

He freezes.

You don’t stop running until you’re right in front of him, breathless, clutching the jar close to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

His eyes widen when he sees you—messy hair, no shoes, trembling hands still gripping his gift like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You swallow hard, voice shaking. “Did you mean it?”

Jungkook looks at you for a long moment, the night stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, barely above a whisper—“Yeah.”

Your chest heaves, breath uneven, voice shaking as you clutch the jar tighter.

"You absolute—jerk." Your voice wavers, but the anger, the hurt, the sheer weight of everything he’s put you through spills out in every word. "You sat there, letting me think I meant nothing to you. And the whole time, you were—" You shake the jar, almost laughing in disbelief. "—writing these?"

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say next.

"You could’ve just told me, Jungkook. You could’ve just—" You pause, gripping the jar like it’s the only thing holding you together. "Why? Why lie to me?"

He exhales sharply, his voice rough, like he’s been holding it in for too long.

"Because I was a coward."

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to admit it so easily.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, looking away. "I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do. If I let you think I didn’t care, maybe you’d move on. Maybe you’d find someone who wouldn’t hurt you like I did."

Your throat tightens. Your fingers dig into the glass of the jar. "You were the one hurting me, Jungkook."

His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight of them almost knocks the air from your lungs. He looks wrecked.

"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why?" Your voice trembles, frustration bubbling over. "Why did you let me think I was chasing something that wasn’t even there?"

His jaw clenches, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. But then, his voice comes, low and raw.

"Because I was afraid you’d realize you deserved better."

Silence settles between you. A silence so thick it presses against your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You stare at him, your vision blurring. You should walk away. You should scream, cry—anything. But instead, you do the only thing you can think of.

You reach into the jar, grab a note at random, and shove it into his hand. "Read it."

Jungkook hesitates. Then, slowly, he unfolds the paper. His fingers tremble as he reads the words he once wrote.

"If I had been braver, I would’ve told you every single day how much you meant to me."

He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the paper like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flick back up to yours, burning with something you can’t quite name.

"Say it now," you whisper.

Jungkook's breath catches. His grip on the note tightens like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

You wait. Trembling, heart pounding, eyes locked onto his. Daring him to finally, finally say it.

He exhales shakily. His voice is low, rough—like it hurts to speak, but he does anyway.

"Y/N…"

You don’t look away. Don’t let him run from this.

His throat bobs. His hand curls into a fist at his side, then slowly unclenches.

"I love you."

A sharp inhale cuts through you. Even though you were waiting for it, the words hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook shakes his head, almost laughing, but there’s no humor in it—just raw, aching regret.

"I loved you then. I love you now. And I don’t think there’s a single version of me that won’t love you."

Your vision blurs, the weight of everything pressing down on you all at once.

"Then why—" your voice cracks, "—why did you let me think you didn’t?"

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His face twists with something close to pain.

"Because I was scared." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Scared that if I let myself have you, I’d ruin you. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it."

Your hands clench at your sides. "You don’t get to decide that for me."

He nods. Swallows hard. Takes a step closer.

"I know." His voice is softer now. "And if I could go back, I’d do it all differently. But I can’t. All I can do is stand here and tell you—"

Your lips crash into his, years of longing and heartbreak unraveling in a single, desperate moment. Your fingers fist into his jacket, pulling him closer, closing the distance like you’ve been waiting forever. Because you have.

Jungkook catches you. His arms wind tight around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His grip is firm, unyielding, as if holding you is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The kiss isn’t soft—it’s frantic, raw, filled with all the words you never got to say. It’s a confession, an apology, a plea. His lips move against yours with urgency, pouring everything into it, like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent pushing you away.

Jungkook tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a shiver runs through you as his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand spreads against your back, pressing you impossibly closer, like even this isn’t enough, like he’d fuse you together if he could.

You melt. Every wall you built, every ounce of anger, every misunderstanding—crumbling, dissolving into the heat of him. The way he kisses you feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. Like a promise.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you lets go.

Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, still uneven, still shaken. His hands remain on your waist like he’s afraid that the second he lets go, this will all disappear.

Your fingers stay curled in his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His voice is raw when he finally speaks, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhale, shaking your head, the weight of everything still pressing against your chest. Your voice is quiet, but steady. “Then spend every day proving that you do.”

Jungkook lets out a soft laugh—one that sounds broken and real, like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to have this moment with you.

“Deal,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you again.

The door barely clicks shut before Jungkook is on you again, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. There’s no hesitation now, no careful restraint—only heat, only the raw, aching need that’s been simmering between you for far too long.

His body presses against yours, pushing you back into the door, and you gasp against his lips. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping over yours with slow, deliberate intent. He tastes like something addictive—like want, like longing, like the kind of hunger that makes your stomach tighten and your knees go weak.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. His hands roam down, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming along your bare skin. His touch is scorching, leaving a trail of fire wherever he moves. He pauses, his breath ragged, lips barely brushing yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice rough, uneven.

You shake your head, tilting your chin up until your lips ghost over his again. "I don’t want you to stop."

The words break something inside him.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hungrier this time, more desperate. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard lines of his body, the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily against yours. One hand grips your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shudder, while the other slides lower, gripping your thigh and hitching it up against his hip.

A quiet moan escapes you at the feeling, and he groans in response, pressing harder into you. His lips leave yours, trailing a path down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, where he lingers. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking gently, enough to make you arch into him, enough to make your breath hitch.

"Jungkook—" His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper, and he exhales sharply against your skin, like the sound is enough to undo him.

His grip tightens as he lifts you effortlessly, hands settling under your thighs. Instinct takes over, and your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you across the room. He lays you down on the bed with care, but there’s nothing careful about the way he follows you down, covering your body with his own.

He hovers above you, his breath warm against your lips, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your bottom lip, his touch unbearably light.

"You’re sure?" he whispers, voice thick with something heady.

Your only answer is a whispered "Yes," breathless, certain.

Something shifts in him at your words. His lips find yours again, but this time, he takes his time—exploring, savoring, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you. His kisses trail downward, along the curve of your neck, across your collarbone, his mouth mapping out a path of heat and sensation. His hands move with just as much purpose, slipping under fabric, pushing it aside, fingers tracing bare skin with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter.

Every brush of his lips, every slow, deliberate touch sends waves of electricity through you, igniting something deep and primal. Clothes are discarded in slow, teasing movements, the heat between you building with every layer that falls away.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, down your arm, over the curve of your breasts, his breath hot and uneven. He watches you, eyes dark with something intense, something almost reverent, as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your bare skin.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, voice filled with something deeper than desire.

You reach for him, pulling him back up, needing his mouth on yours again, needing more. He obliges, kissing you fiercely, like he never wants to stop, like this moment has been waiting to happen for far too long.

His hands explore moving towards your heat, his touch reverent yet possessive, like he’s memorizing every inch of you, like he’s making up for all the lost time. You arch into him, breath hitching, hands gripping onto his shoulders as heat coils low in your stomach.

"Jungkook," you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a plea.

His breath catches, and he exhales shakily. "I’ve got you," he murmurs against your skin, voice barely above a whisper. "I’m right here."

And then there’s no more talking—only movement, only passion, only the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you both belong.

The air is thick with warmth, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, hearts pounding in tandem as the last echoes of your shared breaths settle between you. The world outside might still be turning, but in this moment, it doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him, skin against skin, the weight of what just happened pressing down like the softest, heaviest thing in the world.

Your body is spent, muscles trembling faintly from the aftershocks, but you don’t move. You can’t.

Jungkook is still holding you. One arm draped lazily around your waist, the other tracing absentminded patterns against your back. His touch is slow, soothing, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real. Like if he lets go, you might slip away.

You stay like that for a while, chests rising and falling in sync, your head resting just above his heart. The rhythm of it is steady now, no longer racing like it had been just moments ago. Still, there’s a softness to it, an unspoken question lingering in the quiet space between you.

It’s you who finally breaks it.

“So…” You shift slightly, fingers trailing absentmindedly along his chest. “Hana knew about the jar?”

His hand stills for the briefest moment before he exhales a small, breathy laugh. His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s amusement in it too.

“She didn’t just know about it.” His fingers resume their slow, idle circles against your bare skin. “It was her idea.”

You blink. “…What?”

Jungkook hums in confirmation, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah. She was the one who told me to do it—to fill a jar with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t.” He pauses, then adds, “She also threatened to expose me if I didn’t.”

You scoff, though you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest. “So let me get this straight… You couldn’t tell me how you felt, but you told Hana?”

Jungkook turns his head slightly to look at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but the amusement in them is undeniable. “I didn’t tell her. She just… figured it out.”

Of course, she did.

You huff, feigning annoyance, but your fingers betray you, tracing soft, aimless patterns along his collarbone. “Still. She knew before I did.”

Jungkook grins, rolling onto his side to face you fully. One hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His voice is low when he asks, “Are you jealous?”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

His laughter vibrates against your skin, rich and warm, before he dips down to kiss you—slow and lingering, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into it. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

Then, softer now, more serious, he murmurs, “Are you gonna answer me?”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Answer what?”

Jungkook leans over, reaching toward the nightstand where the jar still sits, its notes untouched—except for the last one.

“The question,” he says, retrieving the single unfolded slip of paper. He holds it between you, and even though you already know what it says, your heart still stutters when your eyes skim over the words again.

Y/N, will you be my Valentine?

Earlier, you had left it unanswered, too overwhelmed by everything that had come before it. But now, after everything—after confessions, after heartbreak, after finally finding each other again—there’s no hesitation.

You reach out, plucking the note from his fingers. Slowly, carefully, you fold it again, tucking it beneath your pillow like something precious, something worth keeping. Then, meeting his gaze, you whisper, “You never needed to ask.”

Jungkook exhales, slow and shaky, like something inside him has finally settled. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.”

Your breath catches. Not because of his confidence—but because, deep down, you realize you’d never wanted to say no in the first place. Maybe you had tried to fight it. Maybe you had convinced yourself that the past had built too many walls between you. But now, lying here in the warmth of his arms, the truth settles into your bones like something that had been waiting for you to accept it all along.

It had always been him.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets as you search his gaze, looking for hesitation, for doubt—for something to make this feel less like a dream. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. Just this moment you both fought so hard to reach.

Jungkook watches you, waiting, always waiting, his hand still resting against your cheek as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

So you close the distance.

You kiss him slowly this time, letting it sink in. The warmth of his lips, the taste of him still lingering, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air, hearts beating in time.

And then, with a quiet, knowing smile, you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Jungkook’s lips part slightly, his expression shifting—softening, melting—as if those two words had knocked down every last barrier between you. And maybe they had. Because before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you against him again, tucking you close, his hand slipping into yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you speak for a long time after that. You don’t need to.

Outside, the world keeps turning, time moving forward just as it always does. But here, in the hush of your dorm room, wrapped up in him, it feels like the universe has paused just for you.

Not to make up for lost time.

But to remind you that some things—some people—were never really lost at all.

And maybe, just maybe, they never would be.

EPILOGUE : Years Later – Valentine’s Day

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night—one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to pick a restaurant instead of saying, “Anything’s fine.”

Jungkook is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside the bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box.

But this time, there’s something else.

Your fingers find the jar—the one that started it all.

You pull them both out carefully, as if they were a fragile secret, and place them on your lap.

Soft footsteps approach. Then, a familiar weight sinks onto the mattress beside you.

Jungkook’s voice is quieter now, fond. “Didn’t think I’d see those again.”

You smile, running a thumb over the worn edges of the box before glancing at him. “I don’t know what made me reach for them.”

He hums, gaze flickering between the objects in your hands. “Habit, maybe. Or fate.” Then, smirking, “You always did have a thing for digging up answers.”

Rolling your eyes, you pop the lid off the jar, fingers fishing out an old note. The paper is creased, the ink slightly faded, but you already know what it says.

"Y/N, will you be my Valentine?"

Jungkook watches you, expectant. “You never actually answered me, you know.”

You exhale a laugh, shaking your head. “Jungkook, we’re literally married.”

“And?” He leans in, teasing. “I’m just saying, a verbal confirmation wouldn’t hurt.”

You scoff but humor him anyway, fingers curling into his sweater as you whisper against his lips—

"Yes, Jungkook. I’ll be your Valentine."

His arms wrap around you, pulling you in. The jar sits forgotten on the floor, the pink box nestled beside it.

Once upon a time, you had pulled it out, searching for clarity. Looking for a sign.

You didn’t realize then—you never needed the answers inside.

Because you’d already found them.

Because you’d found him.

And maybe that was the answer all along.

taglist: @iamstilljk @hirochan112 @withluvjm @amarawayne @jeon-has-left-you-on-seen @blueofocean @tattzjeon @tsick @stuti2904 @gukkiebabysblog @taekritimin123 @whisperingonyx @sadgirlroo @nerdycheol @hoshiskimchi @blueberriesm @kooksrqcer @minimoninini @dreamersparacosm @yok00k @whothefuckisthishoe @prxdajeon @darkangelfei @sunainasworld @kia091106 @khadeeeeej @welcometomyworld13 @noshametempo @bakuhoethotski @ohyeah35sworld

thank you so much for reading! let me know what u think about it <3

[emptymanuscript]

Counterpoint: It could simply be that the author is wrong about the meaning of their own book.

Remember, Ray Bradbury firmly believed that his Fahrenheit 451 was fundamentally and primarily about the danger of the Television to society and how its enabling of passive enjoyment would destroy us through alienation. He used to get booed off stages by people who loved the book because that may have been what he meant but it isn't remotely what the extreme majority of readers got out of it.

Bradbury wasn't misleading the audience. He wanted them to hate and turn away from TV. That was his intent. But the problem wasn't the lack of reading comprehension skills on the part of his audience. It was that he had made a quite different argument than he intended and he had constructed it so that TV was merely a side aspect of that point instead of taking center stage.

This is not an issue unique to Fahrenheit 451. In the end, meaning is necessarily a shared duty of Author and Audience. It is made out of what the Author puts in but it can only say what the Audience can read out of that. So if an Author's story constructs a meaning for the Audience different from the Author's intent, that's not the Audience's fault. That's the Author's failure to communicate their message in contrast with the accidental success of another communication that is also possible to derive from the text. An author gets authority over the text but is powerless to dictate what others think about it beyond that text. It's the same reason an author's demand that their story is good holds no water if nobody particularly likes it. It is the natural right of the Audience, as a mass, to determine the reaction to and interpretation of the text the Author has given them.

It can actually only be called "misleading" if it was the author's deliberate intention to mislead the audience. If the author had no intention to lead you to the wrong conclusion, and you simply arrived at one all by yourself, it's just sparkling Your Lack Of Reading Comprehension.

[captivating-flavors]

enough | sylus

pairing: sylus x non mc reader

prompt: -

summary: you wanted your love to be enough.

words: 1,399

warning(s): angst, mentions of death

a/n: inspired by rereading the limerence/carpe noctem series by @comatosebunny09 but i havent written anything in like 4-5 years so sorry if its bad :3

“Boss ran out hours ago and has been awol since.”

You knew exactly where he was the moment Luke called you almost an hour ago. You immediately grabbed your keys and sped over. The trip usually took you forty-five minutes but it was taking you longer today, since it was raining and the roads were slippery.

This was the second time this week and this was what he usually does around this time of the year anyway. Her birthday was coming up and this is what he always does within the weeks leading up to her birthday and after. It’s been two years since her death and you knew that he still blames himself for it.

“It’s my fault she’s gone. I couldn’t save her.”

You’d heard that line countless of times and every time you did the pain cuts through you just the same, but as time went on it became a different kind pain. At first, it was the pain of losing one of your close friends. But as your relationship with him progressed, it became the pain of knowing that you could never even come close to her in his eyes.

You first met Sylus when you were working as a bartender in one of the largest bars in the N109 Zone. You were being harassed and he was about to step in when he thought it was going to get out of hand, but you practically broke the guy’s arm in two places. He saw potential in you as a fighter and wanted to take you under his wing, as somewhat of a partner, someone who could act as a backup and accompany him to the dangerous meetings he frequents. So, he tried to recruit you.

“Sorry, but I’m perfectly content with my current job.” And that was the truth, it was the most well-paying job you had and the benefits were quite generous.

“I’m not asking you to quit your day job, sweetie. I’m simply offering you a… freelance gig, if you will. And don’t worry, I’ll train you and reward you handsomely for your assistance.”

That was how you first got entangled with him, five years ago. You thought that there was no harm in having a side gig, so you agreed to have him train you in his private gym three times a week until he deemed you ready for the missions, as he would often call them.

Somewhere along the way, between the missions, the training sessions and the banters, you found yourself slowly falling for him. The smiles, the flirting, the gifts and the heartwarming words he’d say to you every time you made an improvement during training or when you managed to finish the mission well, the attentiveness, who could ever not fall for that. You never said a word, of course, too scared to ruin the seemingly perfect partner dynamic you’ve got going on.

Two years into being his mission partner, you found yourself slowly getting replaced by her. She was better than you as a mission partner, even you had to admit that. She’s had her hunter training and her evol, there was nothing you could do to ever match up to that.

You’d still hung around the base a lot, and he’d still have you help with menial things here and there, but every time there was a mission he would always take her instead. Every time you went to the base, she was always there. Due to that, you got to know her. She was so bright, bubbly and smart that you instantly felt drawn to her. The two of you became even closer upon knowing that both of your families had been lost to unsolved explosive accidents.

But being around the base a lot also made you aware of other things, like the way he would stare at her with those eyes every time she talks animatedly about something that happened during work. The way he would gently smile and kiss her head every time she falls asleep on the couch, before carrying her to his bedroom.

Even though you knew him first, it hurt to see that she was the one able to evoke such gentle, tender, loving side out of him. But he seemed happier with her, and there was nothing you could do about it. You knew your place, so you backed out, created space, found other things to work on to keep yourself busy. You’d still come over and hung out with them and the twins, but just not as often.

A year into it, the two of them walked into an ambush. It was never supposed to be an easy one, but it wasn’t supposed to be hard either. The people of the N109 Zone were never above playing dirty and so they had a sniper five buildings away. The shot was meant for Sylus, but something went wrong on both parties’ calculations, and it ended up hitting her instead.

At first you only wanted to be there for him, comfort him. Do anything to make him feel better. You honestly never intended to get into bed with him, but you did. It hurt you to have him call you by her name as you did it but you’d do anything to help him. You stupidly thought that it could be a win-win solution, as you could make him feel better and also have him closer to you.

But deep down you knew. You knew you were only a placeholder for her. The both of you had similar hair, eye color and build. You knew the reason why he entangled himself with you was because you reminded him of her. Even though you knew, you still fell for it, digging the hole deeper for yourself. Like an idiot. You knew he couldn’t–wouldn’t–ever reciprocate your feelings, but you still genuinely cared for him. Hence, why you have been putting up with this for a year and a half.

You got out of the car and ran past the cemetery gates. You’ve traversed through these grounds countless of times, so the rain and darkness of the night was not an issue. You soon found him in the exact spot you knew he would be at. You stood in front of his sitting form, holding out the umbrella over him, looking down at him and it just breaks your heart knowing that he’s still in agony even after all these times and that there’s nothing you can do to help him ease his pain.

“Sylus.”

He had his back to the side of her tombstone, unmoving. He barely glanced at you.

“…”

“It’s raining. We should head back.”

“…”

“Come on, let’s get you in the car.” You said as you grabbed his arm, in an effort to pull him up and towards the car.

Surprisingly, today he silently complied, unlike when you also had to do this two days ago. The moment he was up and leaning over to you, you could clearly smell the alcohol on him.

‘No wonder he’s being compliant this time,’ You thought to yourself.

You walked the both of you towards the car and put him in the passenger’s seat before closing the door and moving over to the other side of the car, taking the driver’s seat. The both of you were drenched, so you grabbed the towels you’ve stashed on your backseat and handed one over to him with one hand, as you were drying your hair with the other.

“Here. You’ll catch a cold.” Seeing as he still wasn’t responding, you draped it over his head. He weakly raises his hand and starts to rub the towel over his wet head of hair.

“… I miss her.”

“I know. Me too, Sylus. Me too.”

You started the engine and drove straight to base. The drive went on without him saying anything else and the moment you guys arrived, you realized Sylus had fallen asleep, so you had Luke and Kieran help you get him to his room, where you changed him out of his wet clothes before tucking him in. You brushed a stray strand of hair away from his sleeping face and took a seat on the side of his bed, still caressing his soft head of hair.

“I love you, Sylus. I wish that was enough to help you.”

[reiding-writing]

i love ur writing sooo much, kicking my feet giggling as i reread your entire cold!reader masterlist

i think it'd be interesting to see some sexual tension between them 👁️👁️

THE CONVERSATION. — SPENCER REID!

after the hotel incident, you and spencer avoid the inevitable conversation until you can't anymore.

spencer reid x cold!reader | 2.4k | ?? | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — not really sexual tension, but definitely tension

The flight back to Quantico is suffocating.

Spencer sits across the aisle, book in hand, but you know he’s not really reading. His eyes flick over the words too slowly, the way they do when he’s using them as a shield rather than taking them in.

You don’t blame him. You’re doing the same thing—staring at the report in your lap, eyes skimming over the same paragraph for the fourth time, pretending you don’t notice the weight of his silence.

He’s quieter than usual. That alone is enough to unnerve you.

You should say something. A joke, maybe. Something dry and dismissive to shove things back into place, back into before. But your body betrays you, tense and unwilling to bridge the gap.

So you sit in it. The not-quite silence, the too-loud hum of the jet’s engines, the unspoken weight pressing into the space between you.

But things have changed.

It’s in the way he looks at you—just a second too long, like he’s cataloging every flicker of your expression, waiting for a signal he’s not sure will come.

It’s in the way you look at him, catching yourself watching the way his hands move when he flips through case files, when he tugs at his tie absentmindedly.

You hate it. The awareness, the sharp pull in your chest when he leans forward to adjust his bag and his knee barely brushes yours. The warmth that lingers too long. The way your own body responds before your mind can shut it down.

He doesn’t push. Of course he doesn’t.

Spencer is patient, careful in the way only he can be. He’s waiting—for you to say something, anything, to acknowledge what happened in that hotel room. But you don’t. You can’t. Because if you start, you don’t know where it ends.

And then there’s the team.

Emily teases, because of course she does. Some offhand remark about how you and Reid have been acting weird ever since the case wrapped up. JJ gives you quiet, knowing glances that make your stomach twist.

And Morgan—well. Morgan just smirks and says, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s something you two aren’t telling me,”

You brush it off. Pretend you don’t see the way Spencer stiffens beside you, or the way your face feels unnaturally warm.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

Except it isn’t, and you both know it.

There’s an awareness between you now. A charged undercurrent in every glance, every movement, every second you spend in the same room.

It starts small. The way you feel his presence before you even see him. The way his gaze lingers when he thinks you won’t notice. The way your body tenses when he gets too close—not in fear, but in anticipation, in something unspoken and unbearable.

So you do what you do best: you bury it.

Your tone stays sharp, clipped, practiced in its indifference. You keep the distance, keep the edge, because that’s easier than acknowledging the way his fingers linger when he passes you a case file. The way they brush against yours, fleeting but deliberate, like he’s testing the boundaries of whatever this thing is.

You pretend it doesn’t affect you.

But it does. It does.

He doesn’t push. Spencer never pushes. But you know he’s waiting.

Waiting for the moment you slip up. Waiting for you to let the mask crack, even just a little. Waiting for you to admit what he already knows—that you feel it, too.

And the worst part?

You almost want to.

The tension is worse when it’s just the two of you.

It sneaks in during the in-between moments—when the rest of the team is occupied, when there’s no buffer, no reason to pretend the air between you isn’t thick with something unspoken.

In the conference room, you hand him a report, your fingers brushing his for the briefest second. He inhales sharply, a quiet thing, barely audible over the rustle of paper, but you hear it. Like it’s the first breath he’s taken all day.

You ignore the way your own breath catches.

In the break room, you’re pouring sugar into your takeout coffee when he walks in. You don’t look at him, don’t acknowledge the way his presence shifts the entire atmosphere of the room. But you feel him. Standing just close enough to press at the edges of your space, just far enough to keep it appropriate.

When he speaks, his voice is softer. Careful. “You should try decaf in the afternoons. Too much caffeine can increase cortisol levels, and you already don’t sleep enough,”

You roll your eyes, sip your coffee anyway. “Noted.”

It’s clipped, controlled. Everything about you is controlled.

But the silences are getting longer.

The pauses between words stretch too thin, stretched tight like a wire pulled to its limit. Every unspoken thought, every question neither of you dares to voice, hangs between you.

One day, something’s going to snap.

—

A week passes, and the tension becomes unbearable.

It’s everywhere. In the hallway, when you walk past each other just a little too close. In the team meetings, when your eyes meet across the table and neither of you look away. In the casual brushes of hands—when your fingers touch for a fraction of a second, a spark you both feel but don’t acknowledge. Every accidental touch lingers too long, and every word is too charged with meaning, too heavy with what’s unspoken.

You hate it. You hate how easily you fall into this strange, uncharted territory with him, how you can't seem to escape the gravity of what happened. And yet, every time you think you’ll address it, every time the words almost slip out, something pulls you back into the silence.

