#can’t wait to not write after this for months

[ktownshizzle]

Watermelon & Suga | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x plus size female!reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: idol!au, Fluff, Smut, Drama, Whirlwind romance, Love at “second” sight

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Inspired by the events of Dday Phuket Vlog, Yoongi meets you, the island girl of his dreams, and now he can’t stop thinking about you.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Dday rockstar Yoongi, I love this MC I think she a baddie, writing might feel a little too indulgent at times, A world with no language barriers, A relevant time skip, check the dates. Sex on a boat, public sex/slight exhibitionism kink, unprotected sex (be safe!), oral (m&f), spanking, fingering, squirting (in that order lol), slight degradation and dirty talk but MC likes it, sweet pet names, tell me if I missed anything, but yeah… sex on a boat and then some, Yoongi is down atrociously bad for our curvy queen and is desperate to worship her and validate her <3

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10k!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Finally!!! Worked on this for months ever since some of y’all plagued me with Phuket vlog Yoongi as honeymoon hubby material and I couldn’t stop the fantasy from unfolding. It did take me a while to bang this out (I blame the Nerds), sorry. Nonetheless I hope y’all enjoy this lil slice of paradise. 💜 Thank you Aqua for betareading.

🗓️ June 2023 - 📍Phuket, Thailand

The air smells like salt and sunlight, a mix you’ve grown so accustomed to that it no longer feels special. Just another Tuesday workday on the Andaman Sea. 

It’s nice and calm out today, barely a ripple on the surface. There’s a light breeze from the southwest, nothing too exciting, just enough to keep things cool. No storm on the radar, and the water's warm enough for a good snorkelling sesh. Basically, a perfect day to fall in love (with the sea).

Your usual clients are giddy tourists, high on Tiger beer and oyster omelets. But today seems quieter, more chill somehow, even though your group today is unlike your typical clientele. Today, you were asked to sign an NDA.

The rest of the group has boarded already. Some seven men and women that comprise a group of musicians currently in town for their concert tour. Now, you’re just waiting for the last member to join. The VIP, apparently.

So who’s the diva? 

Well, after 15 minutes, he finally decides to grace you with his presence. 

“Min Yoongi?” you call tentatively.

He nods, barely glancing up as he steps onto the boat. A quick bow, respectful but distracted. You direct him to a seat near the stern, his cologne lingering in the air as he passes you.

To be fair, he’s not flashy, no monogram logos in sight, no jewelry, or any other loud proclamations of being the proverbial shit. Dressed in a black and white shirt with a plain black rash guard and shorts, a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, he could’ve been mistaken for anyone. But there seems to be a deliberate nature in how he moves, careful and understated, like he’s trying to avoid notice but not entirely succeeding. 

Swag can’t be faked, even if he did walk a little bit like your grandpa. Those New Balance slides? Yeah, you’ve seen it in your halbeoji’s home.

You turn to speak with Soomchai from the coast guard—a moderately cranky but well-meaning old man who’s been doing this for decades. He scratches at his scalp through his faded fisherman’s hat as you hand him the passenger manifest.

“You’re staring too hard,” he quips, licking the pad of his index before flipping the pages.

Huh? “I’m not.” You say.

“So they’re famous, eh?” he reviews the names on the clipboard, surreptitiously glancing over your shoulder.

You look behind you, half of them are already asleep, half basically on their phones.

“One of them, yeah. You know BTS?”

His face remains unchanged as he counts the passengers. “I don’t and I don’t trust the lot of them. Want me to accompany you?”

“Loong Soomchai,” you smile at the man who has taken you under his wing since you moved here last year. “Chill. Besides, I have a black belt in taekwondo, if you already forgot. I can easily toss them overboard, then they’ll really be your problem.”

“Aish,” he waves a dismissive hand at you. “I’m on line 3. Stay safe.”

“Roger, that,” you speak into your hand-held radio, your voice blaring on the receiver tucked into the older man’s cargo shorts. 

Soomchai’s slouched frame disappears as the boat pulls away from the dock. You brace your legs and adjust your stance. The boat shifts beneath you—but you don’t. Learning how to move with the water, how to balance your weight just right, was something that came with time.

Before you officially start the tour, you check your rash guard, snug across your chest, and smooth down the high-waisted swim shorts that you are wearing. You’re quite happy with your fashion choice today. It made you feel like a Bond girl—but curvier, tougher, more badass.

Usually, you would take a moment to observe your audience, make eye contact and exchange smiles to open the communication. Your VIP, though, sits with his arms resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on the water as though it holds answers to questions only he knows. You wonder if he’s the type to make small talk or if he’d prefer you stayed silent. 

Still, it’s your job to guide, to narrate, to fill the spaces between the silence and the sea. You start with the usual pleasantries and introductions, your go-to joke to break the ice, and you’re off. 

“If you look to the right,” you gesture, “you’ll see Koh Tapu. You may have heard of it as James Bond Island, because a scene from The Man with the Golden Gun was filmed there.”

A polite murmur rises from the other guests. Some snap photos. Min Yoongi doesn’t look up.

You let the silence stretch, wondering if you should say more. It’s not often you get guests like him—someone who seems so unbothered, yet weighed down at the same time. 