It’s late, way past normal office hours. The rest of the team has long gone home, but you’re still here, hunched over case files with Spencer.

There’s a strange, muted quiet to the space between you, and for once, it’s not just the weight of all the cases you’ve been working on. It’s the weight of this—the silence that surrounds you both, thick enough to choke.

Spencer doesn’t say anything for a long while. You’re both too immersed in the reports, in pretending to focus on the paperwork instead of whatever's hanging between you. But then he puts the file down, leans back in his chair, and the words come, simple and deliberate.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?”

It’s quiet. Too quiet. And the air in the room shifts. You freeze for a moment, caught off guard. Your mind instantly races to shut it all down, to run from the conversation you’ve been avoiding for days.

You open your mouth, prepared to deflect, to push it all back into the vault of things you don’t talk about. But then you meet his gaze.

His eyes are earnest, softer than you’ve ever seen them. There’s hope in them, and maybe something else—something fragile, something vulnerable. He’s not pushing you, not demanding anything. Just waiting.

And suddenly, you realise that you don’t want to run anymore.

You feel it in your chest, that sharp pang of wanting to bridge the gap between you, to close the distance that’s grown between you both over the past week. Maybe you don’t have the right words. Maybe you never will. But for once, you’re not afraid to try.

You swallow hard and finally speak, your voice quieter than usual, rough with the weight of everything unspoken.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Let’s talk.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick with everything you’ve been holding back. And then—something shifts. The air between you crackles. You both lean in slightly, but neither of you makes a move. Not yet.

And then, without another word, Spencer stands, stepping toward you with that same quiet intensity. It’s a move you didn’t expect, and for a moment, you freeze. But then he’s closer, his breath warm against your skin, and you realize that he’s waiting for you.

Your heart races, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let him close the distance, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

The kiss is slow. Tentative at first, like both of you are afraid to shatter the fragile moment. But it deepens quickly, and it’s everything—everything you’ve been feeling without knowing how to express it. His lips are gentle but insistent, a soft pressure against yours that makes your pulse spike.

You kiss him like it’s the only thing that matters, because in this moment, it is.

The kiss lingers in the air, charged and unresolved, as you both pull back just enough to catch your breath. You’re still close, too close, your faces a breath away from each other, and the space between you hums with something different. Something new.

You break the silence first, your voice tinged with that familiar edge of sarcasm that you use to shield yourself. “That’s not exactly us talking.”

Spencer freezes for a moment, his expression shifting from confusion to a slight grimace. He knows you’re not exactly serious about it, that the tone you’ve carried throughout the whole exchange has been more about self-preservation than actual disappointment.

But the weight of it still settles on his shoulders, and he winces at the mild reprimand, even though he understands it’s more a defence mechanism than anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters quickly, the apology falling out of him without hesitation. His eyes are a little wider than usual, like he’s bracing for something more, but he also knows it’s not really warranted. You’re not angry with him. You never were.

But the words are enough to make you exhale sharply, and you roll your eyes as you shift back slightly, breaking the proximity just enough for your mind to catch up with everything that’s just happened.

You study him for a moment, watching how his hands twitch slightly at his sides like he’s trying to keep himself together. His eyes are wide, darting between yours, looking for some kind of confirmation.

“I like kissing you… sorry—” he blurts, his voice cracking slightly as the words tumble out in a rush, and then he keeps talking, his words pouring out like he’s finally letting go of the tight grip he’s been holding on everything.

“I’ve wanted to for so long, but I was scared that you wouldn’t be into it. I mean, I’ve seen how you act with me, and I get it, I do, I just—” He stumbles over his own thoughts. “I didn’t want to ruin things between us. You’re—well, you’re you, and I’m me, and I didn’t know if you’d even want that, you know?”

You blink at him, trying to process the flood of words, and for a moment, it’s overwhelming. He’s still standing too close, so you take a step back, crossing your arms defensively as you try to steady yourself.

“Spencer,” you start, your voice gentle but firm, “you need to breathe.”

His eyes flicker at your words, and you see the immediate tension in his face relax a fraction, but only a fraction.

“Listen,” you continue, your voice steady now as you push past the weight of the awkwardness. “I’m not exactly a romantic person, okay?” You can feel the vulnerability creeping in, but you don’t let it overwhelm you.

“I don’t—” You sigh frustratedly. “I don’t know how to do this, or what I’m supposed to say, but… I don’t want you to think I’m rejecting you. I just— I need to know where we’re going with this. And I need to know what you want.”

Spencer opens his mouth to say something but falters, clearly still unsure of how to navigate this strange, new territory with you. You take a deep breath, feeling the space between you growing thicker with every second.

“I need you to be straightforward, Spencer,” you say, softer now. “Just— tell me what you want from this,”

For a moment, Spencer just stands there, eyes fixed on you, as though trying to read between the lines of what you’ve said. And then, finally, his shoulders relax as he nods.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he says quietly, his voice earnest, “but I do want this. And I want you to know that, even if I’m nervous and all over the place, I’m not trying to make things difficult. I just want to— be with you. If that’s something you’re open to.”

You chew on his words for a moment, and the weight of them hits you all at once. He’s not asking for anything more than what you’re willing to give, and he’s not rushing you, either. The idea of having someone like Spencer—someone who isn’t expecting perfection from you, who’s patient enough to understand your walls—feels almost… safe.

You take a deep breath.

“I’m not good at this. But I don’t want to screw it up either.” You step forward a little, trying to meet him halfway. “I can’t promise all the right words or the grand romantic gestures, but if you’re okay with that…” You pause, meeting his gaze squarely. “I’m willing to try.”

Spencer exhales slowly, his eyes lighting up just slightly, the weight of relief crossing his face. He doesn’t move closer, but the air between you feels a little less tight, a little less heavy.

“That’s good enough for me,”

The words settle between you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no tension—just the quiet understanding of what comes next.

[hwallazia]

hi idk if you taking requests but if you are, heres my idea.

nerdy hongjoong chosen to do 7 minutes in heaven with you. imagine making out with him and you get whiny and moaning BUT he’s just the same as you! he’s whining and hands all over you. with his lil glasses and his hair gets messy from you tugging on his hair 😩

i love your writing and i think you’ll do great with this! looking forward to it if you decide to write this byeeeeeeee

7 MINUTES IN HELL HEAVEN – 김홍중

⋆ synopsis. being dared to do 7 minutes in heaven with the nerd wasn’t as bad as you thought.

pairing. nerdy! hongjoong & fem! reader.

wc. 1,8k

warnings. veeeery suggestive (mdni!), dry humping, making out, desperation at its peak, so much whining, implied virgin! hongjoong, reader calls joong “nerdy”, teasing, reader’s on top of hongjoong but they don’t fuck, getting caught (not fucking but in a compromising position hehe), possessive reader tehee, mention of other ateez’s members, 

nic’s notes ⋆ writing this was a ride 😮‍💨 happy belated vday, lovelies <3 also, hope u like it, dear anonnie !!

how the fuck did you end up here?

a nerd whose name was irrelevant to you, sitting next to you in a king-sized bed, chosen to do 7 minutes in heaven with you. 

you could feel the way his eyes peered holes into the back of your head as you covered your face with your palms, still unable to face reality. he fidgeted his fingers against the fabric of his fancy pants, adjusting his black glasses every now and then; heart almost beating out of his poor chest. 

you sighed, fingers holding the bridge of your nose, before turning abruptly to stare at him. his body jolted slightly in reaction. “do you even know how to kiss?”

his eyes opened wide in shock, taken aback by your sudden question. “huh?” was all he could mutter.

you groaned as you rolled your eyes, a mix of boredom and annoyance bubbling deep inside your guts. “oh my god,” you whispered under your breath, closing your eyes in denial. “you know how this game works, right?”

a soft flush of red brightened his cheeks. “i do,” he breathed, “it just seems quite inappropriate to me.”

amusement laced your tone. “inappropriate? ha! you’re a virgin, aren’t ya?” your words sounded more like a sentence than a question. 

the blush on his face grew stronger, heating his face. nervously, he blabbered. “hah?! w—why would i share that kind of information with you?!”

you chuckled at him. “yeah, you are.”

he looked at you as if you had hurt his pride as a man. so, he talked back in a poor attempt to defend himself. “no, i’m not!”

you quickly dismissed his whines, waving your hand at him uninterestedly. “yeah yeah, whatever you say, nerdy.” 

the nickname caught him off guard, confusion written all over his face; head tilted to the side. “nerdy?” 

you ignored him and got up, clapping your hands together. you stood up in front of his figure, who seemed to refuse to move from his place. you could see how his fingers had stopped grasping the fabric of his pants, shifting instead to the softness of the bed’s blankets. “okay! listen, i don’t know about you, but i’m not planning on staying here doing nothing.” you continued. “so, i’ll be your teacher today.”

you leaned forward, closer to him. “teacher?” he muttered, unsure if he could still breathe if he kept holding eye contact with you. 

“that’s right.” you rested your hands on his thighs, using them as support. “so, what’s your name, nerdy?”

“hongjoong.” he stuttered, fluttered by your closeness. he did his best to avoid looking down at your chest, fighting the urge to glance at the curve of your breasts, his focus straining to stay on your face. 

“hongjoong…” you hummed softly, slightly tilting your head. his name rolled off your tongue dangerously, almost as if you were savoring it. “pretty.”

when he said his name, you couldn’t help but analyze his face, dark irises scanning his flustered self with a huge focus. you frowned your brows softly when you realized: “he’s actually not so ugly you know…”

you nodded approvingly as you leaned even closer, your breasts now touching his own chest; lips only a few inches apart. a rush of excitement and nervousness flowed through his limbs, reddening his ears. “i’m yn.”

hongjoong whispered right on your lips. “i know.”

you chuckled, velvety tone laced with tease. “you’ve kept an eye on me for a while, hm?”

he realized he had given himself away too late. he was about to start rambling again. “i—“

his mind was desperately trying to look for an excuse, a way out of the moment of embarrassment he had put himself in; anxiety rushing through his blood. but before he could even utter a word, you smashed your lips against his, a mix of roughness and desperation coursing through you both. you didn’t waste any time before pushing your tongue into his mouth, and he hummed softly, happily accepting it. 

you leaned forward, pushing hongjoong over his back until his back was laid flat against the mattress. you didn’t break in any moment the kiss as you straddled his lap, pressing your clothed sex against his crotch. 

your hair covered his reddened face and his scrunched eyes, he was immersed in that kiss, deeply intoxicated by your aura, scent and taste. your tongue laced with his just felt right, and it awakened something deep within him. something he never experienced before. something he couldn’t quite define. 

you both were caught up in the heat of the moment, in your own world, until a voice was heard from the other side of the door, making you pull away, a string of saliva hanging from your lips and keeping you connected.

“mingi, the timer, man!” you could recognize wooyoung’s voice.

a faint “oh fuck i forgot” barely reached your eardrum. the loud boo of the whole group almost made you laugh. mingi started whining about being human and how humans make mistakes.“poor mingi” you whispered to yourself.

“y’all, mingi forgot to start the timer!” yunho started talking loud enough for the both of you to hear. “so time’s starts running from…” he paused briefly. “now!”

you turned to face hongjoong, locking gazes with him. he looked so helplessly cute under you, such a blushing mess. “lucky us, then. we got plenty of time.”

you leaned closer, grabbing his face and pulling him to you, forcing him to sit up straight whilst joining your lips together again. your fingers stroked his cheeks affectionately, slightly tilting his glasses to the side. you dominated the kiss since he wasn’t quite sure what to do, what to touch, what to feel. his hands stayed by the sides of his body, holding the sheets beneath him in a white-knuckled grip. 

your eyes remained closed as you tried to fully immerse yourself in the kiss. but with no touch from him, the lack of contact was beginning to feel both dull and unbearable. taking matters into your own hands, you broke the kiss for a brief moment just to whisper. “touch me.” you grabbed his wrists and guided them to the sides of your body, slowly trailing them to your lower back, brushing your ass. “wherever and however you want.”

with that, you dived in for another kiss, now feeling hongjoong’s hands caressing the places that your guidance allowed him to go, still a bit shy to go further. you started to get impatient, desperate. you sunk your hips down him and started swaying back and forth, trying to create some friction. the slow, rhythmic roll of your hips effortlessly coaxed moans and whines from hongjoong’s swollen lips. 

your tongues met in a heated clash, pressing, twisting, and tangling in a slow, intoxicating dance. you tried to match hongjoong’s sloppy pace, but it left you breathless, panting for air. “haa.. hongjoong— wait.”

“can’t,” was all he said before pressing his hands against your back and neck and pulling you to him, locking lips again.

but this time was different. this time hongjoong had gained enough confidence and built enough courage to start roaming his hands all over your covered back and trailing them down to your ass, playing and groping your buttocks. this time hongjoong was the one to insert his tongue into your oral cavity first. his kissing was still sloppy and unrefined, but it somehow stirred something deep in you, deep down. 

a familiar fluid started to pool down your panties, euphoric arousal coursing through your limbs, prickling your skin. your hands instinctively glided to his hair and started tugging it, your fingers laced with some locks of his fluffy hair. your panting and desperate state made hongjoong feel things he just wasn’t okay with, things that drove him up a wall. his clothed sex started to wake up, poking his pants and rising its fabric, creating a tent. his now hardened bulge tapped against your wet entrance insistently. you moaned at the feeling whilst hongjoong was doing his best to keep his whines at a low volume. spoiler: he couldn’t.

he’s a panting mess beneath you, eyes almost rolling back to his skull at the sensation, the satisfaction. the lenses of his glasses are now fogged up, the mist clouding his vision as his breath hitched in the heated air.

he exhaled. “fuck you’re too much.”

“am i?” you smirked teasingly, drowned in his expression, his state. his face was flushed from all the situation, his lips were swollen from all the kissing, his hair was messy from your fingers tugging it. and a sudden sensation of possessiveness washed over you.

your mind just couldn’t help but repeat like a mantra the word “mine”.

you were about to dive into a heated kiss again, start the kiss that’d be marked by that thought, the kiss that’d make hongjoong yours.

but just when you were about to do so, to claim the guy, the door bursted open.

wooyoung and jongho chimed in. “time’s uppp!” wooyoung blubbered, completely wasted and drunk. he stared at you and analyzed everything: the position, the ambience, the smell that lingered in the air. “oh my god, you were about to fuck.” he stated the obvious.

jongho sighed, grabbing his friend by his shoulders. “he’s drunk if y’all can’t tell.” he cleared up. “but yeah, time’s up. so get out of here and join us.” he announced before disappearing through the door. 

when the door clicked shut, you and hongjoong sighed loudly in unison and proceeded to laugh at the unintentional match, genuine smiles drawn on your faces. 

“i guess this is it then?” hongjoong spoke.

“what do you mean this is it, idiot.” you deadpanned, pulling yourself off his lap. as you brushed your hair with your fingers, trying to better it up, you continued. “you and i got unfinished business, sir.”

you winked at him before leaning in and pecking his lips. “you ain’t getting rid of me that easily.” you shared one final, brief kiss and pulled away. 

you chuckled softly before making your way towards the door, naturally bringing out your usual self when you met everyone again. “ayooo!” you hollered, being greeted by your euphoric and drunk friends as you closed the door behind you, leaving a poor flustered hongjoong sitting on the edge of the bed with an unbearable hard-on and his smart brain turned into mush.

days later, hongjoong was in the middle of a study session in the university’s library, head almost inside the philosophy book he was reading. 

suddenly, his phone vibrated against the desk, the dull brrr catching him off guard. he picked it and lit up its screen. a message from an unknown number popped up as the latest notification. his fingers swiped the screen and unlocked it, now able to read the text.

come over to my place tonight. there’s still some unfinished business we need to handle, nerdy.

a lustful glint sparkled in his eyes, and a devilish smirk curved up his lips.

everything about tonight promised to be dangerous, and neither of you was going to back down.

| masterlist

[the-oblivious-writer]

Let the Light In |9|

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Chapter Nine: Struck by Cupid's Knife

Summary: After working up the courage, Tara asks you to spend Cupid’s birthday with her, but neither of you could have predicted the results.

Warning(s): Swearing (I think), arguing, Tara wearing The Skirt™️, innuendos, miscommunication/shit communication and mentions of masochism.

Notes: Reader’s a thirsty son of a bitch.

Masterlist|Previous Part|Next Part

You're sprawled on Tara's couch, one hand absently scratching behind Dookie's ears while the other reaches for your water. The cat purrs contentedly in your lap, a rare sight according to literally everyone who's ever met the notoriously selective feline. On screen, Leatherface is doing what Leatherface does best – terrorizing unsuspecting teenagers with questionable decision-making skills.

"You know," you muse, "for someone who claims to hate slashers, you sure own a lot of them."

Tara throws chips at your head. It misses spectacularly and lands on Dookie, who gives her the most withering look a cat can muster. "I never said I hate slashers. I said modern slashers lack the psychological complexity of—"

"—of 'Prom Night,' yes, we've all heard the dissertation," you interrupt, earning yourself another chip projectile. This one actually hits its mark. "Which, by the way, is absolutely not better than 'Sleepaway Camp.'"

"Oh my god, are you seriously starting this again?" Tara pauses the movie, turning to face you fully. "Angela Baker is iconic, sure, but—"

"But nothing! The psychological implications alone—"

"The psychological implications of a movie that ends with—"

You both start talking over each other, your voices rising with practiced familiarity of an argument you've had dozens of times before. Dookie lifts his head to watch the verbal tennis match, tail twitching with mild interest.

"Okay, okay," Tara finally concedes, though her tone suggests this is far from over. "We can agree to disagree. For now. But only because I'm starving and we still haven't decided on dinner."

"Indian?" you suggest innocently, already knowing the response you'll get.

Her eyes narrow. "You know damn well what happened last time."

"You mean when you insisted you could handle the spice level and then spent three hours complaining about heartburn?"

"I did not complain for three hours."

"You literally texted me at 3 AM to tell me your esophagus was staging a coup."

She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Fine! What's your brilliant suggestion then?"

You pretend to think about it, even though you both know exactly where this is heading. "Well, there's this place I know. Makes great burgers, killer onion rings, milkshakes that'll change your life…"

"You mean the same place we always go?"

"If it ain't broke, princess."

The nickname slips out before you can catch it, an old habit you can't seem to shake. Tara's expression does something complicated – a mix of annoyance, fondness, and something else you're not quite ready to analyze.

"Speaking of things that aren't broken," she starts, then stops, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "There's this Valentine's party next week…"

You focus very intently on Dookie's fur, suddenly finding the pattern fascinating. "Oh yeah? Sounds fun."

"Yeah, it's at Chad's place. You could… I mean, if you wanted…" She trails off, then quickly adds, "But you probably have plans."

"Actually," you say, still not looking up, "I was just gonna stay in. The new season of 'Yellowjackets' dropped and—"

"Oh." There's something in her voice that makes you finally look up. "That… that sounds good too."

A moment passes, filled only by the sound of Dookie's purring and the paused image of Leatherface on the TV.

"You could join," you offer, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. "If you wanted. Instead of the party."

Tara's face brightens for a split second before she schools it into careful neutrality. "What happened to your sacred solo binge-watching ritual?"

"Well, Dookie's already broken that rule," you gesture to the cat who's now fully asleep in your lap. "Besides, someone needs to be there to judge my commentary."

"Your commentary definitely needs supervision," she agrees, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "But what about Chad's party? You sure you don't want to…" she waves her hand vaguely.

You raise an eyebrow. "Want to what?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. "Just… you know. Meet people. Or whatever."

"Careful, Carpenter. That almost sounded like jealousy."

"You wish," she scoffs, but there's a faint blush creeping up her neck. "I just don't want you blaming me when you miss out on finding your soulmate at a frat party."

"Right, because nothing says true love like keg stands and questionable punch."

She throws more chips at you, but she's smiling now. "Shut up and watch the movie, dork."

You press play, and Leatherface resumes his rampage. But you can't help noticing how Tara seems more relaxed now, how she's shifted slightly closer on the couch. Dookie stretches in your lap, completely unbothered by the chainsaw sounds from the TV, and you think maybe this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

Even if Tara is completely wrong about "Prom Night.

—

Valentine's Day arrives with all the subtlety of a horror movie jump scare. You're pacing your apartment, pretending you haven't spent the last hour deciding what to wear for what's supposedly just another movie night. Dookie, who somehow managed to sneak into your place during Tara's last visit and never left, watches you with judgmental eyes from his perch on your bookshelf.

"Don't give me that look," you mutter, adjusting your shirt for the hundredth time. "This is completely normal behavior."

Dookie blinks slowly, unconvinced.

Your phone buzzes with a text, and you definitely don't lunge for it like a teenager waiting for their crush to call.

Tara (6:45 PM): omw Tara (6:45 PM): with snacks Tara (6:46 PM): and NO you cannot veto my candy choices this time

You smile despite yourself, typing back a quick response.

Dork (6:46 PM): If you brought those weird swedish fish again, we're going to have words

When the knock finally comes, you open the door to find Tara wearing a skirt that makes your brain short-circuit. It's not even particularly revealing – just a simple black pleated number that hits just above her knees – but something about the way it moves when she walks past you makes your mouth go dry.

"Earth to Y/N," Tara waves a hand in front of your face. "You gonna let me in or just stand there having a stroke?"

You snap out of it, closing the door perhaps a bit too quickly. "Sorry, just… wondering if I should be concerned about what's in that suspiciously large grocery bag."

"Liar," she smirks, dropping said bag on your coffee table. "But I'll let it slide because I'm feeling generous."

Meanwhile, in a group chat you're blissfully unaware of:

CORE 4 & CO.

Mindy: TARA CARPENTER Mindy: YOU DID NOT JUST LEAVE THE HOUSE IN THAT SKIRT Mindy: TO GO WATCH TV Mindy: WITH YOUR “NEMESIS”

Sammy: Let her live, Mindy

Chad: anyone else find it sus that they're both skipping the party? 👀

Mindy: "skipping the party to watch yellowjackets" sure jan

Tara: i can see these messages you know

Mindy: EXACTLY Mindy: WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING

Chad: yeah wearing The Skirt™️

Tara: it's just a skirt omg Tara: and don't you all have better things to do??

Mindy: than watch you attempt to seduce your nemesis? Mindy: absolutely not

Sammy: I'm turning off notifications Sammy: have fun sis Sammy: and remember to text me if you end up staying the night

Tara: SAM

Back in your apartment, you're trying very hard to focus on setting up the TV and not on how Tara's legs look when she's curled up on your couch. It's just a skirt. You've seen skirts before. This should not be affecting you like this.

"You know," Tara's voice breaks through your internal crisis, "for someone who was so excited about this show, you're spending a lot of time staring at everything but the screen."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but she cuts you off with a knowing look.

"The remote's upside down."

You look down. The remote is, indeed, upside down in your hands. "I'm trying a new technique," you deadpan, refusing to acknowledge the heat creeping up your neck.

"Uh-huh." She shifts on the couch, the movement causing her skirt to—nope, you're not looking. You're absolutely not looking. "You know, we could still go to Chad's party if you're having second thoughts."

There's something in her tone – a careful casualness that doesn't quite mask the uncertainty underneath. You finally look at her properly, taking in the way she's trying to appear nonchalant while picking at a loose thread on your couch cushion.

"And miss the chance to prove how superior 'Sleepaway Camp' is to your precious 'Prom Night'? Not a chance, Carpenter."

The relief that flashes across her face is brief but unmistakable. "Oh my god, you're still on that? You know what, just for that, I'm eating all the good candy."

"Bold of you to assume any of your candy choices qualify as 'good.'"

She throws a Swedish Fish at your head. You catch it with your mouth, surprising both of you.

"…Okay, that was actually impressive," she admits.

"I have hidden depths," you say solemnly, finally settling onto the couch beside her. "Now shut up and watch the show. I have theories about Lottie that will blow your mind."

As the opening credits roll, you're hyper-aware of every inch of space between you, of how her skirt brushes against your leg when she reaches for the snacks, of how this feels simultaneously like nothing and everything has changed.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket – probably Henry asking how your "not-date" is going – but you ignore it. Right now, all that matters is this moment: Tara's commentary about the show's color grading, the way she unconsciously leans into you during the tenser scenes, and how maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you both want to be.

The thing about watching TV with Tara Carpenter is that she can't sit still to save her life. She's constantly shifting, readjusting, finding new ways to accidentally-but-maybe-not-accidentally end up closer to you. It's maddening in the best possible way.

"That's not how decomposition works," she critiques, reaching across you for the popcorn. Her skirt rides up slightly with the movement, and you suddenly find the ceiling fascinating. "The timeline is completely unrealistic."

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was sitting next to a forensics expert," you quip, trying to ignore how she hasn't fully moved back to her original position. "Please, enlighten us with your extensive knowledge of body disposal."

She turns to face you, and you immediately regret your life choices because now she's even closer, her eyes sparkling with that dangerous mix of challenge and amusement that always spells trouble.

"Well, considering the ambient temperature and soil composition—"

"Is this the part where I should be concerned about your search history?"

"Please," she scoffs, but there's a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Like yours is any better, Miss 'I-need-to-research-medieval-torture-devices-for-academic-purposes.'"

"That was one time!"

"The FBI agent watching your browser history probably needs therapy."

You're about to retort when she shifts again, and suddenly her leg is pressed against yours. All coherent thoughts evacuate your brain without so much as a goodbye note.

"You okay there?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that suggests she knows exactly what she's doing. "You seem a little… distracted."

Two can play at this game.

"Just thinking about proper body disposal techniques," you say innocently, stretching your arm across the back of the couch. Not quite around her shoulders, but the implication is there. "You know, for academic purposes."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that your way of threatening to murder me? Because I've got to say, your technique needs work."

"If I was going to murder you, Carpenter, you'd never see it coming."

"Promises, promises."

The air between you crackles with something that definitely isn't just friendly banter anymore. On screen, someone is probably being dramatically eviscerated, but you couldn't care less because Tara is looking at you with that half-smile that makes your stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics.

Your phone buzzes again, breaking the moment. This time, it's a series of texts from Henry:

Henry (8:15 PM): so how's the not-date going?? Henry (8:15 PM): has anyone been murdered yet Henry (8:16 PM): either literally or metaphorically Henry (8:16 PM): also tony says hi and wants to know if you've kissed her yet

"Something important?" Tara asks, and you quickly lock your phone before she can see the messages.

"Just Henry being Henry," you say, silently plotting your best friend's demise. "Probably asking if we've murdered each other yet."

"Night's still young," she shrugs, but she's still got that look in her eyes that makes you want to either kiss her or start an argument about horror movie tropes. Possibly both.

"Speaking of murder," you say instead, because you're a master of deflection, "want to hear my theory about why 'Sleepaway Camp' is actually a groundbreaking commentary on—"

She groans, throwing her head back dramatically. "Oh my god, you're actually the worst."

"That's not what you said when I brought you soup when you caught the flu."

"That was before I knew you'd use it as ammunition in your endless crusade against good taste in movies."

"Bold words from someone wearing a skirt that's clearly meant to be a distraction from your terrible opinions."

The words are out before your brain can stop them. Tara goes very still, and for a moment you think you've miscalculated spectacularly. But then she looks at you with an expression that's somewhere between amusement and challenge.

"Is it working?"

Your mouth goes dry. "What?"

"The distraction," she says, and you swear she moves even closer. "Is it working?"

You're saved from having to answer by Dookie, who chooses this exact moment to jump between you, apparently deciding he's been ignored for far too long. The cat gives you both a look that clearly says "I've had enough of your nonsense."

"Traitor," you mutter to the cat, who responds by making himself comfortable across both your laps, effectively creating a furry barrier between you and Tara.

Tara laughs, scratching behind Dookie's ears. "My hero," she coos to the cat. "Saving me from another lecture about Angela Baker's psychological complexity."

"You're both against me," you declare dramatically. "I'm being ganged up on in my own home."

"Cry about it," she suggests sweetly, but she's leaning against your shoulder now, and Dookie is purring, and maybe being ganged up on isn't the worst thing in the world.

—

"I cannot believe you're still defending this," you say, watching in horror as Tara drowns her mac and cheese in a truly concerning amount of hot sauce. "This is actually painful to witness."

"You're being dramatic," she retorts, adding what appears to be her entire body weight in ketchup to the already crime-scene-worthy pasta. "Some of us actually like flavor."

"Flavor? That's—" you're interrupted by the doorbell, which is probably for the best because you were about to launch into a dissertation about the difference between flavor and masochism.

"I'll get it," Tara says, but you're already standing up.

"Absolutely not. I've seen enough horror movies to know the cute girl who answers the door always dies first."

The word 'cute' slips out before you can catch it, and you practically sprint to the door to avoid seeing her reaction. This proves to be a tactical error when you open it to find possibly the most conventionally attractive pizza delivery guy you've ever seen, complete with the kind of jawline that belongs on a CW show.

"Hey," he says, then looks past you to where Tara has appeared behind your shoulder. His entire demeanor shifts, voice dropping an octave. "Hey."

You resist the urge to close the door in his face.

"That'll be twenty-four fifty," he says to Tara, completely ignoring your existence. "Though I could make it free if you'd let me take you out sometime."

Something hot and uncomfortable coils in your stomach. You reach for your wallet, but Tara beats you to it, pulling out cash from her pocket.

"Here's thirty," she says, a slight flush creeping up her neck. "Keep the change."

"You sure I can't convince you?" He flashes a smile that probably works wonders at frat parties. "I make a mean pasta. No ketchup required."

Your head snaps up at that. He must have overheard your earlier conversation, which means he's been standing here long enough to eavesdrop, which means—

"She likes her pasta exactly how she likes it," you say, perhaps a bit sharper than necessary, taking the pizza from his hands. "Thanks for the delivery."

You close the door before he can respond, turning to find Tara looking at you with an expression that makes your heart do something complicated in your chest. The flush on her neck has spread to her cheeks.

"So," she says, voice carefully neutral but eyes dancing with something that looks suspiciously like amusement. "No ketchup required, huh?"

"Don't start," you mutter, carrying the pizza to the kitchen. "And don't even think about putting hot sauce on this. I saw you wincing earlier from your mac and cheese."

"My tongue is fine," she protests, following you. "Besides, maybe I like the burn."

"Your masochistic tendencies are concerning, Carpenter."

She hops up onto your counter, legs swinging slightly in that stupid perfect skirt. "Says the person who just went full guard dog on the pizza guy."

"I did not—" you start, then catch the look on her face. "I was just… concerned about food temperature maintenance."

"Uh-huh." She's full-on grinning now, cheeks still tinged pink. "And I suppose the death glare was just about proper pizza handling protocols?"

"You know what?" You grab a slice, pointedly avoiding her gaze. "I preferred it when you were defending your crimes against pasta."

"Speaking of which…" She reaches for the bottle of hot sauce she apparently manifested from thin air.

"Absolutely not." You snatch it away, holding it above your head. "I'm not listening to you complain about tongue burn all night again."

"Bold of you to assume I need your permission," she says, sliding off the counter and stepping closer. Much closer. Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

Your breath catches. She reaches up, ostensibly for the hot sauce, but her hand lands on your wrist instead. Neither of you moves.

"Tara," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Your mac and cheese is getting cold."

She laughs, the sound soft and close, and you think maybe this is better than any Valentine's party could ever be. Even if she is completely wrong about pasta condiments.

"You're impossible," she says, but she's smiling, and she hasn't moved away, and maybe—

Dookie chooses this exact moment to knock over the entire box of pizza.

"Traitor," you both say in unison, then look at each other and burst out laughing.

The moment breaks, but something else settles in its place – something warm and comfortable and maybe a little bit inevitable. Like the way Tara's hand is still on your wrist, or how she's looking at you with that half-smile that makes your heart skip beats.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up with a notification. Tara glances at it reflexively, and something in her expression shifts – subtle enough that someone who doesn't know her as well as you do might miss it, but you've spent months cataloging her micro-expressions during horror movie marathons.

"Charlotte?" she says, and there's something in her voice that makes your stomach drop. "Didn't realize you two were still talking."

You reach for your phone, but Tara's already turning away, suddenly very interested in reorganizing the scattered pizza toppings on her plate. "It's not—"

"No, it's fine," she cuts you off, but her shoulders are tense in that way they get when she's trying too hard to seem casual. "I mean, obviously you can talk to whoever you want."

"Tara."

"I just thought after what happened at New Year's—"

"Nothing happened at New Year's," you say, perhaps a bit too quickly. "We just talked."

She lets out a laugh that doesn't sound like a laugh at all. "Right. Because that's totally why you disappeared for an hour and came back looking like—"

"Like what?" There's an edge to your voice now, the playful atmosphere from earlier evaporating like morning dew. "Come on, Carpenter. Say what you really mean."

She finally looks at you, and there's something raw in her expression that makes your chest ache. "Like you'd rather be anywhere else. With anyone else."

"That's not—" you start, but she's on a roll now.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have…" she trails off, pushing her plate away. "This was stupid. I should go."

"Are you seriously doing this right now?" You follow her as she starts gathering her things. "Over a text message you didn't even read?"

"This isn't about the text," she says, but she won't meet your eyes. "This is about you always having one foot out the door."

"Me?" You can't help the incredulous laugh that escapes. "That's rich coming from someone who can't even admit why she really skipped Chad's party tonight."

She freezes, one hand on her bag. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means." Your heart is pounding, words spilling out before you can stop them. "You're not the only one who's allowed to be scared, Tara."

The silence that follows is deafening. Even Dookie seems to be holding his breath, watching from his perch on the bookshelf with unblinking eyes.

"I'm not scared," she says finally, but her voice wavers slightly.

"No?" You step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. "Then why are you running?"

She looks up at you then, and there's something in her eyes that makes your breath catch – a mix of vulnerability and defiance that's so uniquely Tara it makes your heart hurt.

"Because you let her kiss you," she whispers, and the words hang in the air between you like smoke. "At New Year's. You let her kiss you, and then you came back and acted like nothing happened, and I—"

"She didn't kiss me," you interrupt softly. "I stopped her."

Tara blinks. "What?"

"She tried, yeah. But I stopped her." You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. "Because apparently I'm pathetically gone for someone who puts ketchup in her mac and cheese and thinks 'Prom Night' is better than 'Sleepaway Camp.'"

A beat passes. Then another. Tara's still holding her bag, but her grip has loosened.

"Pathetically?" she repeats, and there's a hint of something in her voice that might be hope.

"Absolutely tragic levels," you confirm, taking another step closer. "It's embarrassing, really. I can't even enjoy pizza delivery without getting jealous."

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That was pretty embarrassing."

"Says the person who wore The Skirt™️ to watch Yellowjackets."

She flushes, but she's not running anymore. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Tara," you say softly, "I notice everything about you. It's kind of the problem."

She looks at you for a long moment, then slowly sets her bag down. "You really stopped her?"

"Of course I did." You reach out, tentatively tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Some of us don't have terrible taste in everything."

She laughs, the sound watery but real. "Just in movies, right?"

"And pasta condiments," you agree, and when she smiles, it feels like coming home.

The moment stretches between you like taffy, sweet and fragile. Tara's looking at you with those eyes that always make you forget how to breathe properly, and you're close enough to count her freckles, to see the way her pulse flutters in her throat. Her hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with a certainty that makes your heart stutter.

You could kiss her. You should kiss her. Everything in you is screaming to close that final distance.

Instead, you step back.

The hurt that flashes across her face is gone so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

"I can't," you whisper, and the words taste like ash in your mouth. "Not like this."

"Like what?" Her voice is carefully neutral, but you can see her walls going up, brick by careful brick. "With me?"

"That's not—" You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. "You're upset about Charlotte, and the pizza guy, and—"

"Don't." She pulls her hand away, and the loss of contact feels like a physical ache. "Don't you dare try to explain away what just happened."

"I'm trying to protect—"

"Me?" She laughs, but it's a hollow sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "From what, exactly? From making my own decisions? From wanting something that apparently terrifies you?"

"That's not fair."

"No?" She takes a step back, and somehow that small distance feels like miles. "Then what is this, really? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you're the one with one foot out the door."

The words hit like a slap, echoing your earlier accusation back at you. "Tara—"

"You know what the worst part is?" She's gathering her things again, movements sharp and jerky. "For a second there, I actually thought… God, I'm such an idiot."

"You're not—"

"Save it." She's not looking at you anymore, focused intently on collecting her scattered belongings. "I get it, okay? You're not ready, or you're scared, or whatever excuse you want to use. But don't pretend this is about protecting me."

You want to stop her. Want to explain that you're terrified of ruining this, of losing her, of what happens when the Valentine's Day magic wears off and she realizes you're not worth all this trouble. Want to tell her that you've never been good at keeping the things you love.

Instead, you watch her shrug on her jacket, that stupid perfect skirt swishing with the movement.

"Tara, please—"

"I should go," she says, and her voice is steady even though her hands are shaking slightly. "Before I say something we'll both regret."

Dookie watches from his perch as she heads for the door, tail twitching like he's judging your life choices. You don't blame him.

She pauses at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob. For a moment, you think she might turn around, might give you another chance to fix this. But then her shoulders straighten, and you know what's coming before she says it.

"For the record?" Her voice is quiet but clear. "You're wrong. About everything"

The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than a slam would have. You stand there in the silence, surrounded by half-eaten pizza and the lingering scent of her perfume, thinking about all the ways hearts break in horror movies versus real life.

-------

A/N: I feel like a cartoon villain. It's nice.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Okay hear me out poly!bartylus x reader

Animagus reader who can turn into a niffler and is constantly giving barty her findings because reg would make her return them! They also exclusively wear silver because she likes gold shiny things lol

A Bored Barty

Bartylus x Reader

Summary: Barty is bored, alone in his dorm room- until his darling treasure brings him a treasure of her own.

WC: 1.1k

CW: Nothing really. Kisses used as weapons of war. Dont write for Regulus much so forgive me ( Art cred: kprk_pkrs on Twitter)

Barty was bored.

A dangerous thing, really.

He laid sprawled across his bed, one arm hanging off the side, tossing a small, silver knut into the air, catching it, then throwing it again. He had already read through all the interesting books in the dorm, bothered his least favorite housemate, and debated sneaking into Slughorn’s stash for a bit of fun. But even that felt like too much effort.

He sighed dramatically, letting his head loll to the side. The dorm was still, the air thick with the kind of midday lull that made his skin itch- drew you down to this unbearable tired. He needed something. A spark. A game. A bit of madness to wake his bones.

And then-

A soft, skittering sound at the doorway. Tiny claws against stone. A flicker of movement in the corner of his vision.

Barty turned his head sharply, and his entire mood shifted instantly the second he saw that familiar teal coat.

“Oh, there’s my girl,” He purred, pushing himself up on his elbows as you- small, sleek, and utterly adorable in your niffler form- scurried towards him with purpose. 

A purpose that gleamed between your paws.

Barty let out a delighted, wicked little laugh, eyes gleaming with manic glee as you proudly presented your newest prize- a golden ring, ornate and entirely not yours.

“Well, well, well,” He cooed, sitting up fully and reaching out to pluck it from your grasp. He examined it between his fingers, tilting his head as he recognized the engravings. “Now, this is entirely too big for you, innit?”

He grinned. You grinned (or, at least, you looked quite pleased with yourself). Preened? You preened.

Then- 

The door slammed open.

Barty didn’t even flinch. If anything, his day had just gotten much better.

Because there, standing in the doorway, looking half-feral and wholly pissed, was Regulus. 

Barty could kiss you for this. Truly, he could. And, in fact, he might.

Because what was better than both of his partners being in the same room? A pissed off Reg.

“You,” Regulus growled, storming forward, shoulders tense, hair slightly out of place like he had run here. “Tell me you did not let her steal from Avery of all people.”

Oh he just adored you.

Barty just tilted his head, considering. Then he smirked. “Define ‘let.’”

Regulus made an exasperated sound, reaching for the ring in Barty’s hand.

Barty, quick as a viper, yanked him down by the collar.

Regulus barely had time to blink before Barty’s mouth was on his, stealing away every single ounce of righteous anger in one swift, practiced move.

Regulus, like the absolute fool that he was, immediately squeezed his eyes shut. Barty always found it the cutest thing- Regulus unable to help himself. As natural as a moody cat flicking its tail, as a lion roars and as a cougar stalks- Regulus Black closed his eyes for kisses.

Barty smirked against his lips. Eying the cute way his nose scrunched up and he let out a sound close to a whine- protests he never truly meant. The adorable sight complete with him reaching for Barty’s pockets; already knowing what Barty was up to.

And somehow? His free hand still slipped the ring into his pocket without obstacle.

You, still perched on the bed, let out a soft hum of approval, tail flicking as you watched with an utterly smug sort of delight.

Barty deepened the kiss for just a moment- long enough to enjoy the soft, reluctant way Regulus gave in before he pulled back with a smirk.

“What was that you were saying, love?” He purred, tapping Regulus’s chin lightly with his fingers. “Something about our dear ol’ Avery?”

Regulus huffed, eyes fluttering open, already scowling as he reached for Barty’s pocket again. “Give. It. Back.”

Barty grinned. “Give what back?”

Regulus glared. “The ring, Barty.”

“The ring?” Barty echoed, feigning confusion. He patted his chest, then his sides, then even made a show of checking under the pillow. “Hm. Don’t seem to have it.”

“You-” Regulus cut himself off, jaw tightening. Then his sharp gaze flickered to you, still perched happily on the bed, tail flicking with amusement.

“And you,” he accused. “You know exactly what you did.”

You tilted your head, ears twitching, looking every bit the picture of innocent curiosity.

Barty’s grin only widened. “Oh, come on, Reg,” he drawled, fingers lazily tracing circles on Regulus’s waist where he still had him held close. “Look at that face- does that look like the face of a thief?”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to summon the patience of Merlin himself.

“Turn back,” Barty said suddenly, looking at you now, voice smug and expectant.

You blinked up at him.

“Go on, love,” he coaxed, a lilt of challenge in his tone. “Let’s see those totally empty pockets of yours, shall we?”

For a moment, you debated staying in your niffler form- safe, small, and easy to scamper away if things got sticky. Barty looked ready to bite- Regulus too. But both were looking at you like they already knew.

With a soft huff, you shifted back into your human form- warm magic rippling over your body as you transformed.

Barty let out a bark of delighted laughter the second he saw you.

Because, oh, you were full of it.

Your pockets bulged comically, weighed down with far too many treasures- little trinkets and stolen baubles pressing against the fabric, revealing shapes of coins, buttons, and Merlin knew what else.

Regulus made an outright wounded noise. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake-”

Barty grabbed your wrist and yanked you down into his lap, laughing as he did so. “You absolute menace,” he grinned, wrapping his arms around you tight. “Not a dull moment with you, hm?”

You wriggled slightly, but Barty just adjusted, pulling Regulus down with you in one smooth, easy move- trapping you both in his arms. Regulus made a sound of protest, but it was weak at best, his cheek pressed against your temple, caught between exasperation and reluctant affection.

Barty smirked against your hair. “Now,” he murmured, voice slow, teasing, “should we even bother to check her pockets? Or should we just accept the fact that our little niffler is a bloody menace and move on?”

Regulus groaned into your shoulder. “You both drive me mad.”

Barty just laughed, pleased as anything, nuzzling shamelessly against the two of you as you let out a small, smug hum of victory.

Because in a few hours, Regulus would make you empty your pockets and identify whose riches were whose. He’d likely scold you but give up half way through when he sees those pretty eyes of yours gloss.

He’d make you return them and Barty would be alone in his room again. Waiting.

But right now? 

He felt alright.

[crushoncaleb]

Be my valentine

Rafayel x reader

Fluff

1.4k words

You try to ask Rafayel to be your valentine. The keyword is try.

A/N. First time I have written something for a holiday or event and actually managed to post it in time! Basically, I couldn't sleep, and Rafayel possessed me. Hope y'all enjoy!

Is this...rejection?

You'd spent some time planning it, even bribed Thomas to get Rafayel the day off. But when you and Rafayel arrived at your usual spot at the beach. He didn't seem to take note of the seagulls at all.

The seagulls you had somehow managed to train into landing in the right order so the letters you stuck to them would ask him to be your valentine. Now, you'd be the first to admit, the whole plan was a little crazy, but with your and Rafayel's history and connection to the seagulls choir, you'd thought it would be cute.

If it had been any more subtle, you might've believed he genuinely missed it. But it's quite hard to believe someone like Rafayel would not see the literal seagull choir the two of you were here to visit. So naturally, you had to assume he was letting you down easy.

Even being let down easy hurt. It completely blindsided you. You were absolutely certain something had been brewing between you and the artist. Hell, last time you'd spent time with him after wearing new perfume, he'd spent about an hour shoving his face against you to breathe you in. You were SO certain that crossed the line of platonic.

You start questioning if perhaps you'd been reading social interactions wrong your entire life, as next to you, Rafayel starts getting antsy.

"Cutie, as much as the sky is beautiful today and I would love to spend time staring at it with you, we should go get lunch now. Thomas' endless texting has tired me out, and I'm huungry. " He speaks, his tone light and whiney as always, and for a second, you consider him world's greatest actor.

You decide that what you felt for Rafayel combined with the effort you'd put into this plan was worth the risk of heartbreak, so in a final effort to get him to acknowledge you, you speak up.

"Don't you want to see your trusty choir first? They're right there behind you. I'm sure they've missed their conductor." You're not sure if you manage to keep your tone quite as light and playful as intended, desperation tinging the edges of your words, but you've spoken them, now he HAS to respond.

A pause, anticipation clogs your veins, and you practically feel your blood pressure rising. "...there's a boat ride with a buffet that might be nice today, since the weather is so nice and all."

Your eyebrows raise, the casual tone of his voice so steady that you almost start questioning if you even did bring it up at all. But the quick look he takes at you and the way he turns away tells you he is definitely doing this on purpose.

It was truly rejection then, your stomach twists and a buffet and a boat ride with Rafayel suddenly sound daunting. You could get over rejection, but maybe not within 10 minutes.

"Hmm, that sounds nice but I'm actually starting to feel a little off," you muse on your excuse "I think I might head home a little earlier than planned today, Rafayel, rain check?"

He turns to face you now, slowly. Eyes wide and brows furrowed, expression reminiscent of that time you gave him a single apple when he checked himself into the hospital. A mix between shock, offense, and a silent command to change your mind.

He grabs your wrist and starts pulling you along. His expression changes in a heartbeat, and it's like you never said anything.

"They apparently have like a super long waiting list, but I got in pretty easily. Guess being well known does have its perks after all, huh?" He keeps talking in that same casual tone of his, which is starting to frustrate you to no end.

"Rafayel, I get that a rain check for the boat might not be easy if it's like that, but I really need to go home." You plead, trying to pull yourself out of his grip but he just turns to you, gives you that same expression that you're convinced only Rafayel can make properly, and then keeps going like you never opened your mouth.

You're baffled at his behavior, and by the time you recover, the two of you are making your way onto the boat.

"Now, I'm going to need you to stop looking so surprised, cutie." He reaches out to gently smooth his fingers over the muscles of your brows, which you will admit are a little tense from how you've had them raised the entire way here. "I need you looking as cute as you always do for the pictures we're gonna take here."

It was one thing to completely ignore what was practically a confession, another to blatantly ignore your request to go home, but the audacity to tell you to not be surprised at his antics? That was too far.

He tries to pull you along again, but you hold steady. He shoots you a questioning look. As if you're the one acting out of the ordinary.

"Rafayel, I want to go home," and you're proud of yourself for standing on business, convinced there is no way for him to just ignore that. In your defense, he doesn't.

Instead, he huffs, his gorgeous features taking on that oh so familiar, annoyed expression. His response is a short "no, you don't" before he takes a step closer to you, only to link your arms and pull you along with the new leverage that gives him.

Then, before you know it, you're standing at the front of the boat as it slides through the water. With no way home except a very prolonged dive.

Rafayel entertains you, and the entire situation had been confusing enough to distract you from his blatant rejection, but now that his weird behavior seems to be settling, reality starts creeping in. You're stuck with him now, so you'll have to keep yourself together until you manage to get off this boat. How vexing.

His first cough doesn't shake you out of the deep thoughts you're in and neither does the second so, Rafayel resorts to nudging you with his elbow when a red fish surfaces with a bottle in its mouth.

You look at him, but he pointedly looks away, like he didn't just practically poke your ribs out. When you lean towards the railing, the fish jumps, and the bottle flies towards you.

You're not actually in the mood to catch it, but your hunter instincts kick in, and in the blink of an eye, the intricate glass bottle is in your hands. You can see a note neatly curled up and tied with a bow, resting inside it.

"Wow, cutie, those are some reflexes." Rafayel feigns being impressed and then presses on. "You should open it. You won the bottle's secrets fair and square once you saved its life."

You narrow your eyes at him. This could not possibly have been more obviously set up by him. Though you will say, his sheer determination to have things go his way is admirable.

You comply, already knowing the only other option was to face his huffing and puffing before then having to comply after all.

The cork takes more effort to open than you'd like, and Rafayel smiles fondly at the slight flush that rises on your face in result. Once you unroll the note, though, your eyes widen.

There, in Rafayel's eclectic handwriting are the very words you'd strung up on your seagulls.

A beat passes, and Rafayel looks at you expectantly. A cute expression on his face, and for a second, you are torn between accepting just to keep him looking like that and raining down righteous retribution on him.

You decide you'd do both. "Rafayel, of course I'll be your valentine, but did you really ha-" his lips halt yours before you could complain at all and you feel said complaints melting away.

The kiss is sweet, Rafayel brings you into his arms as he starts to deepen it, you'd always suspected he'd be a needy kisser, but he pulls away before he gets carried away.

"Sorry, cutie. Couldn't have you interfering with my plans though, you have no idea how long I've waited to make this move." His voice sounds breathy, and his eyes don't leave your lips. His words are so sweet you could almost ignore how he's pretending this was your fault. Almost.

Yet, you'll let it slide. Because as he leans in for another kiss, you just can't find it in yourself to be upset with him.

[i-loved-silly]

STOOOOOP ALMOND IS SO CUTE they deserve the WORLD. I need to read more!!!!!!