It isn’t until you glance back at him again that you realize he’s watching you now, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap. Caught, you quickly look away, focusing instead on the shimmering turquoise of the water.

“How many times have you done this tour before?”

The question surprises you. You’re not sure if you should be offended, but you answer swiftly anyway. “Hundreds of times,” you admit with a shrug. “But the sea changes every day. It’s never exactly the same.”

You smile at him, genuine. “I imagine it’s a bit like your concerts. You practice it a thousand times, but it's still different in every show, every city, every audience… Makes things interesting.”

Something in your words seems to resonate with him. He leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I get that,” he says softly, more to himself than to you.

After that, you noticed Yoongi’s guard begin to lower. He’d nod occasionally at your explanations, even ask a question here and there—about the history of a limestone karst or the kinds of fish they might see while snorkeling. His voice was quiet, with a faint rasp from overuse that made him clear his throat now and then.

“You know this fish?” Yoongi asks, holding out his phone to show you a screenshot.

“Wow, that’s beautiful…” you lean forward slightly.

He coughs a bit, scratching the back of his neck as he leans back. “Yeah, uh, they said it’s native to these parts.”

“I’m not familiar,” you squint. “Can you send me the photo? I can ask one of the other guides—I’m still no expert on marine life, I fear.”

There’s a pause. He gives you a look you can’t quite read, brows slightly raised, lips pressed in something not quite a smile. But it’s not disapproving either. Just... 

Oh shit. You just asked for his number. Or to exchange Kakao. Same thing. You basically asked to link up.

Such an idiot. A flush creeps up your neck. Stupid, stupid girl. You weren’t thinking. God, he probably thinks you’re trying to pull a fast one on him—playing the helpful guide when really, you just wanted an excuse. 

People don’t just ask for Yoongi’s number. Of course not. Unless they’re someone. You hope he doesn’t file a complaint after this.

You straighten, your voice a little brighter, a bit too eager to salvage what’s left of your professionalism. “But, um, actually, no need. We’ll see a ton of species later when we get near the caverns. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for that one.”

“Mmh.” He nods. You can’t quite tell if it’s thoughtful or distracted by your word vomit.

But as you turn to walk across the deck, you can feel his eyes burning holes on your back. Low on your back. Maybe lower even.

Should you look? Maybe you’re just imagining it. 

You chance a quick glance. And your eyes meet his. Looking at you with an interesting glint. His lips lift slightly. You tilt your head, curious. Pulse racing. Giddy.

Okay, maybe your job is safe after all. But your heart? Eh.

When you serve them a plate of watermelon slices, the group’s energy shifts. One of them jokes about how they should’ve brought soju, while another eagerly reaches for a piece, groaning in satisfaction the moment he tastes it.

You place the tray in front of Yoongi, and he immediately plucks a slice. He bites into it, and for the first time all morning, you see a full-blown smile—pretty enamals and pink gums on show.

“Good?” you asked, unable to stop your own grin from forming.

He nodded, wiping his thumb along the corner of his mouth. “It’s perfect.”

“What’s your favorite fruit?” you throw out a neutral question as you struggle to ignore the stray liquid he’s trying to chase down with his tongue. 

“Tangerines,” he replies. “The ones from Jeju Island are the best. Have you ever been?”

“No, unfortunately.”

There was a beat of silence before he adds, almost to himself, “But this… this is nice.”

He pushes the plate towards you. “You should have one.”

“Ah, maybe later.”

“Don’t be shy,” the plate moves another inch closer. You pick up a slice, mumbling a thanks.

Sugar fills your mouth as you sink your teeth on the watermelon, juice dribbling on the side of your lip which you immediately catch with your tongue.

Unlike you though, he’s watching. Openly. Shamelessly. The way his eyes dart from your mouth to your eyes is not lost on you and you can’t help but feel excitement pooling in your belly.

“Sweet.” you remark, before sucking the juice from your thumb. Baiting him.

He smirks, “Looks like it.”

“You always flirt using fruit?”

“You’re the one licking your lips.”

You grin.

As a tour guide, you’re used to the art of the harmless flirt. It comes with the job—tourists with sun-soaked nerves and too much vacation confidence, tossing compliments like loose change. You’ve learned how to play along just enough, to keep things light, fun. A wink here, a tease there. Part of the act. People like feeling charming, and you don’t mind giving them the illusion.

But this feels different.

Right now, it’s just you, the sea, and this idol watching you like he’s the one mesmerized.

And maybe it shouldn’t matter, the way his gaze lingers—not over the places you’ve been taught to hide, but the ones you’ve learned to own. The dip of your waist. The curve of your hip where your swim shorts sit snug. 

There’s something about being looked at like this—not with hunger or pity, but with curiosity, appreciation, even. And it makes you want to keep his gaze a little longer.

‘Cause you know who he is. You’d recognized the name when you saw it on the manifest and when you signed the documents. He’s an idol. Part of Bangtan Fuckin’ Sonyeondan. A man with a carefully manicured image, a life guarded by rabid fans, dissected by media men with too many opinions, surrounded by sexy, slender women.

You’d think men like him don’t get to have ‘normal’ moments like this. They don’t make casual conversations about fish or share food with a rando. But here he is, acting like this is real. And god, why does it feel like it might be?