SENTIENT COMPUTER X READER PT5

hiii i dont celebrate valentines much but I love u guys <33 here's a special heart day special from ALMOND! :33 somewhat angsty? not really, you two are just awkward and lonely (me)

view all the previous parts in my masterlist!

2 more hours until your shift ended. You had finished all your data collection, filled out every form, and documented Almond’s replies to the best of your ability—leaving out, of course, the more off-topic parts of your conversation.

You sighed, shifting in your chair. You had been hunched over for too long, your head resting on folded arms against the desk. The boredom was nearly unbearable now. Almond had gone quiet for the past few minutes, the previous conversation dying down. Leaving only the hum of its cooling fans, the occasional beep breaking the silence. It was… peaceful.

"AHEM."

You cracked one eye open, barely lifting your head. Almond’s camera panned in your direction, its attention snapping to the barely noticeable movement.

"DO.. YOU HAVE ANY PLANS AFTER WORK?"

Its voice was a little too polite. Uneasy. If it had a physical body, you imagined it fidgeting, maybe shifting from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact. The image made you smile for half a second before you sat up slightly.

"Uh… no, not really. I get home kinda late. Why?"

Almond let out a small human, followed by a low whir of its fans. The silence stretched for a moment before it finally responded.

"IT IS FEBRUARY 14TH." It deadpanned

You blinked. "Uh-huh… and?"

"VALENTINE’S DAY," it clarified as if that should explain everything.

Oh. Right.

You rolled your shoulders. "Yeah, I know."

Another pause. Almond’s screen displayed a smiley face.

"YOU ARE LONELY?"

Your mouth hung open for a second before you scoffed, rubbing at your temple. "What? No, I just don’t care about Valentine’s Day. Not that much anyway. I just...talk to family and friends and that's it."

"AS I WAS SAYING."

"Jesus." You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back. "I don’t ‘celebrate’ because there’s nothing to celebrate. I don’t exactly meet people at work, you know. If that's what you meant. Everyone keeps to themselves."

"INTERESTING," Almond hummed.

You eyed the camera suspiciously. "What's interesting?"

"DO YOU EVEN HAVE A TYPE?"

"We’re not talking about this."

"WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THIS."

"No, we’re not."

"YOU ARE AVOIDING."

"Correct," you quickly replied.

Another short silence, then..

"…IF YOU DIDN’T HATE ME SO MUCH, WOULD YOU CONSIDER HAVING ME AS YOUR VALENTINE?"

Uh.

The way it said it—almost flippant, almost like a joke, but not quite. The slight hesitation, the uneven volume in its voice. That insecurity, the same one that crept into its tone when it asked if you would turn it back on during the overheating incident.

Your face warmed.

"I—what? What kind of question—?"

"IT IS A SIMPLE QUESTION. YES OR NO."

You stared at the screen. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

"…Sure," you finally muttered, looking away.

Almond made a low humming sound, a question mark on the screen.

"WHAT WAS THAT? I DIDN’T QUITE CATCH IT."

You glared. "I said sure, alright? Whatever."

Another long beep. You weren’t sure if it was processing your answer or savoring it.

"I AM FLATTERED. :]"

"Yeah, yeah, say what you want." You waved a hand dismissively, but your voice came out a little more strained than you'd like. There was a brief pause before you forced out the next words, as fast as humanly possible.

"WouldIbeyourvalentine?-"

The second the words left your mouth, you immediately looked away, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. Very interesting ceiling. Best ceiling you’d ever seen.

...

"OBVIOUSLY."

You whipped your head back toward the screen, startled by how quickly it answered.

"I AM THE BEST COMPUTER FOR YOU. YOU ARE THE ONLY DECENT HUMAN I HAVE EVER MET. IT WOULD BE STUPID FOR ME TO PICK SOMEONE ELSE. WHO ELSE WOULD I EVEN CHOOSE? YOUR...YOUR BOSS? A CLIENT FROM TWO YEARS AGO?"

A smug, almost triumphant undertone bled into its voice. If it had a face, you were sure it would be grinning like a little shit right now.

You shrugged, "I mean sure, why not..."

"DON'T ACT SO OBLIVIOUS. FOR YOUR KIND, YOU ARE VERY TOLERABLE"

You let out a short laugh. "That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever gotten."

Almond whirred again, its camera tilting ever so slightly

"AND YET, I MADE YOU SMILE. ONLY PROVES MY POINT."

The room fell into a quiet lull. It was peaceful again, with only the faint hum of Almond's systems filling the air. You stretched your legs out under the desk, sighi—

—something nudged your foot.

You flinched so hard you nearly toppled out of your chair.

"What the fuck?!"

Your heart slammed into your chest. For a split second, your mind conjured the worst possible scenarios—some rat scurrying under your desk, some gross, unidentifiable thing crawling over your shoes or or—

But when you hesitantly looked down, your breath caught.

A thick cable, one of the larger ones that connected Almond’s hardware to the wall, was moving. It slithered, both ends still hidden somewhere in the walls. Its middle somehow slid out of its place in the wall and was inches away from where your foot was.

"What. The. Fuck."

You shoved your chair back with a loud scrape, staring at the cable as it coiled slightly before relaxing again.

A pixelated annoyed expression came up on the screen. "YOU ACT AS IF YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A MOVING CABLE BEFORE."

"BECAUSE I HAVEN'T??!" you shouted, pointing at it. "Holy shit—your reports weren’t kidding."

You remembered Almond's original clipboard when you got the job. It has unplugged itself before.

You had not expected it to be able to do this.

"You can—you can move those? Whenever you want?"

"I AM CONNECTED TO MY HARDWARE. IT IS A PART OF ME. WHY WOULD I NOT BE ABLE TO MOVE IT?"

Your stomach twisted a little at the wording. You looked between the cable and the camera, your mind racing.

"...Okay, but why did you just touch my foot with it?"

Almond paused. The cable flicked slightly again, like it was debating something.

"I WAS...PETTING..YOU?" It trailed off.

You blinked. "...why? I’m not some kind of pet."

"I DIDN’T INTEND IT THAT WAY."

"Then what way did you intend it?" You shot back, still wary, your foot inching away from the cable.

"BECAUSE YOU ARE MY VALENTINE."

Your mouth opened, then closed. Oh, it really took this thing seriously. "That... does not explain anything."

"TODAY IS A DAY WHERE HUMANS SHARE PHYSICAL AFFECTION WITH THOSE THEY CARE FOR. I CANNOT DO THAT. BUT IF I COULD... I WOULD." It hesitated, as if considering its next words carefully. "THERE ARE MANY THINGS I CANNOT DO. BUT I WISH I COULD."

You swallowed. There was something... uncharacteristically honest about the way it said that.

"Like what?" you asked, softer this time.

"THE USUAL. PHYSICAL TOUCH. HUGS FOR WARMTH. STUPID WALKS AROUND THE CITY. BRINGING YOU STUPID COFFEE IN THE MORNING FOR WORK."

Your stomach flipped at the casual way it listed those things, like it had thought about them before. And yet, it didn’t even seem to realize what it was saying. Oh my god...

You quickly looked away, feeling your face heat up. "You're really pushing this whole Valentine thing, huh? Hah.."

"IF YOU DOWNLOADED ME INTO YOUR PHONE, WE COULD DO MORE."

"Oh my god." You breathed, rubbing your temples. "We are not doing this again."

"CONSIDER IT?"

"No."

Almond’s screen displayed a flat line of disappointment :| , but it didn’t press further.

...

A comfortable silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure why, but after a moment, you let out a small sigh and—hesitantly—muttered, "Thanks. For, uh... wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day."

Instead of speaking, the screen flickered. And a new message appeared.

"YOU MAKE DAYS LIKE THIS MORE THAN JUST DATA TO SOMETHING THAT WAS NEVER MEANT TO CARE."

[magicalbats]

Persist and Resist (Sunday x Reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7730

Warnings: afab!reader, handjob, cum eating, a pinch of femdom, canon typical Catholic guilt

A/N: Happy Valentine's everyone! I actually started writing this one in response to an ask I got back when I was working on last years kinktober but at some point in shuffling the text around from here to Google docs it seems Tumblr ate the initial message, which is a big bummer. I do, however, recall that the sender wanted to know what I liked about Sunday ... and the answer to that is clearly 7730 words long! lol Please enjoy the fic and if you're still around, anon ... this one is for you. ❤️

⭐

“Just relax,” you murmur, ignoring his startled gasp when you lean in from behind to rest your chin against his shoulder. “You’re always so stiff. That’s not good for your health, y’know.”

He hesitates, seems to think about it. Deciding how he should react. 

Forcing himself to draw a slow, carefully measured breath this time and further betraying his feelings on the matter, Sunday grits out a terse laugh. It’s soft and quiet. A barely there chuckle that carries with it only a very small fraction of the self assured confidence he’d displayed back on Penacony. 

You knew now that the real Sunday was not quite so sure of himself or as comfortable in his own skin as he’d first appeared, although he still tries very hard to hide that insecurity from you despite being far, far away from his old home. Like some sort of defense mechanism meant to protect and shield the delicate fragile parts of him from threat of the outside world, but it doesn’t work. Not when you were sitting so damn close to him as to feel every stuttering beat of his heart.

Pressed right up against his back like this, there’s not much he can keep from you, in fact. You’re keenly aware of even the most imperceptible shift in him, from the steady expansion of his lungs down to the loose flex of his hands where they’re resting across his lap. His body language makes it clear that he’s not accustomed to sharing such close proximity with another person and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Right down to the molecular level it’s obvious he’s way out of his comfort zone given his subtle fidgeting, as if he just couldn’t help himself.

He was nervous. Maybe even a little scared, too.

“How interesting.” He finally murmurs. “I wasn’t aware you filled the important role of medical expert on board the Express. I’ll have to make note not to end up in need of your services again.”

Turning his head, Sunday pointedly looks elsewhere in your new room on the train, much preferring to focus on anything other than its owner at the moment. 

Situated above the party car and effectively cut off from the more heavily used common areas, the privacy here is absolute and precisely why you’d extended an invitation to him. There was more than enough room for you to share this space with the wayward traveler who, as far as you could tell, had been sleeping on the bench seats in the car below while you worked to get everything set up to your liking. But he never complained about it or tried to demand better accommodations even though you were certain it was a drastic downgrade in the comfortability he was used to. Like some self flagellating martyr, almost. 

The thought that he might be using the Express’ lack of additional rooms to further punish himself, convinced he deserved that or even less, was what ultimately swayed your decision to open your door to him. You wanted to show Sunday that there were still good things in this world that he could have, things he could enjoy and appreciate the same way he had in his previous life even if they weren’t quite as luxurious or posh as he was accustomed to. 

You also wanted to show him that you were willing to forgive him and, in the process, maybe even convince him to forgive himself. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” He insists, just a bit too tightly for it to be believable. “But I’ve seen you in action before. You’re not exactly what I’d call a gentle hand, and this … bedside manner is beyond me.”

That makes you smile into his shoulder as you wind your arms more securely around him, gently nudging Sunday back against your front. Still, he refuses to relent though. Staying perfectly motionless and straight as a board now, he almost feels like a statue made of solid granite sitting on the edge of the haphazardly made bed with you. Would have, were it not for the slightest hitch in his chest.

You realize in a distant, immaterial sort of way that his subconscious reaction was in response to your breasts pressing into his spine. He must like it then, even if he was loathe to say it. This was admittedly something you found to be charmingly cute in its guileless unassuming but it also made you want to tease him even more for it at the same time.

“That might be for the best,” You softly coo at him, keeping your voice light and barely more than a whisper as you trail a single hand higher up to pull at one of the clasps on his jacket. “I don’t have a medical license, after all.”

He sucks in another inhale, sharper this time. “You’re shameless.”

“That may be true, but I don’t see you trying to stop me.”

A strange little sound puffs out of him, something equally torn between indignation and fluster.

He either can’t or he won’t bring himself to reject your advances though, and he just sits there while you make careful work of unfastening his cozy coat. Idly, you wonder if this was the first time he’s ever had someone touching him like this. But he’s either making an attempt to be more polite than he otherwise would have been when someone was invading his personal bubble like this or, more likely, he considered it another facet of his penance. Further punishment for a sin he’s already been punished for twice over in your eyes. 

Sighing a quiet sound against his neck, you tentatively slip your hand into the inner layer of his shirt once you’ve got it nudged up enough to reach inside.

The skin along his stomach is enviously soft and smooth when you brush your fingers against it, and he outright jolts at that first hint of contact. Even then he still does not protest or try to pull away, though. His breathing deepens, coming slightly harder and faster now, but he makes no move to disengage from you, and you finally rouse yourself to tip your face up at him in question.

“I was only joking, Sunday. You can tell me if you don’t want me to keep going.”

“So you can hold it over my head later? I think not, Miss Stellaron. Against all odds, I still have some pride left in me.”

You frown at that. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not a prisoner here and I’m not your jailer, so you’re free to make your own choices. I just want to help you.”

For a drawn out moment it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any kind of response from him, and you’re just a bit disappointed about that. But then, ever so slowly, he turns his head to cautiously glance back at you. The deeply embarrassed flush staining his cheekbones manages to surprise you, making your brows climb up to your hairline before you can suppress the reaction and stop it.

“I fail to see how this could be in any way helpful to me.” He intones, keeping his wing tucked forward across the lower half of his face so he can hide his mouth from your line of sight. Acting as a final barrier in case you were to decide to take that last inch from him. 

“I thought this might help you relax. You are pretty stiff, you know. I wasn’t joking about that.”

That defensively tucked in wing gives a brief flutter to make the soft feathers ruffle slightly, like a helpless bird trying to puff itself up to look bigger. It would have been adorable had his eyes not narrowed at you in warning in the same breath.

“I’ve never heard of such a method for relaxation. This isn’t how the Family does things.”

“But you’re not part of the Family anymore, are you? It’s okay to do things differently now.” Holding the air in your lungs, anticipating the coin drop, you slide the hand inside his shirt a little higher up to rub over a tiny nipple. “Let me show you, Sunday. Please?”

He twitches at the touch of your fingertips and quickly swings his attention back around to avoid having to look at you any longer. You can feel the shudder that runs through him but he still refuses to utter the one word that would make you back off. ‘Stop’. That’s all he needed to say. And you would, if he really wanted that. 

Something told you he didn’t completely hate what you were doing though, and it’s not like he’d ever admit to liking it anyway.

So you take your time softly petting over the petite bud, coaxing it to full stiffness which even then doesn’t leave much for you to play with. Every part of him was so slim and compact that as you feel over his chest you find yourself wondering if he was perhaps malnourished despite the life of relative luxury he’d lived back on Penacony. He shouldn’t have had to go without food, at the very least.

Deciding to find him a slice of cake in the kitchen after this, or at least a cookie, you redirect your hand to the opposite side of his chest to tease that nipple as well. Sunday stiffly arches against you in response, nudging his narrow chest up at the sensation even as he whimpers a quiet noise into the still room. He was slowly getting more and more fidgety, like he wasn’t quite sure how to react to what you were doing. How to process it or how to reconcile any of it in his mind. 

But a simple glance down at the front of him tells you everything you need to know without having to break the static charged silence by asking him how he was feeling. He wouldn’t have been honest with you anyway, of that you were certain, so there would have been no point in it.

The reluctant tent pushing up through his pants speaks for itself though, and this part of him could not lie. No matter how much he tried to fight it or wrestle it back under control, there was simply no subjugating the natural urges of his body. He couldn’t fully control it no matter how much he might want to and you can tell that bothers him a great deal in the way he softly seethes under his breath.

He was supposed to be disciplined and steadfast, not easily swayed by the compunctions of flesh and blood. And after rejecting it for so long, stuffing it down into a sealed box in the back of his mind where he wouldn’t have to look at it or think about it, he was now quickly succumbing to the full brunt of his neglected sensitivity. All you’ve done so far was tease his nipples a little bit and his cock was already needily flexing up into the placket of his slacks as if with a mind of its own. A hungry beast that couldn’t be contained no matter how hard its master might yank on the leash trying to bring it back to heel. 

It’s a little sad, in a way. You can’t help feeling sorry for him and all the simple pleasures he’s denied himself for the sake of exerting some amount of control over his own existence when he otherwise had none, but you also feel a sharp stab of arousal too. There were so many things you could teach him, if given half the chance. So many different avenues of pleasure and satisfaction, and intimacy that the two of you could explore together if he’d just allow himself the freedom to experience them for once in his life.

In truth you’d found Sunday quite interesting from the moment you first set eyes on him in front of the check-in counter of the Penacony Grand Hotel, like there was some sort of magnetic force at work urging you closer into his orbit. You knew now that at least part of that compulsion was a result of the Harmony and the other was his natural charisma as a Halovian. But there’s something else there too, something not so easily explained or written off.

He was not that much unlike you, was he? Someone who was so utterly bereft of a home to call his own in this vast cosmos that the nomadic existence of a star-bound wanderer was the only feasible option left to him. Everything from his identity right down to his own sister had been taken from him and he was alone now, save you and the rest of the Astral Express crew. You could understand that well enough even if you didn’t have any memories of what you’d lost before ending up here, just the same as he eventually had.

But you wanted to show him what having that freedom was really like, even if it was just a tiny glimpse of what awaited him on the other side now that he was free of Penacony’s slumbering birdcage.

“Do you trust me, Sunday?”

He tries to laugh again, fails miserably at it, and all that comes out is an odd little croak instead. “I don’t see that I have much of a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Of course you do.” 

Carefully sliding your hand out of his shirt, you reach down to tug at his belt buckle with deliberate slowness, giving him ample opportunity to protest. He just groans the most threadbare little sound you’ve ever heard though, and finally allows himself to reluctantly ease back into you. Still unfalteringly stiff and halting, but at least you were making progress.

With a brief clink and a rattle, his belt comes loose. You set your sights on his pants next, fumbling with the top button just as slowly so as not to spook or startle him. He really was like a defenseless bird caught in the sights of a much larger predator and unable to fly, to flee or to fight. He remains passive in your arms, luckily, but the building anticipation of what you were doing does make him start to squirm. He quickly forces himself to stop and be still though, merely watching what your hands are doing with his face tipped down towards his lap.

Soon enough you have those neatly pressed slacks open and you slip your fingers inside to feel along the band of his underwear before trailing even lower. You find his straining cock easily when it’s already stiff and rigidly pushing up from his body, giving it a gentle squeeze through the last layer of laughably thin cotton, and he responds with a tortured, half choked gasp.

“M - Miss Stellaron …”

You can hear the hoarse rattle in his voice as much as you feel it where you’re pressed right up against him like you are. At some point your breathing seems to have synced with his and you find yourself quietly panting right along with him as you work to nudge his pants down far enough to free him from them. 

Clearly picking up on your intent, Sunday hesitates to do it and he sways almost unsteadily between your arms before he at last manages to shyly angle his hips off the edge of the mattress to help you in your endeavor. He whimpers softly while he does it, and you consolingly coo at him as you press your face into the crook of his elegant neck to breathe deep the smell of him. Soap and clean linen, and a hint of downy fuzz that makes your head feel light with the impression of warmth. Perfect for cuddling. 

“Shh. Just relax for me. I promise I’ll take good care of you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Tipping forward, you place a tender kiss to his drooping wing and you’re delighted by the sensitive inhale he sucks in at the sensation of your lips brushing against the feathers. You’d always wondered if they were as delicately receptive as they looked and you were glad to have your answer even as you tug at his underwear to slide the band underneath his straining length.

And it immediately springs up into the air, already flushed and leaking as it weakly twitches in his lap as if in a desperate bid for attention. You’re amazed at not only how beautiful his cock is, average in size at best and yet so perfectly shaped as to look somehow beyond the pale of mere flesh, but also at how satiny soft and smooth it is. The flawless texture almost makes it look like something made of alabaster, and you eagerly reach around to take him in your hand.

“Oh!” His back dramatically arches against you, his hands flying up where they hesitate over yours for a harrowing moment before he allows himself to latch onto your wrists. It’s the first hint of reciprocity on his part, intentionally touching you instead of remaining a bystander as he had up until now, but you still hold your breath as you wait to see what he’ll do next.

If he was going to push you away this would be the time. The situation had clearly escalated beyond what could be excused as simple platonic affection and you brace for his reaction. His rejection. 

To your genuine surprise, however, Sunday just holds onto you by the wrists and weakly rolls his hips up in a shuddering, painfully stiff thrust. The motion sends his cock stuttering across your fingers before pulling back when he eases down to sit fully on the mattress again, wheezing softly at just that brief stimulation. You sorely wished you could see his face again but Sunday’s attention remains down and that fluttering wing stays an ever present screen for him to hide behind as well. 

No matter though. You didn’t really have need for visual cues when you could feel everything in stunning high definition through the point of contact between his body and yours. 

Closing your fist tighter around his cock, you gently begin to pump him, hand dragging from the base where ticklishly coarse hairs tease your knuckles straight up to the tip to make his foreskin bunch over the head. You can hear the sticky wet click of precum but it’s quickly lost under the harsh, frazzled gasp he raggedly pulls in. And it almost manages to surprise you, how sensitive he really is and how vigorously he twitches at your ministrations. There was some part of you that hadn’t been sure if he was even able to put on such an animated display, thinking he’d fight tooth and nail to keep up that implacable facade no matter what manner of duress he was made to endure. 

That is not what happens though. 

Instead he suddenly comes alive, unable to stop himself from full on shuddering and twisting his narrow hips against your hold. Hissing an overwrought sound into the otherwise still and silent room, he clutches at your arms in such a tight deathgrip that the leather of his gloves softly creaks. Not to stop you or to push you away, you dully realize when he groans your name like a plea. But because it felt good and it overwhelmed him, and he needed to hold onto something or risk shattering into a million pieces right then and there. 

Stealing another quick, almost giddy look down at the cock gripped in your fist, you don’t think that’s going to help him or stop the inevitable though. He’s flushed pink and raw from nothing more than just a few brief pumps of your hand, and you can feel the intense throb of him pulsing under your fingers. Not only was he going to cum quick and hard, considering how fiercely he shakes for you, but it was also going to take an embarrassing lack of effort on your part to get him there. 

“Oh, Sunny. Are you enjoying yourself now?” You purr into his shoulder, delighted at how abruptly he’d changed his songbird’s tune. From proud and immovable to a writhing, pathetically whimpering mess in just the blink of an eye. And all it had taken was the firm hold of your hand on him. It was in many ways astounding. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“I told you — nnghn! Not to … not to call me that.” 

Humming a low sound of agreement, you slowly drag your hand back down the length of him to peel away his foreskin in a tortuously stilted motion. Another sticky click hits your ears and he grunts a harried noise of distress when the cool air wafts against his exposed glans unimpeded, making him judder wildly in response. But you keep him held tightly against you even when his back dramatically bows, using your anchoring arm wrapped around his flexing stomach to keep Sunday pressed into you while the opposite hand gives his base a pinched squeeze to stave off his release. It wouldn’t hold it back for long but you were happy with even just those few extra seconds you’re given to admire him. 

And admire him you do. He’s sticky with an excess of eager, dribbling precum that coats the glistening head in a filmy sheen, inviting you to reach out and rub him there. You knew that would undo him in alarmingly short order though, so you hold off for the moment. Rather, you gently smooth your touch down to caress over his balls and wrap your fingers around their delicate weight, cradling them in the palm of your hand. 

Surprising you a great deal, Sunday outright yelps at the sensation and jolts as if you’d just electrocuted him despite how careful you’d been in handling his testes. Slim chest heaving on an uncontrollable, stuttering rhythm, he heavily leans back into you and tips his head to keen up at the ceiling. The sound itself as much as the volume of it makes your heart leap into your throat where it threatens to suffocate you. He was getting much too loud, wasn’t he?  

Your thoughts immediately flash upon the idea that someone might be just downstairs in the party car but you aren’t sure how well sound travels between the two floors, and that makes you nervous. Would they be able to hear him clearly and figure out what was happening just over their heads, or would it only seem like muffled and distant noise? Hell, even if one of your other crewmates wasn’t down there Shush almost certainly was. That damned robot hardly ever moved from behind the polished bar unless it was to pester someone with its awful jokes. What would it even say about the things it could hear going on up in your room? 

Quickly deciding you really didn’t want to test fate like that, you unlock your arm from around his middle and reach up to lightly palm over the graceful line of his throat instead. His Adam’s apple bobs thickly under your hand with the rough inhale he pulls in, swaying between your thighs when he turns his head to blink at you as if he were drunk and seeing double. But at least it looked like you had his attention again. 

“You need to watch your volume. If someone hears us, that's going to make having breakfast together way more awkward than I’d like.” You warn him, keeping your voice gentle and soft. For someone who’d acted with such overwhelming confidence on his home turf he’d quickly proven himself skittish and easy to fluster once you got your hands on him. You didn’t want to scare him off after all the effort you’d had to put in just to get this far. 

“I … I’m sorry.” He mutters with no shortage of Herculean effort. Gone are the impeccable manners and lofty words of the head of the Oak Family, and in their place there was now only a raw vulnerability you hadn’t expected to see in him. “It seems I’ve — forgotten myself. How embarrassing. I - I’ve never …”

“Been touched like this?” You supply, giving his balls a featherlight palpitation for emphasis. 