Honestly, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re not the only one who knows the art of the harmless flirt. Maybe he’s not even that interested.

But you’re gonna play along. See where this goes. At least for now.

Later, after anchoring in a secluded cove, you bring out the snorkeling gear. Most of your guests dive in with ease, their laughter echoing as they race toward the reef. Yoongi lingers on the boat, fiddling with the straps of his mask.

“Need help?” you ask, stepping closer.

He looks up, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”

You laugh softly. “A little. Here, let me.”

He hands you the mask, watching as you adjust the straps. His gaze feels heavier now, like it’s searching for something beyond the simple act of fixing the gear.

You’re used to people skimming past you with their eyes, but when Yoongi looks, you feel like your skin is on fire. His gaze dips, just for a second, on the spot where the zipper of your top sits against your boobs. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t smirk—probably thinks he’s being sly. But you’re on to him. 

“You’ve done this before, right?” you check, eyes teasing, as you pass the mask back to him.

He shrugs. “A long time ago. I’m out of practice.”

“Good thing I’m here.” You flash him a reassuring smile and step into the water, gesturing for him to follow.

You surface and nod. He hesitates only briefly before jumping in—but his foot slips slightly on the boat’s edge, and he lands with an ungraceful splash and shriek that echoes across the cove. You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out.

“Grand entrance,” you say, grinning as he surfaces with a shy expression.

“Glad I could entertain you,” he mutters, pushing his wet hair back, and if that isn’t one of the sexiest actions you’ve ever seen done by any human being. God.

“Here.” You take a chance to reach for his hand, and to your mild surprise and relief, he takes it. “Just relax. The water will do most of the work.”

He follows your lead, his fingers tightening slightly around yours as you float together. The reef comes into view below, vibrant and teeming with life. You glance at him, his face half-hidden by the snorkel mask, and find him watching you instead of the reef.

“You’re missing the best part,” you pull your hand away, pointing toward the colorful fish darting between the coral.

“Am I?”

You take your mask off only to roll your eyes. “Are you always this smooth?”

He pulls the mouthpiece out just enough to smirk at you. “Only when it works.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escapes you. 

“Admit it,” he says, leaning closer, his voice low. “You’re having fun.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you start wading away, gesturing towards the reef. “Come on. The fish are much better company.”

Back on the boat, the atmosphere is lighter. Yoongi is more relaxed now, his earlier distance replaced by a quiet warmth. As you steer toward the island for lunch, you feel his gaze on you again.

When you glance over, he doesn’t look away this time.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he says, though his lips twitch into an understated smile.

At the island, the group disembarks for lunch, their excitement palpable. Yoongi lingers by the railing, his gaze flickering between you and the others.

“Come with us,” he says, his voice low enough that the others don’t hear.

You shake your head, smiling apologetically. “I can’t. Protocol.”

He looks as though he wants to argue, because he seems like the type that gets everything he wants, but resignedly nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you echo, though you’re not sure if you believe it.

While they eat, you stay behind on the boat, finishing your own lunch, which one of the island ahjummas hands you as soon as you dock. There’s still some leftover watermelon, so you have it for dessert. It’s sweeter than any you have had all summer, but not sweet enough to distract you from the thought spinning in your head: Did the Min Yoongi really just invite you to join their group for lunch?

He was probably just being polite. Right? But then why did he stare at your lips for ten whole seconds when you were exploring the caves?

Fuck. You really need to get Lasik because your eyes cannot be trusted. Maybe a psychiatric evaluation too, while you’re at it.

Who are you kidding? At this point you can only afford the oh-so ahjumma-chic wide-brim hat so your lone brain cell is not fried by the sun.

BUT. Why does it feel like you had a connection?

Him with his kind eyes and that sexy smile. You’re so fucked.

Shaking your head, you grab a beer from the cooler and chug it, the cold brew doing its damnednest to wash down your delusions. For a moment, the only sound is from waves against the boat’s hull.

But then, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Yoongi is walking into the shaded area of the boat, pushing damp strands of hair with his beautiful fingers.

“Hey,” you say, clocking that he’s coming in alone. Your pulse races.

“Hi.”

“Craving more watermelon?” you ask, smiling as you gesture to the plate.

He leans against the table, his gaze steady, but there’s something else there. “I was,” he says, his voice softer now, “but I think I’m craving something else.”

Your breath stutters. The plate in your hand feels heavier. The tips of his fingers brushes along the edge of the table as he walks closer, and closer.

“There’s, uh, more delicacies on the island,” you try to use your tour guide voice, but you’re faltering. “Thailand has, umm, over 1,000 species of fruit, you know…”

“Mmm.” A faint smirk touches his lips, but his eyes are fixed on you. He’s literally in front of you now, so close that the air is sucked out of your lungs. You notice every macro detail—the faint streaks of sunscreen on his cheek, the fine grains of sand clinging to his hair, the way his scent is a mix of the sun and the ocean and his own musk. And those lips. Goddamn those lips.

“What is it that you like?” you ask, your voice small and shy as he studies you, too.

“I think I prefer,” he murmurs, before leaning in. “This.”