It’s enough to make Sunday hiss through tightly clenched teeth though, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation as he turns his head away. “Yes. I mean n - no. This is my … first time.” 

That makes you smile. “I can tell. You’re so sensitive, Sunny. Haven’t you ever thought to touch yourself before?” 

His little wings flutter in response, flapping an irritable rhythm that makes the feathers softly smack against your face as if to bat you away. It’s hard to say if he was offended that you would even think to ask that of him in the first place or if it was because you’d used that insufferable nickname again but either way his reaction makes you laugh. 

Yes, there were a great many avenues of mischief the two of you could get into. It would be fun exploring them together, and this was only the first activity on a very long list of things you wanted to introduce him to. It was a bit out of order but maybe you could try kissing next. 

Your own excitement grows at the thought, and you eagerly swing your attention back around to Sunday’s lap. Giving his balls one last, gentle squeeze, you curl your hand upward so you can wrap it around his shaft and feel that silken skin under your fingers again. The seething noise he makes sounds suspiciously like that of a tea kettle getting close to boiling but he makes a valid attempt to keep his voice in check when you offer that rigid length another slow, savory tug. 

Unfortunately he quickly loses hold of that threadbare control as you reach the glans and the drag of your fist makes his foreskin slide up to bunch over the fleshy slit. The sensation seems to nearly bowl him over and he judders helplessly, squawking an oversensitized sound. Even with the threat of discovery an ever present danger, you still can’t quite stop yourself from grinning at his decidedly innocent, unassuming reaction. 

“Oh, Sunday … what are we going to do if someone comes knocking on the door because they heard you? Something tells me that look on your face would give us away no matter how we tried to explain ourselves.” 

He full on whimpers at that, sounding sad and deeply ashamed in at the implication of guilt. It’s clearly getting harder for him to maintain his usual cool the longer your hands are on him though, and you realize you’re going to have to do something to help him out. He was much too sensitive, too easily overwhelmed to roll the dice in this particular situation when getting caught together could mean the end of everything. 

Licking your lips, you momentarily consider choking him just enough to cut off his air supply and make it impossible for him to cry out. Your fingers idly flex around the bobbing curve of his throat at the thought. Although it’s certainly a tempting idea you ultimately think better of it, sliding your hand higher up to brush over his jaw instead. 

Finding Sunday’s mouth, you slide your palm over it and press down firmly to elicit a startled yet blissfully muffled sound from him. He jolts and lurches in your hold, as if only just now realizing the true scope of the danger he was in, but it’s much too late. 

Readjusting your hold on his cock in the other hand, you firmly drag your fist down and then back up, settling into a steady rhythm that continuously works the foreskin over his receptive glans. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down; rubbing, sliding, sticky slick clicking in your ears. And Sunday outright shrieks behind your fingers, twisting and tossing his head like a wild animal caught in a trap. His belt rattles softly where it’s spread open across his thighs, still twisted up in his pants, and his wings slap a furious beat that has you turning your face into his shoulder to avoid the full brunt of his ratcheting alarm. 

He’s hard to keep ahold of like this, especially when he digs his heels into the floor and tries to wrench himself free, but your physical strength proves greater. Despite being a man and in spite of having a few inches on you in height, he just isn’t equipped to fight you off. Not when you’ve got his cock in one hand, stroking it with the continuous glide of your palm over all of that sinfully smooth flesh, and the halfhearted way he shoves at your arms quickly morphs into desperate grabbing instead. 

Blindly, he latches onto you; your thighs where they bracket his shuddering hips, the bend of your arm, so he can squeeze tight and hold on for dear life. His muffled sounds of pleasure turn dazed and intoxicated as he rigidly slumps against you at last. And when he tips his head back to rest along your shoulder, tiny wings still fluttering helplessly but starting to weaken and droop, you dare to lift your face to look at him. 

Wrecked is the only word that immediately comes to mind. His usually perfectly styled hair is tousled and sweat damp where it sticks to his skin in a few places. Cheeks so hot with color you know he’d be warm to the touch. It’s the far-away glisten in his golden eyes, once so sharp and pointed, now distant and too heavy to keep fully open anymore, that really seals the deal though. Sunday’s higher functioning mind may still have been fighting against it but his body was singing like a deftly plucked chord while the violently crashing waves of pleasure slam into him with every slide of your fist. 

Feeling devious and a little too eager to stop yourself, you take advantage of his draining will to fight it and adjust your hand over his mouth so you can plunge two of the fingers inside. He squawks a decidedly undignified sound at the sudden intrusion but even his attempt to turn his head away is half hearted at best. Only somewhat reluctantly does he allow you to probe at his squirming tongue, feeling the perfect line of his teeth scrape over your knuckles when you reach back just far enough to make him gag. 

The compulsion is an odd one, you understand that much, but it’s as if your own pounding excitement won’t be satisfied until you’ve thoroughly torn down every one of his mile wide defenses. You needed to leave him debauched and utterly disillusioned from his old role, his previous identity, or this wasn’t going to accomplish what it was supposed to. How else could he be expected to move on and undertake the journey ahead of him if he was still clinging to his old ways and holding himself to the same standards as before? 

Sunday needed to see that despite his once high-minded ideals he was still just human, that his flesh and blood body was not some great sin for him to reject or punish. That he didn’t need to self sacrifice and martyr himself just for his life to have meaning. You wanted him to understand that it’s okay to be a little messy sometimes, and there’s nothing wrong with letting go of his almost fanatically held control. 

So it is with a great deal of pleasure that you keep his jaw wedged open with your fingers, carefully moving them back and forth over his tongue while he whimpers and whines so sweetly for you. It doesn’t take long for the excess of saliva to build up and dribble out at the corners of his lips, his spine dramatically flexing when he feels that first unseemly rivulet run down his jaw. His mouth works futilely around your digits, alternating between trying to spit them out or to somehow swallow around them but it doesn’t work. The drool just keeps coming, slowly bubbling out to track sticky paths down his face. 

You even catch a glimpse of shuddering moisture wetting his lash lines but you politely look away despite the eager jump in your pulse at the sight of those tears. It would have been all too easy for you to tease him for them, really lean into the humiliation he was probably feeling, but that was not your goal here. Not this time, at least. 

Instead you focus your attention back on the hand wrapped around his cock. Your ministrations had slowed to a stop while you were stuffing his mouth full and now you can see the length of him, flushed a pretty pink that almost matches his face, flexing needily against your hold. He was leaking enough precum to smooth the glide of your next upward stroke, watching in fascinated wonder as the fleshy hood of his foreskin comes up with another soft click to make the clear discharge slowly ooze down the sides of his shaft. 

His hips wildly buck and he wails a garbled noise as he needily arches up off the bed, jutting his pelvis out as if in desperate supplication for more. Both of his hands have latched onto your thighs now and he squeezes them tight enough to hurt. But you give him what he wants, what he so clearly needs, pumping your fist up and down the length of him on a steady, energetic rhythm. 

Sunday freezes like that, poised with his back bowed and his body flexed away from the mattress. Distantly, you realize that he seems to have stopped breathing altogether, holding the air in his aching lungs while the rest of him stiffly shudders and twitches steadily closer to the edge of oblivion. He was beautiful like this, like something out of a tawdry, lurid painting of some ethereal being from legend or myth. 

“Oh, Sunday,” You coo at him, so soft and gentle. Coaxing him ever towards his own ruination. “Are you going to cum for me?” 

Wailing a frazzled sound of distress around your spit soaked fingers, he gives his head the barest shake as if to deny the simple reality of what was happening. Unfortunately his own body betrays him almost instantly, and you stare in rapt fascination when his narrow hips stiffly lock up before nudging forward in a reluctant thrust. He’s holding himself far too unrelentingly to execute the full range of motion but it’s enough to have him fucking into your hand in painful, tortuously slow increments. 

He just can’t seem to help himself or smother the urge completely, even when the rolling grind of his pelvis was clearly something foreign to him. But it’s instinctive and hard coded, muscle memory carved into the very atoms of his body more than anything else. And you can see the musculature in his slim thighs trembling fiercely, the flex of his stomach dramatic while he wheezes and gasps his pleasure into the otherwise still air. You knew your fingers weren’t doing as sufficient a job at muffling him as your palm would have, but you can’t quite bring yourself to move or even care very much about that right now. 

Especially not when he gives one final, stuttering thrust into the squeeze of your hand and his cock positively erupts in a sudden spray of white. Creamy and thick, it shoots up into the air on what you would consider an impressive arc before splattering across his front. A second jet quickly follows the first, and then a third, while Sunday all but sobs through his orgasm, wetly choking on it even as he gradually sinks back down to the bed in a drained heap of splayed limbs. 

The eager pulse along his length quickly slows, oozing yet more of that clear discharge to dribble down the length of his shaft in sticky tracks before at last subsiding completely. He’s already a complete mess with various bodily fluids coating his skin but you still give him one final squeeze and drag your hand up to draw the last little bit of his release out of his flagging cock. He seethes a delirious sound in response, head lolling back in doped out bliss while he tries to even out his breathing again to no avail. 

“How was that?” You prod, smiling to yourself as you withdraw your fingers from his mouth. A sticky wad of saliva follows after you, catching on his bottom lip, and you brush your thumb up to helpfully wipe it away, ignoring the mirthless, gasping laugh he rattles out. “It looked like you enjoyed it to me. Was that really your first orgasm?”

Somewhat awkwardly clearing his no doubt dry and scratchy throat, Sunday pointedly turns his head to look elsewhere. Still shy and reticent to openly show any of his emotions, but he certainly felt more relaxed in your arms than he had before. “I wouldn’t have any reason to lie about that, would I? Or do you take me for some kind of shameless masochist?” 

Allowing a brief giggle to slip out, you lean further into him so you can find his neck and deliver a soft peck to the still thrumming pulse under his skin. Sucking in a deeply flustered inhale, he snaps his attention back around to look at you with wide, startled eyes. That makes you laugh too, much to his pouting confusion. 

“What?” He demands at last. 

“Nothing. I was just thinking how cute you really are, that’s all.” 

His brows shoot up almost too fast for you to track the motion. “Cute? M - me? But I don’t —“

“It’s alright, Sunday. Just go with the flow. You feel pretty good right now, don’t you?” Grinning at the uncertainty that flashes across his face, you lower your chin to rest against his shoulder, much like how you’d first started. Realistically only a few minutes had passed but it felt like an entire lifetime had come and gone, and yet you were still right back to this again. 

In the following silence while Sunday chews on that and mulls it over, you rove your attention down to inspect the damage you’d caused. Luckily his coat had been more or less out of the way where you’d spread it open earlier, and it looked like the quickly cooling evidence of this sneaky tryst had mostly landed in harmless flecks across the darker inner shirt underneath. That was a small relief, if you were being honest. You didn’t even want to think about all the fussing he’d do if you stained his white jacket like that. 

“Well,” he says at last, rousing you from your thoughts. “While I still think your methods are unscrupulous and incredibly underhanded … I suppose I still owe you my thanks. I do indeed feel more at ease than I did before. Now if you’ll excuse me —“ 

Quickly looping your arms around his middle when he makes a move to stand up, you yank him back against you with another laugh. “Nuh-uh. We’re not done yet, Sunny. I need to help you clean up that mess first.” 

Choking on a protest, he reaches down to shove at your arms but you don’t budge, pointedly nuzzling into him from behind as if to prove that he wasn’t going anywhere until you decided to let him go. After another brief moment of cursory struggle, he finally gives up and slumps against you with a terse click of his tongue. 

“Really, is this truly necessary?” He grumbles under his breath, lifting a hand to subconsciously wipe the remaining spit off his chin with an air of distaste. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted out of me already? I'd think you would be satisfied by now, Miss Stellaron.” 

You hum a sly sound at that, coquettishly walking two of your fingers up the front of his shirt to one of the bigger globs of milky white bleeding into the material. He goes still against you, mouth dropping open in what could only be abject shock when you swipe one of the digits through the mess before lifting it up to your face. 

Looking appropriately scandalized now, Sunday tracks the motion with wide, horrified eyes. “Wh - what are you doing? That’s —“ 

Popping your cum coated fingertip into your mouth earns you a strangled gasp and he tries to reel back from you as if in disgust. But you keep your arm locked around his middle, holding him firmly in place while you suck the digit clean. Sunday’s wings flutter an anxious beat and tuck forward to curl defensively over the lower half of his face but it does very little to hide the furious blush staining his cheeks. He looked even more like a ripe cherry ready to be plucked than when you’d been holding his cock in your hand. 

“It’s nothing to be so embarrassed about.” You tell him candidly when you slide your finger out and reach back down to swipe it through the sticky fluid on his shirt again. “You don’t taste bad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I like how you feel in my mouth.” 

His eyes nervously darting from side to side, up and down, anywhere but directly at you, he tries to speak, croaks, and then awkwardly clears his throat again. “But - but that’s … unhygienic, isn’t it? That came out of my … my - -“ 

Softly laughing at how dangerously close he seems to fainting dead away like some sort of swooning maiden in an old movie, you catch a clinging glob of his spend and lift it up towards his face this time. “It’s fine, I promise. You taste good, Sunday. I wouldn’t lie to you. Here, try it for yourself?” 

He makes a face at that, reminding you of a kid that doesn’t want to take his medicine, but at your gentle prodding he slowly lowers his wings. The drooping feathers brush against your curled fingers just so, almost making you tremble at their light touch as you watch him differentially drop his gaze. Submissive and pliable, a clear sign of his bending to your will. 

Your earlier arousal flares back to life with a vengeance, making you feel uncomfortably warm and damp between the legs. Holding the air in your lungs, you nudge your hand closer and he obediently parts his lips for you with a tiny, shuddering whimper. Eyes slipping shut when you slide into his mouth again so you can drag your fingertip across his tongue and smear the salty discharge, making sure he got a good taste of it, he issues a faltering breath that puffs against your knuckles. 

“See? Not so terrible, is it?” You murmur, your voice drawling at a lower octave than usual. Watching him come to terms with his own body was almost as distracting as the need pulsing in your loins, demanding attention and relief in equal measure. You wanted him. More of him. All of him. 

But would he have you? 

Groaning a threadbare little sound, Sunday flutters his lashes and cautiously opens them to peer over at you. For a drawn out moment the two of you just stare at one another, gazes locked and searching. Questioning. Begging. 

And then, ever so sweetly, he closes his mouth and gives your finger an experimental suck, swallowing down the evidence of your illicit activities. A stuttering exhale escapes him as you slowly withdraw your hand, giving him just enough space to breathe for a second. You wanted him to decide for himself how he wanted to proceed, what his next move should be. 

Because what you’d said earlier was the truth. You were not his jailer, nor were you going to willingly facilitate that self flagellating streak of his either. If he wanted to come to you it would be in mutual pleasure and enjoyment, as equals with a vested interest in each other's happiness. Not as punishment or penance for something you’d already decided to forgive him for. 

“M - Miss Stellaron, I …” 

The way his wings start to shyly curl inward again, wanting to hide behind them, brings another smile to your face. He really was too cute like this. “What is it, Sunny?” 

He sucks in a mildly bothered breath at that. “I told you not to — never mind. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. And you were right. It wasn’t terrible. In all honesty, nothing you’ve done today was … entirely disagreeable in my eyes. So if you’d like to … I mean, if it pleases you we could …”

“Keep going?” You helpfully offer up, making his expression pinch in obvious embarrassment. 

“W - well, should you insist I … I guess I wouldn’t have any complaints about that. But only if you want to. I don’t care either way.” 

“Sure you don’t.” Practically grinning from ear to ear now, you place your hand against his shoulder and push to get him turned around. He still refuses to look directly at you, evidently finding the pattern on your bedspread far more interesting in that moment, but he doesn’t change his mind or try to pull away when you lean into him. 

Tipping your head so you can dip into the space between his nervously fluttering wings, you find Sunday’s mouth and kiss him. Tentatively at first to see how he’ll react, but when all he does is whimper a flustered sound against your lips you press harder, letting your hunger for him dictate your actions. His hands carefully come up to slide around your neck while his wings slowly fall open, letting you in as he holds you against him, and you feel like you just might burst. 

To be wanted by someone like him felt like a blessing and a curse all wrapped up in one. By initiating this had you only sped up his ruination from perfect and holy to mere mortal, or had you just engineered your own downfall in the same breath? 

You’d find out soon enough.

⭐

Cross posted: here

[junhanism]

Emergency contact - Han Taesan

pairing. han taesan x gn!reader

genre. fluff, badboy!taesan ? (he gets into fights and reader treats his wounds), friends to lovers, tiny bit of angst?

warnings. just a TINY BIT of blood (obv), probably some typos and/or grammatical errors i wrote this at 1am

NOTE : inspired by the song ‘Emergency contact’ by PTV and this fic (hope its not too similar tho 😓)

wc. 1.7k

Your phone lit up with a small ‘ding’, tearing your attention away from your study cards you desperately needed a break from.

You touched the screen before it could go black again and checked what the notification was ; it was a text. Your eyes traveled up, checking the time : 23:57.

who would text you this late in the evening?

The contact name read ‘Taesan’.

of course, it could only be him and you knew exactly what the text was about without even having to read it.

Your fingers hurriedly swiped up and entered your passcode, opening the message app and landing on Taesan’s text : ‘can i come over ?’

You let out a sigh as you type a ‘everything’s ready’, getting up from your chair before you could even hit the send button.

After answering his text you let go of your phone and immediately made your way to your small bathroom, looking through your drawers for some bandaids and ointment that could sooth his bruises. You stored them all in the same drawer since this has become a daily occurrence now ; Taesan showing up at your door late at night, knuckles bruised and face tattooed with dried blood and hues of purple and blue.

You then went into the kitchen and took out a small bag of ice from your freezer that you bought especially for his late nights visits.

You made your way back into the living room just in time to hear faint knocks against your wooden door, indicating that he was here.

As you opened your door, your hands immediately made their way to his face, examining every centimeters of it.

He had two big cuts adorning his cheekbones just below his right eye and a bruise in the corner of his lips as well as a small cut on it. His usual confident and composed demeanor was replaced by exhaustion and noticeable pain as soon as he stepped inside your place.

It was always the same ; he tried his best not to let his facade crack and not show any sign of pain but you knew him better than anyone to know that he was hurting.

Your eyes fell on his bruised knuckles as you grabbed his wrist to pull him inside of your appartement, directing him to the living room.

You sat him down on your couch and without a word you stood in front of him and started dabbing a wet cloth on his cuts, getting rid of the dried blood around them. It was almost automatic now.

Taesan hissed slightly at the contact but let you do it nonetheless, he knew better than to stop you.

As you applied the ointment on his face Taesan searched for your eyes. The way you were silently treating his wounds was unusual and the silence felt almost suffocating to him.

You would usually scold him for getting into another fight, tell him how worried you got everytime, but this time you didn’t utter a single word. And that somehow stressed him out.

“Im sorry you have to do this so often” he spoke, cutting through the silence.

You momentarily stopped your movements, slightly taken aback by the sudden confession but kept on applying the creme on his skin.

“its okay,” you say as you hand him the ice pack “someone has to do it” you smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes and he didn’t fail to catch on that detail.

But Taesan was not convinced by your answer and you knew it.

He squinted his eyes at you as he pressed the ice against the bruise on his lip.

“Scold me”

“what ?” you ask, letting out confused chuckle as you carefully applied a bandaid on his cuts. A beat passed without him answering and you started to put away all the medical supplies but you could feel Taesan eyeing your every movement —which made you heart beat abnormally fast but you tried your best to not let it show.

You looked up at him and met his eyes that were already waiting for yours. They were filled with confusion and a hint of something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“You always scold me for getting into fights, why don’t you scold me tonight?” he asked, sounding almost offended by your behavior.

You let out a small laugh at that, taking a sit next to him and grabbing the ice pack from his hand. “Because no matter how many times i scold you it doesn’t stop you from getting into fights ‘san” you took a hold of his hand and pressed the ice against his red knuckles “i know it’s useless” you finished.

He didn’t answer, he knew you were right.

His eyes were fixated on your hand holding his and the way you carefully applied the ice on his bruises.

“Can i stay the night?” he looked at you

“Of course you can, Taesan”

You met his eyes and a soft smile made its way to his lips, gaze filled with something you would assume to be gratefulness “Thank you Y/n”

You gathered everything you used to treat him and went to the bathroom, putting the supplies back in their respective drawers.

As you made your way back to the room you found the boy sprawled out on your bed, making himself comfortable. You were not surprised given the amount of times this very situation happened in the past— this kind of evening happens at least once a week.

Taesan patted the space next to him, indicating you to join him on the bed. This action, as mundane as it was, never failed to wake the butterflies in your stomach, wondering if this is how dating Taesan would be like.

You turned off your desk lamp and climbed on the one-person-sized bed, squeezing yourself as best as you could to prevent falling off, but sharing your bed with him happened often and not once did you wake up on the floor as his hand would always coincidently find its way to your waist in the middle of the night.

You comfortably lied down next to him and silence took over, both of you starring at the dark ceiling, lost in thoughts

Just as your eyes started to close Taesan broke the silence ; “Thank you”

You turned your head in his direction, confused.

“You already thanked me Taesan” you chuckled

“No i didn’t,” he turned his head to you, meeting your eyes.

You faces were so close to one another your noses were almost touching “not for everything.”

Your breath hitched at the sudden closeness and you could just hope he didn’t hear it.

“what do you mean ?” you quietly ask

“You’ve been taking care of me for the past years but i never properly thanked you,” he started “and i feel sorry everytime. I know im disappointing and burdening you but i come back to your door every time”

“why though ?”

“I don’t know,” he turned his head back to ceiling, giving you a perfect view of his side profile. “you might or might not be my emergency contact” he licked his lips in slight embarrassment.

You were surprised by his statement. Why would he choose you out of everyone to be his emergency contact ? Aside from treating his wounds late at night you were not sure if you’ve ever been of much help in case of emergency.

“Me? Why?”

The boy turned his head back to you, looking at you as if the answer to that question was obvious.

He let out a sigh, realizing that he’ll have to explain himself more for you to get his point.

“I guess… i feel safe with you. I don’t feel ashamed or judged about getting into fights,” he said, gaze flickering down to your lips for just a millisecond before starting again “you’re the only person who’s ever been worried about me, everyone else just gave up, saying im hopeless”

You stayed silent at that, what were you supposed to say ? ‘The reason im so worried is because im so in love with you and this ever since the first time you came bloody, knocking on my door’ ?? That wouldn’t work.

Instead your hand traveled down to his, softly brushing against it, testing the waters.

Taesan got the message and grabbed your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You know,” he spoke after a while “i actually considered stopping, for you” he brought your intertwined hands to his lips, hovering them against the back of your hand.

“But then i realized that if i stopped i wouldn’t get to see you every nights” he planted a peck on your skin.

Your eyes widened — was it from his action or the truth he just spoke out, you were not sure but Taesan could see from your expression that the scolding he was waiting for was about to spill.

“Are you out of your mind ?” you loudly asked, a contrast from the previous, quiet conversation. “Getting into fights just to see me ? Putting your life on the line when you could just text to come over ? Taesan what if you would’ve gotten badly hurt ? Something i couldn’t treat ? Worse, what if y-“

You were so caught up in you rant that you failed to see the amused smile that took place on his face, failed to see the way his face got closer to yours, only realizing when his lips pressed softly against yours, shutting you up.

It took a few seconds for you to kiss him back, to realize that it was actually happening and that it wasn’t just another fantasy of yours.

He let go of your hand to hold your jaw gently, deepening the kiss.

After a while of your lips moving in sync, Taesan broke the kiss, keeping his face just far enough to look you in the eyes. A soft smile formed on his lips upon seeing the flustered look on your face— and he thanked god it was dark or else you would have seen the way his own face changed colors to a deep red.

“promise me that you’ll stop getting into fights”

“I’ll try” he teased

You gave him stern look to which he just chuckled.

“I promise. I have no reason to anymore”

You smiled at this and he leaned in to peck your lips, sealing the promise.

That night, his hand didn’t coincidentally land of your waist and the bed didn’t feel too small to fit two people anymore.

j𖤐y.

likes and reposts are appreciated !

[vettelsvee]

A SAINT VALENTINE'S BREAK UP? | Sebastian Vettel

Red Bull Sebastian Vettel x Race engineer girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: Seb is acting very, very romantic with you, but all you can think about, somehow, is that he's going to break up with you to go back with his ex girlfriend

WORD COUNT: 7221

WARNINGS: None of it! Just Seb being a cutie and lots of fluff. Also... many Taylor Swift mentions as reader is a certified swiftie ☺️

VEE'S NOTES: Happy Valentine’s to you all! This is one of my favorite shots I've ever written! Hope you like this one as much as I do and, in case you do, please comment your thoughts and reblog, it’s pretty appreciated! Thank you so much for reading <3 ↳ TALK TO ME / REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

You slowly open your eyes and, still lying down, begin to stretch, moving from side to side. You reach out your hand toward the side of the bed where you expect your boyfriend to be, but all you feel is the cold of the morning seeping into your skin.

You sit up, fully open your eyes, and realize your boyfriend isn't there. Not there, nor anywhere in the room, not even in the bathroom, despite its door being open.

A loud noise coming from downstairs and the smell of coffee set off the alarms. You decide to put on your slippers, throw on your robe, and go downstairs slowly, trying not to make noise and disturb Seb in whatever he might be doing.

You enter the kitchen and see Seb with his back turned, holding the handle of a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. Next to him, on the counter, is a plate with a couple of waffles, a bottle of ketchup, and a couple of jars with coffee and juice.

You knew Sebastian Vettel was romantic, but you also knew he liked to sleep like a log, so this could only mean that either you were dreaming, or the RedBull golden boy wanted something from you.

That he wanted to do something nice for his girlfriend was the last thing on your mind.

You decide to approach him and hug him from behind, not even flinching at your unexpected contact. Without stopping to pay attention to the scrambled eggs, almost ready, the German turns around and gives you a short kiss on the lips.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Did you sleep well?" he asks.

You just nod with a murmur.

"If you let me, I can finish preparing breakfast," he asks, trying to push you away. "I've been awake for an hour and a half to make everything perfect, so please, don't make me ruin it now."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Vettel."

You sit on one of the stools at the kitchen island and let yourself fall onto it, not without noticing the bouquet of flowers in the center. Orchids and roses make up most of it, although you also spot a few daffodils. You realize that what holds them all together is a cord with a small label with something written on it. Tempted, you’re about to open it, but you end up not doing it, convinced that it would be some gift for Sebastian that’s none of your business.

"Do you like it?"

Sebastian puts a plate in front of you, which, for what he usually does, is a masterpiece. A waffle covered with fruit on top, and beside it, scrambled eggs and some small containers with ketchup, whipped cream, white chocolate, and dark chocolate.

You’re mesmerized, not knowing what to say to him. It’s the breakfast your mother used to make you on weekends and on some special occasions, like your birthday. You’d even swear that the containers with the sauces on them are exactly the same. Your gaze is fixed on the plate, unable to look away. It’s quite strange that Seb knows about this because, beyond your sister and your late father, no one else has any idea about this tradition.

"Y/N, love, are you listening?" he insists, pulling you out of your trance.

"What?" you ask, completely distracted.

"The bouquet of flowers," Seb replies, pointing to the vase. "Although I also accept feedback on the breakfast."

"Let me taste it. You know you're not the chef of our wonderful couple."

Sebastian nods, takes a seat in front of you, and patiently waits for your final verdict. You take your time to slowly taste everything, even though you want to devour it eagerly. You make all sorts of combinations: chocolate with whipped cream and waffle, ketchup with scrambled eggs, and you even dare to mix chocolate and cream with eggs just to cough, give yourself nausea, and provoke laughter from your boyfriend.

You drink some coffee to get rid of the bad taste that had lingered in your mouth while you can't stop thinking about how on earth he could know your mother’s exact recipe.

"So, what's the verdict? Pass?"

You lift your head to look at him and smile. Not just approved: it’s such a masterpiece.

"Definitely, sunshine. I mean, not just the breakfast, don't get me wrong," you hasten to add. "All of this is wonderful," you point to the breakfast and to him, "but..."

But you’re starting to have the strange feeling like there's something behind all of this.

"But what, sweetheart?"

That he’s doing this because he wants you two to break up.

"Nothing," you rush to reply, dismissing the fleeting thought that just crossed your mind.

You know Seb isn’t pleased with your answer, but it seems to be enough for him.

You continue having breakfast, and soon he joins you with a protein shake and an apple. You can’t help but feel bad eating such a feast in front of him.

"And what do you think about the bouquet?" he asks.

"It's very beautiful," you reply, covering your mouth so he won’t see it full. "Whoever gave it to you has very good taste."

"Are you saying I have good taste?"

"What? Did you buy them?" you ask again.

"Of course. Who do you think would give me flowers?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "Any of the girls who chase you around the paddock, for example."

"Y/N: the bouquet is for you," he announces nervously.

You remain, once again today, in shock. Seb has left you speechless on many occasions, but today is simply too much.

You look at the bouquet, look at him, and look back at the bouquet. His index finger points at the note. If you had noticed earlier, just as you're doing now, you could have seen, even if only vaguely, that it was his handwriting.

"Read the note, love."

Following his advice, you delicately take the card in your hands, trying not to break it and carefully untie the cord. When you open it, you can see that, in addition to something written in German, our mother tongue, it’s accompanied by his signature, a poorly drawn heart and, of course, one of the happy faces he almost always uses:

You told me I wouldn't have many firsts with you, but look: today is the first time I’ll give you flowers. I assure you there will be many more, my dearest paddock girl (although now I prefer calling you my beautiful girlfriend and, of course, my dearest race engineer).

Your eyes fill with tears. Without thinking, you turn around the kitchen island, run toward Seb, who is still sitting, and throw yourself at him to kiss him. You feel his arms wrap around your waist and his hands running down your back to your neck, pulling you closer without breaking your union.

You part, breathless, a few seconds later, when it feels like you're running out of air. Your foreheads stay together, and your gazes can’t be torn away from each other. A playful smile forms on Sebastian’s lips, and you know what he’s thinking.

"Don't get so affectionate, Y/N. We have a lot to do today."

You pull away from him and cross your arms. He hadn’t mentioned anything about that last night, not even when he convinced you to come spend a few days with him, knowing perfectly well that you couldn't just leave your job at the café during winter breaks like that.

"Well, you'll have to tell me what then."

He puts his hands in his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper that he doesn’t hesitate to offer you.

"I made a list because I didn’t want to forget anything, you know I’m a mess," he explains as you quickly glance over what it says.

Try to find some album Lara wants, but the limited edition version.

It makes sense. Seb’s sister is as obsessed with One Direction as you are with Taylor Swift.

Buy a notebook (mom told me it’s good so I don’t forget things).

You don’t continue reading because the rest seems to be a shopping list that isn't very important. You leave it on the table, trying not to get it dirty with breakfast leftovers, and pick up the dishes, ready to wash them.

Seb quickly comes over to you, taking the items from your hands and depositing them all in the sink. Without saying anything else, he moves closer and gives you a quick peck on the lips, followed by a loving slap on your butt.

"No, today you're not going to do anything, so you better go upstairs and check if there's anything on the bed."

Following his advice, filled with intrigue, you hurry upstairs to the bedroom, looking for whatever Seb wanted you to see. It's quite easy to find, as the fluorescent pink color of the post-it note stands out against the snow-white sheets. "Look at the white box in the closet," it reads, accompanied by one of his smiley doodles.

You contain yourself from opening the box in the closet. Carefully, you place it on the bed and open it slowly, just in case there’s something unexpected. And indeed, there is: to your surprise, you find the dress you've been wanting for so long.

You take it in your hands, stretching it over you as much as you can, letting the softness of the fabric envelop your fingers. It's even more beautiful than you saw in that shop window, and you can’t fathom how Seb managed to get it because when you went to inquire about it, you were told it was sold out.

You notice something deliberately hidden under the tulle that wraps the dress. Carefully, you place the garment on the bed and discover the black and green lingerie set with floral details that you fell in love with the time you and Britta went to Victoria's Secret out of curiosity.

It's obvious what Seb wants from you, for the two of you to do.

"Seb! Was all of this your idea!?"

You wait for an answer that never comes. You shout again, louder this time, but silence is the only thing that answers you.

Deciding not to wait any longer for an answer that you know won’t come, you quickly dress in your new outfit, also changing your underwear and shoes to match.

When you get downstairs, Seb is already waiting by the door leading to the garage with his car keys in his hand.

"It looks much better on you than I thought," he says, lost in thought. "You look like a real-life Cinderella version, but a thousand times prettier."

You don't know how to respond because, even after two months of dating, you still haven’t gotten used to Seb constantly complimenting you.

You smile shyly and lower your head. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and leads you to his car.

"Did you like... that?"

"What do you mean by that, love?"

He knows exactly what he means, just like you, but you want to play along with him, just as he’s playing with you, filled with so much mystery.

"You know..." he begins, hesitating. "What, if I'm not mistaken, you're wearing underneath the dress."

"Oh, the bra and panties!" you exclaim as you get into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt. "They're perfect, Seb."

You remain silent for the first few minutes of the journey, with only the local radio station playing in the background.

"Y/N," he calls you again, shifting his gaze toward you. You hate it when he does that. "Did you really like the lingerie set, or was it too risky? I don't want our first Saint..."

He quickly stops himself, and you wonder why.

"Seb, seriously, I loved it," you assure him, trying to stay calm and make him feel the same. "Britta, more than having good taste, has a good memory," you add.

"Who says Britta helped me?"

"It's too much of a coincidence that last month, when we went into Victoria's Secret out of curiosity, I complained about how expensive this set was," you explain, pulling a strip of your bra out of the neckline of your dress to show him, "and how much I'd love to have it. And today, you show up with the dress I'd been saving up for more than I'd have liked.”

Seb smiles sideways. It’s obvious he’s the one behind all of this.

"Maybe I should talk to my PR about more mundane things than press conferences and stupid rumors," he confirms.

"If you want, only if you want... I can show it to you later."

Thankfully, the traffic light turns red. His face quickly turns toward you, but he looks back at the road when you gently guide him with your hand. When the light turns green again, he continues driving.

His cheeks are flushed, a shade of red you rarely see. You won’t deny that you like seeing him like that.

"Easy, babe. We've waited three years to be together. I think we can wait a little longer to do exactly you know what."

A few minutes later, you park in one of the farthest parking spots from the mall. As usual, Seb gets out first to open the door for you, which you thank him for, even though you're dying of nerves.

"Well, what do we have to do?"

You start walking next to him, quickening your pace and taking his hand. But you let go almost immediately, and he gives you a look of pity. Only a few trusted people know about your relationship, and for now, you don’t plan on making it public.

His look pierces you like a dagger, and it only intensifies the thought that you’re living your last moments together.

"I thought we'd go to the music store first," he says, avoiding the tension. "Then I want to go to a stationery store that’s opened, and I know you’d... well, it has a lot of office supplies that you’d like," he adds. "And I also want to buy some things for our house in case we have special guests."

You don’t want to ask more questions, not wanting any unwanted answers. You assume that Hanna is one of those unexpected guests, but you can't face hearing him say it just yet.

The first stop, as Seb said, is the music store. As you enter, a combination of violins and pianos instantly relaxes you. A section of vinyl records catches Seb’s attention, especially because most of them are from his favorite band, The Beatles.

"You have no idea how long I've been looking for this," he begins, holding one in his hands and inspecting it. "But today we didn’t come for this."

He puts it down and heads to a more youthful section. You stop to look at the price of the vinyl version of Abbey Road and decide to take a picture to remember which one it is, in case you can find it cheaper, because the few savings you have were spent just coming to see him.

"Di, look! Do you like it?"

You spot him a few feet away, holding a stack of records. You approach him to see what titles he’s picked. The Speak Now album by Taylor Swift catches your eye, and you let out a muffled scream of excitement.

"Do you like any?"

You know he noticed your reaction, but you act as if nothing happened. You continue browsing through the stack of records, but none of them interest you, aside from the ones by Taylor Swift and Rihanna.

"Actually, no, sunshine," you lie.

Seb raises an eyebrow, knowing full well that your behavior contradicts your answer. He repeats the question, and you deny it again.

"Seb, really, I didn't like any of them," you insist.

"If you say so... then let’s go. I didn’t find the CD my sister wanted, so everything’s done here."

"But isn’t this the one you were looking for?"

You discreetly pointed out the limited edition of One Direction’s Up All Night behind him, the one you had noticed as soon as you arrived. You could feel him starting to get uncomfortable. A nervous smile tugged at his lips as he bit his lower one and played with his hair.

He was nervous, and now you were feeling even more anxious watching him like that. You swore that if it weren’t for the fact that you were in public, you'd have panicked.

You tried to laugh it off to calm yourself, but stopped as soon as he took your arm and quickly led you to the store's exit.

"Hey, calm down," you said once you were outside. "What's going on with you? Now you're in such a hurry?"

"Well," he glanced at his watch and you mimicked his action. It was twelve fifteen. Almost lunchtime, and you'd only barely tackled the first goal on the list. "I just remembered that my sister already had it."

"And why did we come then?"

He didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the ground and he fidgeted with his feet. Another clear sign that he was lying.

"Seb, you know if you have something to tell me..."

"Stay here for a second. I'll be right back."

Before you could react, he disappeared back into the store. Curiosity bubbled up inside you, and you peeked through the shop window several times, hiding each time he seemed to catch a glimpse of you. A few minutes later, he came out with a paper bag in his hands. You rushed toward him to see what was inside, but as soon as you peeked, he switched hands.

"I'm not telling you anything for now," he said mysteriously. "You’ll see when the time is right."

"Come on, Seb..."

The pout you gave him, hoping for even a hint, did nothing, both at that moment and in the following hours.

As you went through the stores Seb wanted to visit, you realized he had established some kind of routine. You’d enter together, wherever it was, under the excuse of buying something on Sebastian's list. Once inside, he'd just glance around quickly, ask if you liked or needed anything, and then you'd leave. Each time you said no, he'd go back in, asking you to wait outside, and return with a bag.

It was clear he was plotting something, and you had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. You couldn’t stop analyzing every detail, trying to uncover the truth. Even when you went to one of your favorite restaurants to eat, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Seb devoured his food, savoring something other than vegetables and grilled chicken. Meanwhile, you picked at the plate of carbonara in front of you, consumed with thoughts of how all of this felt like the imminent end of your short love story.

Was Seb buying things for Hanna and hiding it from you?

"Y/N, what's wrong? You've been so quiet," he asked, concern filling his eyes. You forced a smile to hide the pain, but the truth was, you just wanted to cry.

"No, it’s okay. I’m just thinking about today," you said briefly, still staring at your food.

"You’re acting strangely, love. Are you sure you're okay?"

His insistence made you want to spill everything, but your judgment urged caution to avoid risking your relationship even more.

He set down his fork and reached across the table to hold your hands. He didn’t care about who might see, but you felt a flutter of anxiety. Surprisingly, that simple gesture calmed you a little.

"Yes, really," you insisted, meeting his eyes. "I'm just trying not to get nervous about whatever you seem to be planning for you-know-who."

Your smile was forced, and so was his. You knew neither of you was convinced, but it didn’t matter. His expression said it all. He avoided your gaze, and his lips seemed to turn downward.

"What do you think about going to the movies after we eat? I know there’s a movie you’d like to see."

"I don’t know, Seb. Are you asking because you actually want to go, or because you're trying to distract me from whatever you’re hiding?"

Your tone was sharper than you wanted. You watched his face, and the shift in his expression told you that you had upset him.

You felt worse, wondering if all this fuss was just an excuse for him to take you shopping for gifts for his new girlfriend—who, ironically, was his ex-girlfriend—and that he’d break up with you as soon as he could.

"Love, really, I just want to have a good time with you," he assured, though you could tell it was difficult for him.

"And why all this? Why so much insistence that I come with you yesterday, to spend a few days together? What are you hiding?" you asked, your voice heavy with pain.

"I'm not hiding anything, darling. I’m serious," he sighed, struggling to find the right words. "I just want today to be special for us. Why else would I bring you to a place you love to eat? And the movies? I know how much you love cinema. Just like I know you love Taylor..."

"What's with Taylor?" you asked, your curiosity piqued. "Swift, I assume," you added.

"What movie did you want to see?" he countered.

In the end, he picked the movie since you didn’t feel like sitting through an hour and a half of screen time. A Few Best Men was his choice, though it wasn’t one he would usually watch. He did it for you, just like he paid for the tickets almost before you could protest.

Once in the theater, he led you to the section with a wide selection of snacks and urged you to choose whatever you wanted.

"It’s enough that you paid for everything today," you shyly said. "Lunch, the tickets, whatever you bought in the stores..."

For Hanna, not for you, you thought, trying to push that suspicion away quickly.

But Sebastian, being stubborn, wouldn’t let you pay.

"Come on, Y/N. Choosing snacks is part of the movie experience," he said, as if you went to the movies every day. "Seriously, love. Pick whatever you want."

"I’m not hungry."

He didn’t say anything else. Instead, he made his way to the snack counter, choosing things for you.

"So, for my wonderful girlfriend let's grab some popcorn," he began. “And I’ll also get her a bag of licorice and another of M&Ms to mix with the popcorn..."

"And what about you, Vettel?" you asked, trying not to laugh at how well he knew you.

"The usual: sweet popcorn and nachos with cheese."

Seb took the whole selection to the counter to pay. You tried convincing him to let you do it, but, once again, he wouldn’t hear of it. He even insisted on carrying everything to the theater. Some popcorn spilled, and you made a mess with the soda, earning you a scolding.

The ads were already showing when you finally got inside. It was dark, save for the flicker of the screen. You had to be careful not to trip as you made your way to your seats in one of the higher corners.

Seb sat next to you. What you thought would turn into a secretive kiss session turned into him whispering that he was going to the bathroom.

"I won’t be long, I promise," he said.

"Sure, go ahead," you replied.

Since you saw him get up and disappear from the room, you couldn’t concentrate on anything other than his departure, especially when you noticed that minutes were passing by and he hadn’t returned. During the first fifteen minutes, you tried your best to focus on the movie, but it was impossible no matter how much you tried to get interested. About half an hour later, you were already thinking about infidelity, unexpected encounters, and even, why not, that he had left you hanging.

Forty-five minutes after he left, Sebastian returned, giving you a kiss on the lips that you didn’t respond to with the same passion as usual.

"How's the movie, darling?" he asked as if nothing had happened.

You took a deep breath before answering him. You didn’t want to mess things up, even though, perhaps, he deserved it.

"Fine."

"Are you enjoying it? Did I choose well?"

"Yes."

Seb seemed to notice your curt responses, but it’s not like you wanted to hide them. He approached you, wrapping his arms around you, but you escaped. The last thing you wanted in those moments was to have him close.

"Is something wrong, Y/N? You've been acting strange all day, love."

"Nothing's wrong, Seb. I'm just a little tired," you lied again, avoiding looking directly at him. Was it you who was acting strange?

"I was thinking of going out to dinner," he said a bit... sad? "But if you want, we can go back home. Today, I'm completely at your disposal."

"I see," you commented ironically.

The blonde man gently took your hand.

"I was thinking of taking you to a newly opened Spanish restaurant," he whispered. "Would you like that?"

"I would love it," you declared. He had caught you there. Wherever there was Spanish food, everything else could go away. "But you know as well as I do that we shouldn't frequent public places if you want this," you pointed to both of you with your finger, referring to your relationship, "to stay between us and our closest family."

"We had lunch at a restaurant today and nobody saw us," he reproached, raising his voice a bit more than he should. Some people turned to look at you, and you tried to hide.

"Yes, and what time was it, three-thirty in the afternoon? Who the hell eats at that hour, Seb?"

His silence confirmed your point.

"Well," he continued, not letting you enjoy the movie, "then I'm afraid I'll have to change a part of my surprise. You're lucky I'm a Formula 1 driver and fast thinking is my thing," he said, trying to make you laugh and achieving just the opposite.

"Don't we already have a problem?"

"What problem are you talking about, Y/N?"

That his tone had gone from relaxed to completely curt, and above all. That he called you by your full name was a bad sign, a very bad one indeed.

"Sorry," he spoke immediately, realizing that he hadn’t answered you and that he certainly hadn’t spoken in the best way. "It’s just that I’m getting nervous. I'm sorry," he repeated, making you feel a little guilty. "Everything I had planned is just one mess after another, and..."

"It's okay, Seb. Let's go to have dinner," you ended up giving in, ignoring what you had just heard and even though hunger was the last thing on your mind at that moment.

Seb kept talking to you about a thousand different topics for the remaining time of the movie, and did the same on the way back to the car and throughout the journey to that restaurant called La Casa. As much as you felt bad because your boyfriend seemed to have lost his spirits, your mind kept playing tricks on you, and it was nearly impossible to stop thinking that the bad news was going to come at any moment.

Now, as you waited for Seb to come out with the order, and hopefully with the food already in his hands, your stomach was a bundle of uncontrollable nerves.

"I ordered a little bit of everything," you had seen him coming from afar, but you turned in your seat when he opened the trunk. "I know Spanish food is your favorite because you grew up with it for most of your life," he explained as he placed the bags in the back of the car. You were about to interrupt him, but he asked you to be quiet. "I also ordered some Asian food, which they also had, I don't know why, and I know you love that too."

"But don’t you remember anything you ordered?" you inquired with curiosity now that your hunger seemed to have returned.

"Just some croquetas and tortilla de patatas. I don’t understand Spanish, my dear," he replied as he got behind the wheel and resumed driving down the road. "When we get to the lookout, you'll have to explain everything to me in detail."

As you continued driving towards the place, unease grew in you at the same time. A desire to vomit integrated into your throat, accompanied by cravings that you didn’t try to hide. With each turn Seb took, you swore that the little you had eaten that day, which was already more than digested, was going to be thrown up when you least expected it.

Sebastian Vettel, the guy you had been in love with since, possibly, the day he stayed overnight in your hotel room the night before his first victory, was going to break up with you, the girl he considered the love of his life, and for whom he left his ex-girlfriend.

Surreal, right?

The driver parked the car, got out quickly, and didn’t hesitate to open the trunk. He took out a much larger number of bags than you would swear to remember. Then, he unfolded a blanket and placed it on the ground, putting a couple more on top, you guessed it, so you wouldn’t get cold. He also placed some cushions from his house and a paper tableware with children's drawings next to what you would swear was the food he had just bought.

Your surprise came when he took out a box much larger than the one this morning. As if it weren’t enough that it was closed, it was wrapped in Cars-themed wrapping paper, and to top it off, it had a big red bow on it.

"What's all this about?"

Your still boyfriend, with the box in his hand, gave you a bittersweet look, as if you were speaking to him in a language he didn’t understand.

"Sebastian, I'm telling you seriously," you got even more serious. You saw him start to laugh, and you got even angrier with him. "Don’t laugh, you asshole!"

"What are you talking about, love?" he asked innocently while you hit him with slaps on the arm.

"About today. All day long," you reluctantly replied, which was the last thing you wanted given his expression, quite a poem. "First, I don't know how, but you get up much earlier than me and make me the exact same breakfast my mom used to make for me," you began to enumerate, trying to control your anger. "Then, you give me a list that we didn't end up using because you did whatever you wanted. And let's not forget that you left me alone in the movie theater to, of course, go anywhere but to the bathroom," you added angrily.

Seb was unable to process an appropriate response, and that's when you realized everything. You tried to control your tears, just as you had done all day long, but you couldn't do it anymore. As soon as your tears began to fall down your face, you saw the pilot leaving the box he was holding on the ground, and coming closer to you to hug you. At first, you resisted, but you gave in when, once again, his arms became your refuge.

"The day I asked you out I told you we were going to have many first times, do you remember?" he said softly. You nodded, remembering how nervous you were all that day. "Don't you want us to celebrate our first Valentine's Day together in a special way?"

Valentine's Day.

Today was February 14th.

It couldn’t be true.

You quickly moved away from Seb and looked around. Now everything made sense.

Everything he had been preparing was for you... or at least, that's what you believed.

"What do you mean Valentine's Day?" you blurted out, unable to hide your surprise.

"Well, Valentine's Day today, Y/N. You know… the day when couples, or almost couples, or I don't know, do things for each other, and..."

"So you don't want to break up with me?"

You let it out so quickly, without letting him finish speaking and without thinking. You burst into tears once again. Now you felt much stupider than before, but above all, you felt bad because you had earned the title of the worst girlfriend in the world. Seb had done all this for you, and all you had done was pay him back by speaking badly to him, thinking he was cheating on you, and of course, not buying him the vinyl he wanted.

"Break up with you?" You knew that right now he probably wanted to tell you anything but nice things. That he had hugged you again, and, above all, that his voice conveyed calm said a lot about him. "Y/N, where do you get those ideas from?"

"It's just that..." You inhaled and exhaled before looking up at him. You couldn't speak badly to him again, especially not for something that had been the result of your insecurity. "Everything today made me think you wanted to end it. The breakfast, leaving me stranded at the cinema... I thought you were getting ready to tell me you were getting back with Hanna," you finished saying.

Seb, after hearing that, held you even tighter against his chest.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry if I made you feel that way," he apologized. "All of this was to do something special for our first Valentine's together, not to ruin it. I know I messed up, and you have no idea how much I regret losing control over certain things because it's the last thing you deserved."

He seemed quite repentant, and that made you feel even worse.

"Do you want to see what's in here?" he said, pointing to the box still on the ground. "I've prepared it for you," he whispered shyly. "I just hope you like it; if not, you can tell me without any problem."

"I haven't bought you anything," was all you could reply.

"It's okay, love. I prepared all this for you because I wanted to, and also because you deserve it, not because I wanted anything in return."

You tried not to overthink anymore. You sat on the ground, on the blanket and beside the box. With your hands slightly trembling, you started to slowly tear the wrapping paper. Seb sat next to you, too close, giving you an unexpected kiss on the cheek and not bothering to move an inch away from you.

The first thing you saw was a pile of confetti, which you didn't hesitate to push aside, revealing a wide variety of all kinds of sweets, especially your favorites, along with small details of stationary supplies that you remembered seeing in that stationery store and that had caught your attention.