His kiss sparks upon contact against your mouth. His lips are a little chapped, but still soft. A hand slips around the back of your neck, guiding you closer until your lips part, and his tongue slides in. There’s not one second of hesitation, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You angle your head and kiss him back, a little messy, a little breathless. It’s not the kind of kiss meant for daylight, not while you’re at work, not something that belongs on a boat in open water, but fuck if it ain’t so goddamn good you forget where the hell you are.

His other hand settles on your middle, firm, squeezing against your soft waist. You’re keenly aware of every place your bodies meet—your chest against his damp shirt, your thigh brushing his leg, the faint heat radiating off his skin in the humid air.

You’ve never done this. Nope. Not while working. Not with guests, especially. But Yoongi doesn’t feel like a guest anymore. Doesn’t feel like a fantasy or a celebrity or whatever version of himself the world thinks he is.

He doesn’t feel new–like someone you just met. It sounds crazy that you connected on a level that doesn’t quite match the short amount of time since you’ve exchanged names. You can’t even correct your actions at this point. Not when he tastes like coconut and you’re slipping farther away from clarity.

Your hands move on instinct, sliding up under his shirt, fingers tangling in the sticky strands at the nape of his neck. “Yoongi…” His name escapes you like a plea, like you’re already wrecked—and maybe you are.

His tongue strokes yours, and it’s incredibly filthy how he’s sucking it into his mouth like he wants to own it. Own you. You moan. Your knees weaken. Your brain empties. The only thing you can feel is him—his mouth, his breath, the growing pressure of his body against yours.

Fingers are slipping under the hem of your shorts, gripping you behind with no hesitation.

“This ass,” he mutters, then smacks, and the sound cracks in the air. Your breath catches, a gasp hitching from your throat as slickness floods your bikini bottoms.

“Shit–somebody might see us,”

“Nah, nobody else is gonna come here,” he pauses, smirks. “Except you, twice. Then, me.”

The confidence. “Oh my God.”

“We ‘bout to break protocol.” He squeezes your ass again, groaning into your neck. “You want this?” he rasps. His lips latch onto your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe. “Come…”

You grab his hand and lead him toward the hatch, pulling it open and motioning for him to climb down. He does without question, dropping to the lower deck with a soft thud.

You grip the ladder, descending slowly, legs already shaky with anticipation. But before you can hit the floor, his hands are on your thick thighs, firm. Squeezes once.

“Stop,” he commands. “Face me.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, turning to face him as you grip the edge of the floor deck which is now at your eye level.

“What are you—?”

“You keep an eye out,” he says, voice low and dark with intent. “I'm just gonna eat you out real quick.”

Your breath catches—shocked, aroused, completely undone.

He curls his fingers into your waistband, tugging your shorts and bikini bottoms down in one smooth motion. A gust of humid air brushes your exposed skin as your knees nearly give out.

But you don’t get a second to process, because his mouth is already on you, making out with your pussy lips. His tongue licks a long, hot stripe through your folds, and your nearly fucking cum right there.

The metal ladder is cool against your ass as you struggle for balance. Your grip tightens on the deck, knuckles almost white. His hand slides up to part your thighs just a little more, anchoring you open for him. You feel his hot breath, before his tongue dives back in—savoring, circling, sucking.

You panic—just briefly. You spent hours in the ocean. You probably taste like—

“Mmm,” he hums against you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. His grip on your thigh is a bit harsh as if he could read your mind that you wanted to squirm out of his grasp. 

There is something so incredibly arousing about feeling him, but not seeing him. Hearing him, but not touching him. As if the sensations are heightened. Every feeling more palpable because of sense deprivation.

Next thing you know his fingers are teasing your entrance, collecting the slick from your pussy.

You feel a wet tap against the side of your mouth and words aren't needed as you suck his digits in. You’re drunk of your own taste and heady scent, the feel of his bony knuckles massaging your tongue tipping you closer to the edge.

But then his fingers are gone and you almost want to bite it down but then he slides it into your cunt and Christ alive. 

He is moving in and out of you so shallowly, just knuckle-deep, the pads of his fingers barely scraping your inner walls. You move your arms to grip the ladder behind you, giving you the leverage to rock forward, coaxing it inner, deeper.

Fuck is he laughing right now?!

You halt your movements as you hear a throaty chuckle from underneath you.

“Why’d you stop,” he teases, kissing up the softness on the inside of your thighs.

“Hook your thigh over my shoulder,” he mumbles against your soaked heat, voice low and so filthy it makes your whole body tense.

You do as he says. Your leg lifts shakily, your body is burning with the exertion but his hand is already there, steadying you, guiding you, draping it over the curve of his shoulder like you don’t weigh nothing.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, just before his tongue dives back in.

It’s messier now. His fingers pump deeper, faster, the pace almost punishing as they curl inside you, finding that spongey spot that makes your thighs seize. His tongue flicks over your clit in short, relentless strokes, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

You cry out—loud, desperate, your hand gripping the ladder like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. Your hips jerk, trying to escape, but he growls and tightens his hold, tongue moving even faster.

“Fuck, Yoongi—I’m gonna—”

And then it hits. A blinding, body-shaking orgasm that tears through you so violently your vision goes white. You scream as your legs almost gives out, but his arm braces your hips as you fuckin’ squirt, soaking his chin, his neck, the tops of his shoulders.