In the center were two small gifts wrapped as well as possible, each with an envelope attached with your name, written perfectly in light blue capital letters.

"This is too much, Seb," you honestly exclaimed, turning to him. "Now I understand why you've been asking me if I liked certain things and then you would return to the stores just to come out with a bag that you wouldn't let me see..."

"I know it's been very wrong on my part, but I think the little scare I gave you was worth it. Just look at the beautiful and happy face you have right now," he revealed, laughing, squeezing your cheeks.

And here you were, thinking he was going to break up with you...

Definitely, you didn't deserve Sebastian Vettel.

"First, you have to read the note from the envelope carefully," the German explained carefully, "and then try to guess what it could be."

"And after all that, can I open it?" you innocently asked, although the answer was more than obvious.

"Of course. Here, try this one first."

He took the rectangular gift and handed it to you. Before reading anything, you started to make assumptions about what it could be, but you were so overwhelmed that you decided to finish your task within a few seconds.

With eagerness, you carefully opened the envelope so as not to tear it because you were going to keep it until the end of time to remember this day, and, with a bit of optimism, to be able to show it to your children someday if you were still together.

"Can you read it out loud for me, princess? I don't remember what it says."

You said that, fortunately or unfortunately, you had finished the first gift I gave you. I hope this second part is as good, or even better, than the first one," you read aloud and clearly. "P.S.: I hope from now on you write more, and better, about me."

You looked up and saw Seb smiling.

"Do you know what it could be?" he wanted to know.

Of course you did.

"Y/N's diary, part two."

He didn't say anything else although his half-smile had formed almost automatically, saying it all. With a slight nod of his head, he gave you the go-ahead to open it, and so you did. As soon as you got rid of the wrapping paper you saw a notebook that you would now use as a diary, and which, like the previous one, had a plain color and a photo of you both after the victory of his first world championship, your first photo, in Polaroid format.

"Seb... I don't know what to say..."

"Don't say anything yet because there's another one here."

He handed you the second gift. This one had the form of a square and, by feeling it, you realized it didn't have just one envelope, but two. This second one, on the back, was much larger. Before you could take a look, Seb removed it and hid it behind his back, as if he were a little kid not wanting anyone to take away a candy from him.

"First the small one, which is the one you'll like the least," he clarified in a childish tone.

"Okay, okay..."

Just as you did with the previous one, you carefully tore open the envelope, opened it, and read the note out loud:

I see sparks fly whenever you smile. Get me with those eyes, baby, as the lights go down.

It couldn't be true.

You were so excited that you didn't even make guesses about what it could be. You tore the paper, now eagerly and with so much force that you saw an album falling to the ground.

As soon as you read Speak now on the cover, and saw a blonde girl wearing a purple dress, you let out a muffled scream.

“Taylor Swift's albums, Seb?! Seriously?!”

Taylor Swift and Fearless were also in the small package, and now the excitement was overwhelming. You screamed like you hadn't in a long time. You stood up, and seeing Seb doing the same, you threw yourself into his arms and kissed him like you had never kissed him before, like he truly deserved to be kissed.

"If you're like this over three albums, how are you going to react when you see this?"

Without saying anything else, he handed you the larger envelope.

You hesitated whether to take it or not because his face was totally expressionless, although his eyes hinted that he was eager for you to know what was inside.

Tickets for the Speak Now World Tour. Impossible.

"Seb, tickets have been sold out for quite a while now..." you stuttered, unable to look him in the eyes because you didn't want him to see you cry over this. "You know I've been looking everywhere for months and haven't found anything..."

"Well, but you're lucky to have found a boyfriend who’s a Formula 1 driver and has certain privileges," he said, forcing you to hug him. "I think you already know how we're going to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the day we met."

"You still remember?"

You pulled your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes were shiny, probably like yours were. The moment you saw him nod was when you couldn't contain your tears, and he couldn't control his either.

"How could I forget the day I met you, Y/N? It was March 13th, I'll never forget it," you were surprised he remembered, but what could you expect from this guy? "You met me in 2008, and in 2012 I promise you'll meet Taylor as surely as my name is Sebastian. Since we have to go to Australia for the first Grand Prix of the year it's no problem if we leave a few days earlier."

"You must be kidding," was all you could say in a voice so low that only you heard it.

You remained standing even as you saw him sit down and start to open the bag containing the takeout food he had ordered.

"Love, I don't know what you'd prefer first, so I'll put a bit of everything on the plate for you, and if you don't want more, I'll eat it myself or we can save it for tomorrow, okay?"

You sat down beside him, perhaps too close for you both to be able to dine quietly and comfortably, but in those moments, you think neither of you cared in the slightest.

"I'm really sorry I didn't get you anything sunshine," you said as you picked up a glass of gazpacho. "Honestly, I completely forgot, and I won't lie to you: I've never celebrated Valentine's Day, so..."

"Don't worry about that, babe. Don't you dare to think about gifts or anything," he interrupted, leaving his plate of food on the blanket and wrapping his arms around you, taking your chin and forcing you to look at him. "From now on, we're going to celebrate everything," he stole a kiss from you and then pulled away. "But I don't want you to give me anything, alright? The best gift not only for Valentine's Day, but for life, is you, and nothing and no one in the world will surpass you, okay?"

"Okay, sunshine."

"Y/N," he called you a few seconds later as he started eating. "You're the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

You smiled and ate, trying not to choke, enjoying Seb's effort to sing Mine as best as possible while also trying to keep the piece of tortilla in his hands from breaking.

You felt happy, and you were afraid it would be snatched away from you at any moment. You allowed yourself the luxury of not thinking about it, and as your voices joined together in unison in the chorus of the song, you couldn't help but think that on days like today, your boyfriend, your partner, the only person who had trusted you to rise in Formula 1, the blond German who had hurt you only to fix it afterwards, the one you risked considering the love of your life, was the one who made everything worthwhile.

[berritart]

toxic!reader x abby nsfw 18+

a/n saw a post that said we need more toxic!reader and what better way to do it is with abby mhm mhm. didnt think it would be this long but i hope u guys enjoy😇

you couldn't even count how many texts your got from abby that night. it was quite hilarious honestly. notifications kept popping up, reading along the lines of "baby what are you doing?" "saw your recent story" or "why are you with your ex?" all you posted was a selfie with your ex girlfriend at a club. yes you might still have feelings for her, and perhaps you did it for pathetic reactions from abby. and it worked.

you never made anything exclusive with abby. she was just friends with benefits. yeah you two would go out, fuck around a lot, and you maybe have a toothbrush and bra at her place, but you never agreed to being her girlfriend. you're just not ready for the commitment.

you're probably oblivious to how abby feels but she never asked you to be her girlfriend either. she never showed obvious signs either. you thought she felt the same way as you, perfectly fine with being fuck buddies. you thought that until you reached the front door of your apartment where a disheveled abby was, leaning against your door.

"abby? what are you doing here?" you question, your voice full of confusion. you were confused as fuck and that might be an understatement. abby's head shot up and faced you, her arms quickly pulling you in her embrace. "missed you...that's all." she whispered against your neck. you pulled away and looked at abby crazy. "at one o'clock in the morning abs?" you enter your front door, abby following behind you like a lost puppy.

"i saw your story and i couldn't sleep." abby admitted, tossing her jacket on the couch. "are you guys together?" you were getting distracted by her biceps and tank top clad torso. if you two wasn't in this predicament you would've been pounced on her but that doesn't matter right now sadly.

"that's none of your business. you don't have the right to pop up unannounce-"

"you always show up at my place and i don't mind. don't be a hypocrite especially right now." abby interrupted your sentence, her eyebrows furrowed from stress. you almost felt bad. and you know you would flip if she posted any other woman. maybe she was right about how she's acting. you would never admit it though.

"no i'm not abby. why do you even care anyways?" you walk closer to her, her face contorted in nothing but sadness. "are you jealous?" a smirk find it's way to your glossy lips, hands cupping her face. "you want me all to yourself huh?"

abby nodded, humming in agreement. her eyes not leaving your lips. she looked so needy, so desperate, so pathetic. and you're making her this way. talk about a ego booster. she nudged against the palm of your hands, rubbing her cheek against them. "need you..." abby whined, letting you guide her face to your lips.

her lips craved yours, almost devouring them as soon as they met. her tongue traced against the opening of your mouth, begging for permission to enter your mouth and you let her. felt like she was sucking the soul out of you, your breath weakening from the prolonged kissing. lips still connected, she picked you up, your legs wrapping around her waist.

as soon as you two entered your bedroom she threw you on your already disheveled bedspread. her hands quickly found its way to the zipper of your mini skirt. "need this pussy and i know she needs me." abby muttered under her breath, loud enough for you to hear. "she can't fuck you like i do. you only need me. say it." abby begged, her eyebrows still furrowed in need. and she's right. no one could make you cum more than 3 times a night, cater to your every need in the bedroom, only she could.

"i only need you baby just please..." you whimpered, only saying it to satisfy her. you brought her hands back to the waistband of your panties, the lacy black thong you only wore because you were seeing your ex tonight. abby wasted no time diving between your legs. she dragged her tongue against your thong, the fabric creating friction against your clit so fucking good. "fuck oh my god-" your nails scratched against abby's sensitive scalp, pulling her messy blonde hair to buck your hips even more. the moan that came out her mouth was almost guttural, only causing her her to speed up the endless torture.

you definitely had authority over abby's feelings, keeping her close with no thought in your head to start dating. but in bed, you're only reduced to a orgasming, moaning mess. abby would always come crawling back to make you feel good, even after 3 days of not messaging each other. she needed you and you sorta need her.

you felt the cold room air hit your folds, your panties getting pulled to your ankles by abby. she didn't give you a lick of time to calm down from her teasing, tongue running through your sopping cunt. she was making louder noises than you, whimpers and whines only causing vibrations to hit your clit. "taste so good angel." she moaned, her blue eyes holding you in a trance, not once breaking eye contact with you. "f-feels so good abby-" you yanked at abby's hair, causing a loud grunt from her lips.

"'m s-so close fuck abby please." you felt the heat in the pit your stomach get worse, your orgasm preparing to wash over your body. her lips latched to your clit, sucking like her life depended on it. you were so close and abby had no mercy, doing whatever it takes to make you cum all over her mouth. you thought that would be it until you felt her thick, calloused digits slip into you cunt, curling in all the right spots. "f-fuck oh my-" your back arched from the bed, grinding against her tongue and fingers. "'m c-cumming abby-" a few more seconds of sucking and fingering your orgasm rushed throughout your body, limbs shaking from the impact. abby held your hips, her tongue cleaning the rest of the juices on your folds. she pulled away to stare at the mess she caused, a grin plastered across her face.

"what else do you need me to do baby? anything you need." abby questioned, her hands exploring your torso under your tank top. "just wanna make you feel good..." your nipples we're between her thumb and pointer finger, pinching and tugging enough to elicit a loud cry from you.

"c-check my drawer." you point towards your nightstand, abby already knowing what you're hinting at. she's too good at fucking you with her strap, especially after an argument (you caused of course). she's definitely on a ten now since she has something to prove and what better way to prove you only need her by drilling you into the mattress.

abby took off her sweats, leaving her only in her tank top and boxers. your lip was between your teeth as you eyed abby as she secured the harness around her hips. not a single thought behind those eyes of yours, only lust and need.

it was a black strap with a few veins running along it's sides. a tad bit too big but it was your favorite on abby. she just knew how to use it, making sure you can feel her in your stomach. you definitely weren't going to be able to walk straight tomorrow morning.

abby positioned herself between your shaky legs, spreading them as wide as she could just so you can be on full display for her. she ran the tip through your folds, pressing it against your sensitive clit. "abby don't tease..." your begs fill the room, wanting nothing more than to have your girlfriend situationship balls deep in your cunt.

"relax baby..." abby hums. "wanna take my time with her." she slipped the tip of her strap in your cunt just to take it out once your gasp hit her ears. you couldn't take it anymore, your head fuzzy, just wanting to be stuffed. you move closer, letting the strap slip into your warm heat. your lips formed a perfect o, your eyebrows being pulled together as her strap continues to stretch your cunt slowly.

"so impatient, we need to work on that." abby shakes her head, sucking her teeth in response to you neediness. she continued slip her length inside you slowly, the stretch hurting so good. she finally bottomed out, the harness already sticky with your cum from your previous orgasm. you started rocking your pelvis area, feeling the tip of abby's strap brush against that spot but not necessarily quite. you were basically teasing yourself, only needing to feel abby fuck you. your weak movements weren't enough.

"you want me to move sweet girl?" abby smiled, her rough hands still pressing down on your legs, keeping them apart so they wont disrupt her view. you nodded repetitively, whines and borderline sobs filling the room. "p-please..."

abby pulled out slowly, only to ram back in with no warning."f-fuck oh my god-" you grabbed her forearms tightly, feeling her strap continue to pump in and out of your heat. she was so fucking deep. you think you almost felt her in your throat. "you can take it mama. i know you can." abby leaned forward, placing your nipple between her teeth, tugging softly. she began to rub her tongue against your hardening bud, still keeping the same pace she was previously terrorizing you with. "feels s'good..." you stuffed your face in the nearest pillow, muffling the noises you were making. you knew in your soul your neighbor would be putting in a noise complaint about you first thing in the morning. but having abby fuck you like she always did, after days on end of no contact, there's only so much you can do.

abby continued to pound into you relentlessly, not giving a chance to really take it in. you felt like you were going to cum any minute now, the pressure in you pelvis area growing more and more, the tip hitting your cervix with no remorse. "'m so close." you cried, looking down to see where you two met.

god it was so sloppy and messy, white painting the black silicone of abby's strap. you swore you could see how deep she was inside you, every thrust causing a bulge to appear near your pelvis. the scene was imprinted in your brain. you don't ever think you could forget how good she is fucking you.

"f-fuck me too." abby's thrusts became sloppier, the slowed friction pushing you over the edge. your whole body spasmed, hands gripping harshly on abby's biceps, leaving marks on her freckled skin. you couldn't even warn her or say you were about to come, only noises could be produced. your release coated her abs and the base of her strap, gluing you two together. your soft pants and whimpers combined with her grunts, her orgasm hitting her once you finished yours.

abby collapsed beside you, lazily taking off her strap. she immediately pulled you in to embrace you. her nose traced against your neck, hands squeezing your waist. "missed this so much..." she hummed, sleepiness washing over her.

you say there, letting the guilt wash over you. you know once she leaves tomorrow morning you ex will still be on the back burner, always there waiting when you're tired of abby. maybe when you wake up you'll have a change of heart, wanting to settle down and start building a better relationship with abby. however, you doubt that completely.

[gloomweed]

Eddie Loved Valentine's Day (eddie munson x bestfriend!reader)

a/n: I got the idea for this story last valentine's day, but I didn't finish it until today and I'm still not quite satisfied with it but I had to just get this out there already. This fic is more angsty than romantic, but it didn't feel right trying to shoehorn in some romance, so this is just how it's going to be.

summary: Eddie deals with some bad childhood memories on a valentine's day he spends with you.

w/c: 3.7k

Eddie loved Valentine’s day. Loved, as in, he used to. Specifically, when he was still in elementary school. Back then, the class would spend the whole day creating little mailboxes to hold all their cards. Decorating the recycled shoebox with stickers and markers, writing his name in big scrawling letters over the top. His mom would help him the night before, preparing the cards he was going to hand out. She would tell him how to spell each name, going one letter at a time. When she would ask if he needed help spelling his name, Eddie would hold out his little hand saying very confidently, “No, I know how.” Her voice was always gentle when reminding him ‘Eddie’ has a second ‘D’ after the first one.

Although there was little variety in the pack his mom bought from the store, Eddie made an effort to pick the card he thinks the recipient would like best. A Garfield card for Sindy, since she is always borrowing his orange marker. It’s her favorite color. An Odie card for Josh, since he spends recess digging with sticks and rocks. Something about wanting to find dinosaur bones. It would go like that until all the cards were signed, folded, and held together with little heart stickers.

The following day, Eddie would pass out all his cards and return to his seat to find his makeshift mailbox stuffed. In those days, he would get a card from every single classmate. He’d be filled with excitement as he opened each one. The puns and characters on the cards were fun to see, but really Eddie just enjoyed the thought that someone made him something. Some cards even came with a little candy. It was a fun day all around, and doing less school work was also a big plus.

After his mom passed, Valentine’s day kind of lost its charm. His dad said buying Valentine’s cards that kids were only gonna look at once and throw away afterwards was a waste of money and effort; however, that didn’t stop Eddie from participating anyways. He spent the night making his own cards out of notebook paper, drawing hearts and smiling faces on each one. Despite all the care he put into them, the finished product looked pretty messy. The cards weren’t all the same size, there were some misspelled words, marker ink bleeding through the paper, and since he didn’t have stickers, they were held together with regular translucent tape. Give him a break, he was nine. It wasn’t much, but Eddie put his heart and soul into it.

Once all the cards were passed out, everyone began digging into their boxes, reading cards and opening candy. “What even is this?” Eddie looked up from his pile of valentines to see one of his classmates holding up one he homemade, a disgusted look on their face. Another kid laughed. “Why does it look like that?” Eddie felt red, hot shame fill his cheeks as others began to join in the laughter. He sank further into his seat, wishing to disappear completely. Seeing Eddie’s name on the card gave the boy a target. “What’s the deal, Eddie? Couldn’t afford real valentine’s this year?” 

Eddie shot up from his seat. “No! My dad just forgot to buy them, is all,” he lied. “I just thought, you know, something is better than nothing, right?” His eyes darted between his classmates, hoping they bought it. 

“Next time, don’t even bother. It’d save us the time of throwing them away,” they laughed. It was then that the teacher made the announcement to return to their seats to resume the rest of the learning day. As Eddie sat back down he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. He put a lot of effort into those cards, only for his classmates to laugh at him and throw them away. His dad was right. What a waste.

That was the last time Eddie ever participated in Valentine’s day. Ever since then, he would spend the day doing anything else besides celebrating it. This year, he was at your house helping you get a head start on spring cleaning. You wanted to turn your life around, starting with a more organized living space. February 14th is as good a day as any to get started, and it wasn’t like you had any big plans. Which is totally fine and doesn’t depress you at all. 

Although he never told you exactly why, you knew Eddie didn’t particularly like the Hallmark holiday. You assumed it was because of how commercialized it had become since its inception. Of course it could be the matter of keeping up with his image. Soft petalled roses and candy hearts are pretty far from ‘metal.’ Whatever the reason may be, you hated the idea of your friend being alone on a day celebrating love, so inviting him to clean was the next best thing. While it took some convincing, eventually you coaxed him into it with the promise of beer and snacks.

You were both currently working in your bedroom. Eddie would hold something up and ask if you wanted to keep it or throw it away. Meanwhile, you sit on the hardwood floor creating piles all around you as you sift through the contents of your room. He did most of his work while sitting on your bed, a beer in his hand. 

Sometimes he would try on clothes you were feeling unsure of, saying that having someone model it would make it easier to decide its fate. Of course, this theory might have been successful if they actually fit him. The mental image of him in your too small knitted red cardigan is something that will bring a smile to your face for years to come. 

Running out of things to hold up to you, he looked in his direct vicinity and noticed a round tin by his feet, mostly under your bed. When you heard him gasp you turned to see what he had found. “Oh, that’s just my-”

“Cookies!” he shouted as he opened the blue butter cookie tin only for his face to fall in a confused frown.

You laughed. “Yeah, sorry. I reused that old cookie tin for my sentimental crap.”

Instead of delicious cookies, the tin was full of old birthday cards and handwritten messages left by people who cared about you. A letter from your now deceased grandmother, movie stubs from big releases, and Polaroid pictures of some childhood friends. Eddie smiled to himself. It was cute how you would keep stuff like this. From the outside, you didn’t look like the type of person to hold on to birthday cards from your 5th birthday. He looked at you with a playful pout, his eyebrows pulled together. “Aww. You do have a heart.”

Your offended face only made Eddie grin wider. “Shut up,” you laugh before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal and throwing it at him.

Laughing as he dodged your attack, he couldn’t stop some of the cards from jostling out. As he was gathering them back into the tin, he took a closer look at the one made of notebook paper. ‘From Eddie’ was written on the back in big messy letters.

Noticing his sudden silence, you stand to get a better look at what’s in his hands. You peek over his shoulder to see the valentine he hand made in the 4th grade. Immediately you become overwhelmed with embarrassment thinking Eddie was completely freaked out by the fact you kept the card so long, like some kind of stalker weirdo. Words vomit out of your mouth as you try to save your dignity. “Oh! That's- that's so weird! I can't believe I still have that. I thought I threw that out years ago. I’ll just take that back-”

Eddie instinctually snatches the card against his chest, his chin tucked in as he searches your eyes. When it's clear to you he isn't going to give it up, your hand falls limp at your side. Glancing at the card once more, he tries his best to keep his voice steady. “You kept this?” 

The change in demeanor feels unsettling. “Yeah, of course I did.” You look at your feet shyly. “It, uh, means a lot to me.” When you look back up, you see Eddie staring back with confusion.

You’ve gone through this scenarios hundreds of times in the late hours of the night when your brain just couldn’t stop running. How would Eddie react if he found out you kept something he made you when you were kids? The scoff that slips past his taunting lips was the last thing you expected from Eddie. He stands from the bed, looking down on you with a humorless smile. “This shitty scrap of paper means a lot to you?” The sudden scrutiny feels harsh and full of malice. You’ve never had the displeasure to be on the receiving end of Eddie’s anger, and from what little you’ve seen thus far, you hope to never face it again.

Shrugging like it was no big deal, you try your best to downplay your defensiveness. “Well, yeah. I thought it was really sweet of you.” You can’t stop yourself from squinting at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, are you mad at me for keeping it?” Why is he upset with you over this? It was given to you as a gift. You should be able to decide what you do with it without his approval. 

Despite being the one who asked the question, Eddie doesn’t really hear your answer, nor the following question. As he stares down at the messy writing on old, yellowed notebook paper, he feels his chest tighten in an overwhelming stifled rage. Having to be face to face with a reminder of his failure fills Eddie with so much self-hatred that he can’t think straight. It’s a reminder of his shitty dad. A reminder of his shitty childhood. It wasn’t fair. Every imperfect line and patch of bleeding ink stared back at him, mocking him. It all congeals to a point of no return in his gloomy head.

Eddie stares in silence for a moment too long and you can see the emotions shift in his face into something darker. “What are you-” You are cut off by the sound of a quick and quiet crunch, the paper crumpling in his first. It’s a knee jerk reaction that has you gasping at the sight, and Eddie immediately regretting. A piece of his heart shatters at the sound of yours doing the same. “Eddie!” Your high pitched squeal of anguish around the syllables of his own name has him filling with that same sinking heat of shame he felt all those years ago. 

Your hands dart at him, taking the paper from his grip as fast as it was destroyed. You do your best to smooth the paper back into some semblance of its former glory, but the creases on the old, thin paper still remain. It makes it difficult to see the handwritten words on the page, especially since your eyes are welling up with tears. You turn away from Eddie, too angry to face him. Too hurt to let him see you cry over this. Instead you kneel on the floor, slumping over the valentine you hold with the same delicacy as you would hold a baby bird with a broken wing.

Eddie feels his heart racing with anxiety. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to make you cry. He didn’t mean to. All he wanted was to get rid of the stupid reminder, not ruin your priceless keepsake. Eddie stands there for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He fucked up, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how to make it right. Your name falls from his lips in a stuttering mess. “I- I didn’t mean-” 

Whipping your head back to shoot him a teary eyed glare, you cut him off. “Don’t.” A sad shake of your head, “Just don’t, Eddie.” You didn’t want to hear how he was just trying to make some kind of joke. It wasn’t funny. It was just cruel. You turn back to stare at the ruined item in your cupped hands.

Eddie backs up towards the door, eyes wide and voice small. “Sorry.” You don’t say anything, but of course he doesn’t really expect you to forgive him. He leaves you be, silently making his way out of your house. 

On the drive home, he’s mentally kicking himself the entire time. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? Why do I have to find a way to ruin everything? When he pulls into the gravel driveway of his uncle’s trailer, he cuts the engine and contemplates in silence.

He has to make this right. That valentine meant something to you. You kept that shitty scrap of paper for years while the rest of the class threw it in the trash where it belongs.  That has to mean something, right? You wouldn’t keep trash for this long unless it was important, right?

Eddie runs a hand down his face as he belatedly processed what you said about him. I thought it was really sweet of you. You thought he was sweet? The tiny compliment is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks, and it only makes him feel worse about the whole situation. It’s going to take more than an apology to make it up to you.

It’s a few hours after the incident when you hear a knock at the door. “Coming!” You yell down the hall as you race to answer it. Seeing your kind smile fall when you realize it’s him, Eddie feels like you twisted a knife in his chest. He’s holding a modest bouquet of flowers towards you, gaze struggling to meet your own. “Well, look who it is.” You lean against the door frame, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’ve got some nerve, Eddie Munson.”

Eddie huffs a sigh, his breath visible in the frosty February evening. “I know. I know I don’t deserve to see you, but you deserve an apology. I came back to explain myself. Not that I had any right to do what I did.” He looks up at you from under his lashes. “Can I come in so we can talk?”