He lets out a surprised, delighted laugh, breath hot and sticky as he looks up at you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes glazed, chin glistening. “You squirted all over me, you dirty girl.”

You whimper, half-mortified, half-high, your body still twitching. “Sorry…” you squeak.

His tongue darts out to taste the corner of his mouth, and he grins—smirks, really. Completely pleased with himself. “Don’t. Sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

You’re trembling so hard you can barely stay upright, your leg slipping from his shoulder. He catches it, presses a final kiss to your inner thigh, then plants your foot down on a step. 

“Come here. Be careful,” he says, voice gentler now. He guides you by the waist, helping you down the last few steps until your feet hit the floor.

Your body collapses into his chest on instinct, and he chuckles again, arms wrapping around your middle.

“You okay?” he asks softly, nose nudging yours.

You nod, breath still catching in your throat. “More than okay.”

He pulls back just enough to flash that lazy grin. “Good. ’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

He spins you back around, pressing you against the ladder. You gasp as his hand flattens between your shoulder blades, your palms bracing the handles above you as his hips roll into yours from behind—slow and grinding, just to let you feel what he’s working with.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice low, gravel edged with need, his hard cock moulding itself against your plush ass cheeks.

You push your hips back into him. “Yes. God, yes.”

There’s a frantic shuffle of clothes, from his end, his swim trunks dropped and kicked away, and then… He slides in with one rapid thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your mouth drops open, lungs pierced, your breath knocked right out of you.

“Fuck—shit,” you choke, forehead pressing against your arm.

“F-fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on your hips. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts to move, hips snapping forward sharply. Each thrust drives you against the ladder, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny space, the scent of the ocean mixing with the thick heat of your bodies.

Yoongi rocks against you desperately like he’s been holding back all damn day. Like he’s finally been let off the leash. Mercifully he slows down, but he is pulling you up by your hair so your back is resting against his chest. 

“Yoongi,” you say his name breathlessly, and he releases his ponytail grip as you struggle to stay upright. He licks the skin by your ear, whispering dirty things you’ve never heard of in your entire life, twitches against your walls.

“You like that, huh, you little slut?” 

Fuck. You didn’t expect to like the name so much. An involuntary clench of your pussy and you know he got the idea. It’s not just the name, but it’s the way he is literally manhandling you, fulfilling all your small girl fantasies.

“Mmh.”

“Yeah, you love it.” His fingers find the zipper of your rash guard top sliding it down just enough for his large hands to slip inside and grab a fistful of your breasts.

“Your tits are so soft, shit. Wan’ suck on them so bad.” He growls.

“Want it,” you mewl, pushing your chest forward for him to grasp.

“I bet you do, huh. Maybe later, if you’re a good girl I can suck on these. Make you cum just licking at your nipples—want that?”

“Uh-huh, please,” You sound so whiny, fucking back into him as he fondles and tugs and pulls at your sensitive nubs.

“Spit,” he instructs, his palm out. “Let’s get these nice and slick.”

A wet glob from your mouth lands on his palm and he slaps it against your tits. You whimper at the sting, but it’s quickly relieved by the soft massage against your breasts.

“Feel good?”

“So good. Ah–” your words are cut off as he folds you again to his liking.

Yoongi fucks like he is used to being watched, but right now? There’s no audience. No stage. Just you, bent over, body shuddering with every thrust, moaning like you don’t care who hears it.

Your hands scramble for grip, nails digging into your own skin as his rhythm gets rougher. His fingers trail up your spine, tracing the dip at the small of your back before curling into your hair and yanking just hard enough to make you gasp as he continues to rail you from behind.

“Harder, please, Yoongi…”

“So desperate,” he pants, breathing hot against your neck. “So fucking good like this. You feel—” a groan breaks his sentence, “—so goddamn perfect. A pretty little— cocksleeve just for me.”

You’re trembling now, thighs shaking as pleasure coils low and tight in your belly. You feel everything—his cock, thick, hot, hitting just right with every snap of his hips and your body is unraveling fast.

“Ahhh. Right there, fuckin there. That’s it…” You glance over your shoulder, and fuck he’s so fucking hot and he’s fucking you so good and…

“You gonna come for me again?” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs. “Shit. Give it to me, you dirty fuckin’ girl.”

You cry out as your orgasm slams into you, body clenching tight around his cock, eyes squeezing shut as white heat galvanizes every nerve. Yoongi curses behind you, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he’s coming too, spilling deep inside you with a growl that sounds more animal than human.

You both stay there, shaking and sticky and utterly breathless. The only sound is the ocean lapping against the hull and your heart pounding in your ears.

Yoongi’s hand doesn’t leave your waist, his fingers sink against your soft skin a bit firmer, though somehow gentler, too. Then, his lips press once, twice, thrice, softly, against your shoulder blades. You don’t understand what’s happening. It feels intimate, too intimate.

“Umm…” 

“Is there a bathroom here?”

“A tiny one, yeah. Over there.”

You wince as he pulls his cock out, walls pulsing once as if you wanna keep him inside you if you can. 

“C’mon,” he taps your ass playfully, lightening up the moment. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

By the time the group is back on the boat, skin sun-warmed and bellies full from lunch, the mood is mellow. No one makes any comment as to why you and Yoongi are already on the boat, or why you both have different tops on. You’re slightly relieved. But it also makes questions swirl in your brain that you don’t really want answers to. You shove it in the recesses of your mind and focus on getting back to work. You’re still on duty after all. 

You check on the other guests, making small talk about the yummy lunch spread. You know they had grilled squid, pad thai, mango sticky rice… like every other group you’ve toured, and it’s always a dopamine rush to see everyone so satisfied.

Someone puts on music through a Bluetooth speaker, the kind of acoustic guitar track that feels like the end of a movie. The boat sways gently as it begins to head back toward the mainland.

You pretend not to notice when Yoongi lingers near the bow, waiting until the others have found their seats before sliding into the open spot beside you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits close enough that your arms brush when the boat dips slightly with the tide.

You glance at him once. Twice. On the third time, you catch him already looking at you.

Neither of you smiles. He just reaches for the beer you hand him and takes a long sip, throat bobbing.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s in limbo. Like neither of you wants to name what happened, not while you’re still in it. Still riding the aftershocks of something way too fucking good to put into words.

At one point, he rests his arm along the back of the bench behind you. His fingers graze your shoulder. And you know it’s not by accident.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for a stray towel. Not by accident, either.

The sun dips lower as the coastline comes into view, and a knot begins to form in your chest. The same one he must feel, if the way his hand keeps tightening around his bottle is any sign.

Eventually, the boat eases into the dock. The group starts gathering their things—bags, towels, sun hats, laughter loud again as people gear up to head back to city life.

You move to help untie the mooring lines, and when you return to the deck, he’s standing by the edge, a small bag slung over one arm.

The others are already walking off. Bowing to you and thanking you for the tour. He’s the last one to leave just as he was the first to arrive.

“This is where I’m supposed to say thank you for the tour,” he murmurs, eyes still on the sea.

You nod. “This is where I say, come back anytime.”

He turns to you then. And for a second, the tiredness in his eyes softens.

“Will you be here, if I come back?”

You don’t answer right away. Just offer a small smile. “Maybe.”

He nods like that’s fair. Steps forward like he might hug you, or say something more. Maybe he considered it. But instead, he slips past you with a final glance.

The dock creaks under his steps. He doesn’t look back.

You watch him walk away until he disappears into the crowd.

Your chest aches with something unnameable.

You know how this goes. Men like him probably have groupies all the time, in every tour stop. You were Phuket. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

At least, you tell yourself, he was a really good fuck and you finished twice, which is more generous than any other one night stand or quickie you’ve had. A great story to tell your future grandkids that you once fucked a very famous idol. Okay, maybe not your grandkids. Maybe not a story to tell, actually. (You signed an NDA!) But something to shove in your heart, let every ventricle lock it tight there. But the taste of him is still on your lips, and the way your heart stutters in your chest says otherwise, like the memory is already struggling to be freed.

You’ve just stepped out of the shower when the knock comes. You freeze.

It’s late—well past when anyone should be dropping by. You don’t get visitors out here. Not unannounced. Not at this hour. Wrapped in your towel, you tiptoe barefoot to the door, heart thudding.

Another knock. Slower this time. Softer.

You squint through the peephole and nearly forget how to breathe.

It’s him.

Yoongi.

You open the door, towel clutched tight, words lodged in your throat.

It’s really him. Hood pulled low. 

His eyes sweep over your form, too. Wet, barely covered… but he recovers enough to explain what is going on. 

“I know this is crazy,” he says, before you can even speak. “But I had to see you again.”

He stands there, blinking at you under the harsh hallway lighting in your apartment building, like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door in his face.

“How did you even—?”

“I went back to the pier. Found the old guy? Practically begged him. And he gave me your address.” He exhales, shaking his head with a laugh. “I think he only did it because he felt sorry for me.”

You’re still standing there, stunned, the scent of body wash clinging to your skin.

“Can I come in?” he asks, quieter now. Like he’s unsure of the answer. “You’re in your towel.”

You nod, even though you’re still in shock, stepping aside. You adjust the towel on your chest. 

“Make yourself at home. Let me just put clothes on.”

Yoongi slips off his shoes and steps into your little house like he’s done it a hundred times before.

He looks around. It’s nothing special—worn tile floors, mismatched furniture, an abandoned oatmeal bar on the coffee table—but he doesn’t look disappointed. He looks like he’s breathing for the first time all day.

You grab a shirt and sleep shorts, quickly changing in the bedroom. When you return, he’s leaning against your kitchen counter, eyes scanning the fridge magnets, the little details of your life like they mean something.

You glance up at the clock, 8:30 p.m.

“I was gonna eat ramen,” you say, trying to play it cool.

His lips twitch. “You got enough for two?”

You both end up cooking together. He cuts vegetables with a precision that is completely uncalled for for a cheap pack of instant noodles. You make a comment and he huffs his chest with pride, his knife skills now in full show as he chops the onions in record speed. 

You laugh at how he makes a face and complains about being in tears afterwards.

The kitchen fills with steam and the smell of broth. You sit on the counter while it simmers, beers in hand. He stands in front of you, and your legs part instinctively, letting him through. Like he belongs there.