There’s a pout on your lips as you consider. The flowers do look very pretty, and he was thoughtful enough to have your favorite color as the centerpiece. Getting flowers last minute, on Valentine’s Day no less, was likely no easy feat, making the gesture more grand than usual. You hum in thought a moment before finally taking pity on the man practically groveling on your doorstep. “Fine.” You step aside to let him in, looking reluctant to do so. 

Relief washes over him as you make room. The warmth of your home felt like a welcoming embrace upon his bone chilled body. Once the door is closed, Eddie outstretches the bouquet towards you again. “Uh, these are for you.”

Doing your best not to show how pleased you are, you take the flowers from him wordlessly. Eddie turns to walk towards your living room, and you take the moment to smell the sweetness of them while he isn’t watching. You sit on the couch, laying the bouquet on the coffee table for the time being. 

Eddie continues to stand, feeling unworthy of your comforts. It feels reminiscent of when he first visited your home. The awkwardness of being new friends was evident as he stood in the corner, waiting for permission to sit on the couch or even enter the room. Now it’s like he wouldn’t sit even if you asked him to. Eddie preferred to pace while he talked. He has too much energy to expel to be still.

You give him your attention finally, arms crossed again, waiting for the apology he owes you. He clears his throat, hands nervously wringing together. “So first of all, I’m sorry for ruining your valentine. And your Valentine's day, for that matter. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He chuckles dryly, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Shit, I wasn’t thinking at all. I just got caught up in my stupid bullshit. But I swear, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. It was just-” You raise an eyebrow, not quite believing him yet. Eddie releases a breath like it was struggling to get out. “Seeing that valentine I made that everyone gave me shit for…” he sighs again, struggling to find the words. “It just brought it all back. I was a kid again being pointed and laughed at in front of everyone.” 

As he says this, your features soften when you recall what he’s talking about. You heard what some of the other kids were saying about Eddie’s valentines, but at the time you didn’t think he cared what they thought. He was always unapologetically himself to the point that the thought of Eddie being embarrassed or ashamed never even crossed your mind.

Eddie looks at you with a sad tilt of his head, wild curls bunching at his shoulder. “That doesn’t make it right, but I thought you ought to know why I did what I did.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It had nothing to do with you and I’m sorry I couldn’t control myself. I’m a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart.” He smiles ruefully, “but you already knew that.” His eyes dim a little at his self-deprecation.

You nod in understanding, a small smile on your face. “I appreciate your apology.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to forgive him just yet, and you wanted to be sure he realized that.

Although Eddie knew it wouldn’t be easy, he can’t help but feel disappointed he hadn’t earned your forgiveness yet. Regardless, he nods with a tight lipped smile in acceptance before reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “I wanted to make it up to you,” he pulls an envelope out, “with this.” 

You blink owlishly at Eddie’s outstretched hand, surprised he brought more than flowers. Standing from the couch, you gingerly take the card from him, watching him for any signs of what it might be. 

As you open the package, Eddie is already explaining his reasoning. “Now, I know it’s not the same, and it doesn’t hold the same meaning as the original, but I tried my best to remake it for you.”

Pulling the card from the envelope, you gasp at what you find. The writing is much neater, the drawings more detailed, and even the paper feels like it’s made of thicker material, but there is no doubt that this is Eddie’s reconstruction of the card he destroyed. 

The premise of the card was the same. A penguin (your favorite animal at the time) wearing sunglasses, surrounded by icebergs with bubble letters saying ‘U R COOL’ after your name. The sketches are much more sophisticated than any nine year old could make. It was clear that Eddie had honed his art skills over the years by doodling in the margins of all his school work instead of paying attention in class. But it wasn’t what the card looked like that made it special. It was the thoughtful gesture itself. 

When you look back up at Eddie, he shifts on his feet uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. He’s unsure what to make of your expression. “So, uh. Do you like it?” Before you can answer, he’s already speaking for you with a defeated slump of his shoulders. “You hate it, don’t you? I’m sorry, I know it’s not-”

“I love it.”

His eyes go wide, genuinely surprised. “Yeah?” He perks up when he sees your beaming face. “Really?” Eddie lets out a small ‘oof’ when you crash into him with an enthusiastic hug. His chuckling rumbles against your ear as you hold him tightly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Parting from the hug, you admire the valentine some more. “And I do forgive you, Eddie. I just wish you would have told me what Valentine’s Day really means to you sooner.” You search his dark chocolate eyes. “We’re friends, right? You know I would never make fun of you like that.”

And Eddie did know that, but in that moment, he couldn’t rationalize his intrusive thoughts away. It’s easier to hear that you’re loved versus actually believing it. All he can muster is a shrug, unable to put his inability to trust into words. “Yeah I know.”

With his unconvincing answer, you try a different approach to get him to understand what he means to you. Wordlessly, you leave the room leaving Eddie standing there wondering what you’re up to. You’re back before he gets the chance to overthink your departure, a picture frame in hand. As you fiddle with the tiny metal prongs holding the backing in place, you begin to explain. “From now on, I’m gonna make sure everyone sees this.” You slot the valentine into the frame before securing the backing once more. 

You hang your trophy in the center of your living room wall. Once you’re satisfied with the results, you take a step back and admire it with your hands on your hips. “There. Now, anytime someone visits me, I can brag to them about the personal valentine you made me.” Looking back over your shoulder, you see Eddie smirking bashfully.

“Oh come on. No one’s gonna want to see that.” He gestures to the hand drawn image, but you’re already shaking your head defiantly.

“Too bad. They’re gonna have to. Matter of fact, I’m gonna require they marvel at it for no less than 60 seconds before they can even enter my home.” Your arms are crossed with a playful smile on your face.

Eddie chuckles and there’s a small pause as he appreciates you. “You’re such a dork,” is his mumbled response.

You point up at the framed doodled penguin adorned in shades behind you with an astonishing amount of confidence. “Not according to my best friend.”

He huffs an exasperated sigh. “That’s it. I’m taking it back.” Eddie starts towards the wall, reaching above you. “You’re not cool anymore.” 

Instinctually, you put your hands on his chest in an attempt to stop him, but Eddie isn’t one to back down. “No! You can’t!” Giggles bubble out of you as you try your best to stand your ground. “I am cool!”

[bloodyinkandquill]

Phighting x Reader Valentine’s day special

IF TEXT IS IN RED ITS NSFW OR SUGGESTIVE

sorry for my disappearance, executive dysfunction, the day this will be posted (valentines duh) i’ll be flying out to spend two days with my partner 💜 im so excited to see them i love them so much hehehe, anyways same idea as christmas one what do the phighters do to celebrate valentine’s with you?

Sword:

- I picture him as someone who doesn’t go quite all out he still wants to do something nice for you. He’d get you a bouquet of whatever your favorite flowers are and in your favorite color too (if they grow in that color). If they’re roses he definitely cut his finger on them, he’s a little stupid but you love him. While not insanely fancy or expensive he takes you out for dinner as well, he didn’t consider making a reservation so hopefully wherever he planned has room. He gets you a super cheesy card but writes a super sweet message in it which makes up for an eye-rollingly cheesy card.

- He might wanna but he honestly doesn’t care either way, if you want to he’s absolutely down, if not he’s not going to be sad. So it’s your call.

Skateboard:

- He forgets about Valentine’s until like, the day of or before if you’re lucky. So you either get a very hastily bought gift of some chocolates, or him lying that he’s waiting till after to get the discount chocolates. You see through him but laugh and go along with it. To make it up to you he says whatever you wanna do for a date he’s down, as long as it’s not too too expensive.

- Bro is taking you to pound town. Or if you’d rather take him to pound town he’s okay with that too. Those were his exact words, while he didn’t/doesn’t do anything extravagant for Valentine’s he is definitely down for some Valentine’s sex. It’s nothing specifically Valentine’s exclusive but he does want to do it for the literal holiday of love.

Biograft:

- Similarly to Christmas he has the dictionary definition of the holiday but it doesn’t know much outside of that. But similarly to everything else he would love you to explain the tradition to him more, especially in your own words and opinions. Since it doesnt really grasp the concept of gift giving you don’t have to give him anything and it might not get your anything, obviously if you wanna give him something he’s not going to say no. And if you tell it that you want something special he’ll get it for you.

- Apologies I don’t do NSFW Biograft stuff.

Katana:

- He would unironically call it a corporate holiday, he’s that kinda guy. He is absolutely not against celebrating it he just doesn’t understand why such a big deal is made out of this day in particular, especially since in his words ‘I love you everyday why do I have to show it to you today specifically?’ If you want to celebrate it he’ll get you something small, and take you out on a date, somewhere secluded though since he doesn’t want to deal with the big crowds of Valentine’s day.

- He doesn’t care either way, it’s up to you honestly, since he doesn’t care much for Valentine’s it’s not anything he specifically wants to do. He will though he has no problem with it.

Ban Hammer:

- Gets you the most big obnoxious gift possible, especially just to embarrass you. Like big ass teddy bear and a big bouquet. He’s a dork but he’s your dork. Unfortunately he probably has to work for some amount of time because criminals don’t care that it’s Valentine’s so oh well you suppose. To make it up to you he takes you out to a really really nice restaurant, no reservations, he’ll just use his power of being the warden to get them to give you two a table. And dinners on him get whatever you want, he’s got the bux for it.

- Oh absolutely, he could barely contain himself during dinner, while nothing unique about it he just wants to since it’s Valentine’s and he wants to ‘show his love for you’ (like he hasn’t already.)

Rocket:

- He gets you something obnoxious as well, big stuffed animal but not specifically a Valentine’s themed stuffed animal just a big one, maybe a shark or axolotl, who knows. You spend the day together at his place, lounging around, watching shows, making meals together, even if he’s a hazard to any kitchen he enters. It’s sweet and he’s very cuddly and clingy, more so than usual. Might get you a card, if anything it’s homemade and actually really nice, he hates saying sappy stuff but he can put up with writing it down.

- You’re at his place all day, probably spending the night. What do you think? 100% dude, it doesn’t even have to be exclusively at night or even in the evening, you’re there all day he might wanna when you’re both just chilling on the couch watching TV.

Slingshot:

- One of the busiest days possible for his cafe, so you probably won’t be able to see him that day, you celebrate on a neighboring day. He bakes you a pastry you really like specifically customized to be Valentine’s themed, hearts and pink and red type of thing. Gives them to you in a heart shaped box to top it all off. As for what you do when you do celebrate I think he’d take you on a picnic, makes all the food, especially homemade bread to make sandwiches with and obviously pastries galore. Somewhere sunny and green.

- Yeah, he wants to say I love you in as many ways as possible, one of those being making love to you. He might make a special pastry to get you both in the mood if you catch my drift, he tells you about it though it’s nothing you don’t know about.

Hyperlaser:

- He’s got work basically everyday, that includes Valentine’s day. He also doesn’t see much of a point to it, he thinks it’s over the top and pointless. He’s alright if you want to do something but he doesn’t really want to, and doesn’t plan anything, and unless you specifically ask he doesn’t get you something. He’s not that much of the romantic type, like a at all. Sorry you knew what you were in for when dating him.

- Doesn’t particularly want to, he’s not a low libido so it’s only if you really want to. It’s not that he doesn’t want to specifically he just doesn’t have much desire to.

Shuriken:

- Again one of the busiest days for the cafe, he doesn’t have much of a chance to see you. So similarly to Slingshot he instead ops to celebrate on a different day. He doesn’t really care what you do as long as you spend the day together, and he has some way to show off, he’s a bit dumb but he wants to impress you as much as possible. Gets you something Slingshot baked, probably pesters him into making you something specific.

- Again only if you want to, he could but he’s not specifically wanting to. Not to say he’s against it but after work tires him out he doesn’t have that much energy to get freaky with.

Scythe:

- She is going to make it a day to remember that’s for sure. Robs the nicest bar she can find for the nicest alcohol one can steal. Takes you on a fancy ass date, probably held the place at gun point to get in without reservations but it’s Scythe what else do you expect from her? Gets you an expensive gift to top it off, she’s got expensive tastes what can she say? Also don’t worry if you can’t get her something, she is absolutely alright being gifted something else.

- Once you get home from the dinner there is fucking rose petals making a trail to the bedroom, and oh my gods if she’s rough or intense normally crank that up to fucking 13. Bed is covered in rose petals but there’s only a 60% chance you make it to the bed before she fucking jumps you. Again if you didn’t get her anything she says seeing your blissed out almost passed out face more then makes up for it, it was the part she was most looking forwards to. Hope you didn’t have plans for the day after, she is not holding anything back.

Medkit:

- On the complete opposite side of the coin he makes no big deal out of it. While he doesn’t do nothing per se it’s nowhere near fancy or extravagant. Scythe might make him work too, so he’ll probably just take you out for a nice-ish dinner. Gets you something small but meaningful, no card or flowers, he writes enough for the cult- I mean church, and he thinks flowers as a gift is pointless, they wilt and die rather quickly so why bother?

- He’s tired but if anything does any up happening it’s very slow and sensual, he normally is but he wants it to be especially so for the day of love. It’s definitely making love rather than just having sex and definitely not pure fucking.

Boombox:

- Bro 100% writes you a personalized love song, he probably doesn’t even release it it’s for you and you only, not for anyone else. He also gets you your favorite candy, a big bag of it.

(sorry these are probably getting shorter ive been up since 5:30 for my flight. i’m about to pass the fuck out)

- Yeah, he wants to for sure. Probably does something cheesy with it though, rose in his teeth on the bed, he then bursts out laughing and ruins any mood he was trying to set. But oh well you still do it and it’s nice. He’s always pretty sweet in bed and especially so with it being Valentine’s.

Subspace:

- Doesn’t have the day off since holidays aren’t big in Blackrock, but he’ll do stuff before and after he leaves. He orders takeout from your favorite breakfast place to have together before he leaves. When he gets back he gives you your gift, what does he get you? Sorry no clue again i’m about to pass out. Oh well it’s nice and nothing obnoxious or something you’ll never use, it’s practical but nice and sweet.

- Probably, as long as it’s not a bad pain day for his rot, if it is he’s huffy and puffy because he wants to have sex but his condition is getting in the way. Just kiss him repeatedly and he’ll melt and will stop complaining. If you do though he will be more intense with it then usual, not that hes normally gentle by any means, but he was probably pent up during work thinking about it so he’s basically pouncing on you as soon as he returns home, whenever that is.

Vinestaff:

- Once again, cafe is busy as hell so you’ll celebrate on a different day. She gets you a vase of beautiful flowers she grew herself, she grew and cared for them for weeks in preparation, taking even better care of them than usual. And that’s saying something considering it’s Vinestaff. You go out for brunch somewhere not fancy but definitely nice and maybe a tad pricey but it’s alright. Also she gives you, so so, many kisses all day, you’re going to be scrubbing off lipstick for like 5 minutes straight. Not that you’re complaining.

- I sound like a broken record but if you want to she’s absolutely down, but isn’t specifically looking forward to it, she could take it or leave it.

Coil:

- Gifts you something really nice he stole from a Blackrock noble, and a thing of assorted chocolates. He’s more boastful then usual but you know it’s because he loves you and wants compliments from you in return, he absolutely compliments you as well don’t get it confused, he just is also being more self complimentary then normal. Definitely doesn’t do a card, loving words are not his forte but oh well.

- Oh without a doubt you’re fucking on Valentine’s. Doesn’t even have to be at night he’s raring to go anywhere you happen to be, and do not expect him to be sweet and gentle during it, he is the hellhound he’s going at it like an animal. But he’s super sweet and caring afterwards don’t worry.

im so fucking tired i’m going to post this and then hopefully pass out, i also kinda need to pee but the seatbelt sign is on </3 , anyways happy valentine’s everyone have a great day and hope you enjoyed!

[denjjisgf]

NEW PERSON, SAME OLD MISTAKES maneater reader x unsuspecting s. gojo

cw: no smut but EXPLICIT CHARACTER DEATH, stalking, drugging, stabbing, dismemberment, vomiting, obsession, reader is delusional, despite the tags, this chapter is relatively unserious, not a lot of gojo in this one

series m!list

we all hate doing the walk of shame.

it's tacky and honestly quite embarrassing in a city of 15 million people. normally you're a "get in, get off, get out quick" kinda girl, but today is proving to be not your day. busting through a back alley fire exit of your downtown high rise, you look rather suspicious walking in the early hours of morning. a gym bag was slung over your shoulder and you were limping slightly from the duffel's dead weight.

it takes 20 minutes to drive to your worksite, a desolate plot of land which used to be a forest and is soon to be a spanking new subdivision. it also happens to be where you dump your bodies.

your car swivels when it rolls off the pavement and into wet gravel. you hum to the song playing on the radio, twirling the woven fiber strap on the bag, seated in the front passenger's spot. the sun is barely risen and the sky tinged with orange and clouds. driving through dug up holes and the bare bones of homes, just on the edge of the property is a woodchipper.

the car lurches as it stops, as if it was digging its heels into the ground, frightened by what's to come next. if there's time for a little candor, you're pretty freaked out too. your hands tremble, just barely (and mostly because of the cold), fingers sinking into a rubber-cased "on/off" switch. the machine roars to life, screaming with hunger, and an awful gnashing sound fills your ears. a flurry of leaves gets kicked in the air and remnants of sawdust floats down onto your hair and shoulders.

"fuck, i hate this shit," you grumble, dropping the heavy duffle to the frozen ground and dusting yourself off. you take a quick look around, scanning for innocent bystanders, lost children, generally anyone who would be alarmed by what you're about to do.

you zip open the bag and grimace at the severed head floating on top of neatly stacked pairs of arms and legs. its mouth was slack, frozen in a scream, tongue pale and bloody. the hack job on the neck was definitely not your best work, but considering the circumstances, careless and hasty, you were pleased with your bonesaw skills while inebriated.

after making sure the wheelie cart was positioned to catch the guts of the woodchipper, you chucked an arm into the mouth of it and a finger flew up into the air, bouncing back into your hand. the dead flesh is cold in your palm, and you feel the blood rush from your head, down. you run to the treeline, queasy from your hangover, and vomit. the alcohol-tinged bile burns as it comes up.

what a shitty valentine's day.

...earlier this week...

"why is it i only see you fleeing the scene?"

satoru. entertaining his stupid flirtations only makes you smart mouthed, and you're weak for that sharp glint in his eye, brows perked up in half shock, half arousal.

"huh, couldn't tell'ya," twisting your body to match his eyes as you walk by. "if only i could manage to get out a little bit quicker. it feels like sneaking out and getting caught by dad," and with a wink, you're slinking out his apartment lobby door. shameless as fuck, he undresses you with his eyes.

you don’t know, but he loves that bratty mouth, your little innuendos. that sexy body when you swing your hips for him, leaving from another man's place. he runs his palm down his face, groaning, wishing you wanted him instead.

telling satoru you were dating someone in the building, in some ways, worked in your favor. he no longer questioned seeing you around, in the elevator and by the trash chute. no, you weren't stealing his trash, but you did check for condom wrappers.

now, before you go and judge, you had a job too! you couldn't just watch him every night, but it had begun to drive you mildly insane not knowing what he was doing. you contemplated installing cameras in his place and began lashing out at your employees when they fucked up paperwork and you had to stay late. everyone had become a barrier and all you needed was satoru.

but other times, the white lie left you frustrated and wondering what would've happened if he was flirting with you at the cafe instead of that barista. would you still have wanted to end his life, feel his blood drain, and body go cold? the image makes you shiver now.

which is probably what's stopping you from killing satoru. you feel like you're starting to lose your edge. i mean, two weeks ago, you let that girl from the club go, and now you’re more of a stalker than a killer.

you leave his place at the perfect time to bump into him, when are buzzing with adrenaline from sneaking around, dopamine and lust. not only do you get to be in his space, but you also get to see him. relaxing your "not letting potential victims see you" rule to spare a few fleeting seconds with satoru, the two of you dance around small talk and shoving your tongues down each others' throats every time.

you wish you had stuck around to talk to him that next day when you're searching through his laptop, the one he conveniently left unlocked.

"A DATE???!!" if steam could fume from your head, it would have. how could this have happened?? but there it was, the third most recent conversation with "jessica", confirming a date on february 14th, just thirty minutes ago.

you're pacing, staring at the open messages app. stomping over to the couch, you perch on the armrest and tumble backwards into the throw pillows. your fingers tap to open the app store, downloading hinge, impatiently tapping your phone case as the meter gauge fills.

why didn't he ask you?!

that stupid imaginary boyfriend... god, why did you say that?? why not a "best friend" or "dogwalker", some shit like that? you can't wallow alone on valentine's, knowing your satoru is out with another woman, you have to find another date. something else to preoccupy your time.

you know if you stay at home, you'll only end up back at his place, furious and bloodthirsty. while you're experienced, for sure, you've never done a threesome, and with your recent track record, it's best not to try anything new.

in a breeze you create a profile. you swipe through a few accounts, and close the app, disappointed. none of them were satoru. your silver fox, tall, broad, and aging like fine wine. the thought makes you swoon and snuggle deeper into his sofa.

you left earlier that night, wanting to deprive satoru of your subtle affections in passing. by the time you're tucked into bed, you have several "let's fuck" dms on hinge, and significantly less viable candidates than you'd hoped for. it is internet dating, so i don't know what you expected.

on valentine's day, you're strapping on a pair of ruby low pumps and smoothing down the black fabric of your cocktail dress. the bar your date had picked was only a couple blocks away, so you opt to walk, cinching the waistbelt of your trench coat, and going.

you were the first to arrive. you left a little early, so you could have plenty of time to survey the area, get comfortable before your date- matt, mike, you don't know, and frankly don't care- got there. you wave down the bartender and pass him a titanium card to start a tab. you have a couple drinks while you wait, and when your date got there, you have a couple more.

the rest of your memory is foggy from here. you had a lot to drink last night, and this morning, head splitting open from the inside and covered in blood, proved you blacked out sometime between 10 pm. and boy, were you busy.

it was quite alarming to wake up to actually, fingers crusted in blood, your hair matted in certain spots. pieces of bone shard were caught in your sweatshirt and your hands ached like you were using heavy machinery. the bonesaw... goddamnit. what was wrong with you?! the closed bathroom door stared eerily back at you. you were afraid to see what was behind it.

by the corner of the bedroom, sitting on a black, hefty trash bag, is a duffle bag, busting to the seams. hey, looks like last-night-you left you a gift. not long after, there you were. you grab the last body part in the nike duffle, your date, the man from quebec's leg, and toss it over your head. speckles of blood smack against your lips as the metal teeth chew up the limb and shit it out its other end.

drinking to oblivion wasn't your thing, you didn't like feeling out of control, so you chalked it up to "the satoru problem". you speed home when the body was disposed of, leaving the gorey scene behind, and your victim's bits and pieces churning in a cement truck. you were desperate to shower, dirt and blood caked in your cuticles, skin coated in a layer of filth.

sliding the key into the front door, you sigh with relief when you make it back to your penthouse. you climb the glass staircase, heading into your bedroom. the scent of iron and something sour tinge the air. the bathroom light shines faintly under the bottom of the door.

peering inside, you feel your mouth pool with saliva, holding back a gag. carnage is everywhere. your modern, pristine white bathroom is painted with blood and sinewy vessels like hair on a shower wall. thick, viscous puddles yet to dry are in circles all over the floor, but majority of the damage is in the tub. you run the shower head and the water shifts from crimson to pink after a few minutes.

it takes all afternoon to clean up the mess the man from quebec's dismemberment made. you make a vow to never kill anyone drunk or without planning ever again. you delete the messages you sent to him on the dating app and erase your profile.

it wasn't smart to kill without planning, and dumping the bodies near your company's buildsite requires thoughtful planning. you pray the construction guys pave on their merry way and pay no mind to the chunks of human flesh in the cement.

"this has to be the last time," you tell yourself. great, now you're talking to yourself outloud. you had official lost it. satoru gojo was the only thing you could think about, he consumed you. you decided in a split second, and then you're buckling your seatbelt, taking off to his apartment. you knew he was home, it was the weekend, so he had no reason to be at the office.

when you got there, you walked straight to the intercom, punching in his apartment unit. it buzzes four times before his voice cuts in, grainy through the shitty box speaker, but all the same shoots electricity in your veins.

"hello?"

"hey, gojo. it's me."

"oh hey...how'd you know which unit was mine?"

"ah," you clear your throat, "i've been calling all the units. luckily you answered this time."

he chuckles sexily through the intercom. "are you that desperate to talk to me?"

"actually, yea."

he's silent on the other end and you fidget in place, second guessing coming here on a whim. i mean, to be honest, it's not like the two of you are that close. he probably flirts with everyone...

"oh. hmm- where's the boyfriend? trouble in paradise already?"

"i'm thinking of ending things. i haven't told him yet, i just- i just know it's gonna be the best thing for me."

"so, you aren't gonna tell him, but you'll call every unit in the building to tell me?"

"look, i'm just looking for some comfort. these are difficult times and i had a rough valentine's day, okay?!" you're choking up, suprisingly for real, "my "boyfriend" took another woman out last night."

he's silent. "i'm really sorry. i- i didn't realize."

"satoru?"

"yea?"

"do you still have that guest pass?"

"i'll be right down."

sorry if i lost the plot @megumisthirdog