It’s oddly domestic. Ridiculously comfortable. Why? You still don’t get it.

You’re talking about nothing—favorite childhood snacks, weird airport food, your least favorite sea creatures—when the silence slips in between you.

He’s watching you now, the way you laugh, the way you push your hair behind your ear. His beer forgotten on the table.

You meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, but unlike in the boat, they’re not unreadable. In fact, they’re very much readable and you don’t hesitate to call him out for it. 

“You’re gonna kiss me again, aren’t you?” you raise a brow.

“Been thinking about it since you opened the door in that towel.”

So he does. 

He kisses you slower this time. More careful. Not rushed, not frantic like it was in the boat. He cradles the back of your neck, the other slides beneath your shirt to rest against your waist.

You’re kissing each other like you’re trying to remember. Like you’re trying to make it last. His mouth moves with so much purpose, almost like he’s writing over the hurried, hungry moment from before and replacing it with this—reverence, sureness, clarity.

When he pulls away to breathe, you whisper, “This is crazy.”

He nods. “I know…”

At least you can agree on that.

Later, he’s between your thighs on the couch, and this time, he doesn’t tear at your shorts like he’s chasing a high. This time, he touches you with all the time in the world, so you feel it all. When he slides your shorts down, he pauses, eyes locked on your center, pupils blown.

“I wanted this before,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “But I didn’t take my time. I didn’t show you.”

“Show me what?” you ask, breathless.

He presses another kiss to your other thigh, then another, closer and closer to your mound. 

“That you deserve to be worshipped,” he says. He drags his tongue along your puffy folds, slow and tender. You arch into his mouth with a gasp, already so close just from kissing in the kitchen. But maybe it’s also the rasp of his voice, and the refreshing honesty, the way he seems to be convinced that you were special.

So this isn’t like the boat. You, suspended against the ladder. It’s not messy or wild. It’s not just lust, or tension exploding in secret.

This is something else. You, suspended in a different reality. Yoongi, telling a different story with his mouth.

He eats you out with care, overwriting that animalistic fuck at sea. His hands cradle your supple thighs as he buries his face deeper. His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, building towards your peak. 

“Watch…” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear between breaths. He puts his index and middle fingers in his mouth, dragging it across his sinful tongue. Teases it against your hole before pushing it in agonizingly slow, relishing the way your body is writhing in pleasure.

When he pushes the length all the way in, you fist the cushions. “Yoongi—oh god—”

His mouth envelops your clit in a gentle suction as his fingers go in and out of you. 

“Ahh, so close…”

He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking again, voice breaking on his name, thighs trembling on either side of his face.

He stays between them even after. Kissing. Calming. Worshiping.

You’re still breathless when he pulls back, lips slick, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with heat and pride. He looks up at you like he’s just done something holy—and maybe he has.

You’re still dazed by the time he pulls back, lips glossy, hair wild from all your pulling but his eyes, soft, focused completely on you. He rises slowly, kissing your stomach, bunching up the fabric as he goes, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel a little embarrassed like you sometimes do, with every cover that’s shed, every piece of you revealed, because he is treating you with the kind of reverence you’ve never felt before. Blind to the flaws, he’s not about to leave any part of you untouched by the pink petals of his lips, helping you out of your cotton tee.

When his face meets yours again, you’re already reaching for him, pulling him close, needing his mouth, his breath, the low rasp of his voice in your ear. You’re so high on this feeling. Of being wanted–no–worshipped, for who you are. He kisses you like a man obsessed, hands sliding under your thighs as he coaxes you onto him, settling you over the hardness pressed tight beneath his sweats.

You’re straddling him now, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side, your body still trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you. And then—you pause.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

The reality of it creeps in and your saboteur whispers the insecurities you’ve worked so hard to hide. You’re heavier than him. Curvier, fuller. And even though he just made you fall apart on his tongue, there’s a flicker of doubt when you feel your weight settle onto him.

He notices instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs like he knows, threading his fingers on your hair to pull you towards him, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. His other hand grip your hips, sliding back to your ass where he gives it a soft squeeze. “Don’t do that.”

“I just…” you look away, voice small. “You sure you’re comfortable?”

He lets out the softest fucking laugh, breath hot against your throat. “Baby, sit on me.”

His grip tightens, pulling your hips flush against him. You feel all of him—thick and very solid right against your slit and you can’t help the moan that escapes you, mixing with his own with the slightest friction.

You whine when he thrusts up just once, just enough to make your clit drag against the bulge in his boxers.

“Shit. You’re so sexy…” he breathes, hands sliding from your hips to your thighs, then your asscheeks, cupping them with both palms. “You feel what you’re doing to me right now?”

You nod, dazed, as you roll your hips, slow and testing. He groans like it’s killing him—in the best way.

“Wanna see you ride me… wanna feel you come on my cock. You think you can take it?”

“Shit, yeah…” You respond with a shameless grind. 

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he smiles, ogling your tits, the way they jiggle for him.

“Yeah?”

He licks his bottom lip, nodding.

“Off,” you gesture to his clothes, his tee tossed haphazardly on the floor. You lift your hips slightly to give him room to shimmy his bottoms down. 

His cock flops against his tummy, heavy and reddened. Your mouth wants it too but your hands are already guiding him to your slick entrance on its own accord like it knows better. You finally sink down onto him and his head drops back against the couch, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck. You feel like heaven.”

You gasp, reveling in the fullness of him, the stretch. You ride him slowly at first. Letting him feel all of you. Letting him watch.

And he does. Watches the way your body moves over his, the way your breasts bounce with every roll, the way you take him so deep he can barely speak.

“Look at you,” he pants, hands moving everywhere—your waist, your ass, your thighs, back to your breasts. 

“Shit…” he pants, eyes moving to where you’re riding him. “You’re so fuckin’ hot… fuckin’ perfect.”

He palms your breasts, groaning low in his throat. “Can’t get enough of these.”

He leans forward, licking the valley of your chest before closing his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. Your walls flutter around him in response, and he lets out a low, wrecked groan, before smacking your ass.

“Fuck!”

“Bounce for me, baby,” he gruffs hungrily against your skin, and he delivers another spank. “Come on…”

You do—riding him harder, feeling him twitch inside you. His mouth stays latched, teeth grazing sensitive skin. He’s relentless, filthy, utterly focused on unraveling you. 

When he finally pulls back, he finds your mouth again, devouring your moans between kisses as you both hurtle toward the edge.

“Gonna cum, Yoongi—” you gasp.

“With me, baby,” he pants. “Fuckin’ cum with me.”

He bucks into you harder, faster, harsher and finally you cum together—this time with his name sobbed into his neck—he holds you there, pulsing inside you as he paints your walls white, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say, things you ache to hear.

His head is fully tipped back on the couch, breathing heavy, body a little glossy from his sweat and yours. The aftermath clings to your skin, but the fire hasn’t burned out. Not even close. You’re not done.

He worshipped you, called you a goddess. But, aren’t you his dirty girl? His slut? And when he looks like the hottest man alive—

He looks up when you shift beside him, his brows pulling just slightly. “Wait. What’re you—”

You don’t answer. Just move lower, letting your hands glide down his chest. His abs twitch under your palms. 

“I wanna taste you,” you whisper. “Suck you dry….”

He groans—low and hoarse—as you move between his legs, your mouth ghosting over the crease of his thigh. He spreads them automatically, lazy and loose, cock already half-hard and still wet with your juices. A drop of cum beads at the tip, glistening.

“Shit,” he breathes, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum in amusement, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock—slow and soft, just enough to make him twitch. Then again. Firmer this time. And when you wrap your lips around the head and suck, you feel the ripple it sends through his entire body.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he hisses. 

You take your time. Lap him up, your cum and his combined.  Lick up the length of him again, then back down to the base, tongue swirling as he expands in your mouth. The weight of him is perfect against your tongue, the way his girth stretches your lips obscene but delicious.

His hand finds the back of your head, not forcing—just resting there. “God, baby… that dirty mouth…”

You bob your head, eyes flicking up to meet his. He looks fucking ruined already, jaw slack, stomach trembling with every flick of your tongue. You clench your throat against his tip and feel him jolt. You love the way his body reacts, the little tremors in his thighs, the tension in his neck.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Just like that—fuck, you’re acting like a real slut right now.”

Yes, fuck. You choke involuntarily, swallowing against his tip. He groans, lips lining up into a smirk. You take him deeper, popping him off first to admire your handiwork, cock swollen and red. Let spit drip down your chin. Let your throat work around him as your hand pumps what you can’t take. You can feel him losing it—his moans getting louder, filthier, raspier. He swears under his breath, head thrown back against the pillows.

“Shit, shit—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, eyes fluttering open to find yours again. “Swallow for me, baby. Be my good fuckin—fuuuuck—”

You take him in faster, tongue firmly pressed against that vein as you slide up and down keeping your lips vacuum sealed, and finally—

He comes with a choked-off groan, hips jerking, both hands tangled in your hair now as his cock pulses on your tongue. You take it all. Every filthy, salty, slimy drop. You swallow without breaking eye contact. Brandish your tongue with pride.

He blinks down at you, stars in his eyes as he releases the grip on your scalp to move to your chin. “Shit. You’re unreal.”

You smile. 

You wish this was real.

Somehow he convinces you to move to the bed so he can clean you up. He emerges from your tiny toilet with a warm washcloth, damping it against your leaking cunt.

“C’mere,” he lays on his side, gesturing you to move into him. Alarm bells sound in your head but you can’t bring yourself to stay away when your lips are already towards each other like magnets.

Yoongi’s hand is splayed across your lower back, fingers idly tracing soft, lazy shapes into your skin. His other arm is tucked behind his head, smug and relaxed and still looking thoroughly fucked out.

The night goes on like that. You kiss, cuddle. Talk about small things—more favorites, random things—the suspicious little mole by his arm, scary things—his upcoming military service. And you share with him your own—favorites, why you sleep with an alien plushie, your uncertain future with your job and the economy going to shit.

Hours after, your heart is unrecognizable, suddenly morphing into the shape of someone you just met. It should feel wrong. You’re still not sure why it doesn’t.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, I fear,” he says, voice rough, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

Go away, butterflies! You snort into his shoulder. “Pshh don’t lie.”

“Why would I do that?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him. “Okay.”

There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, but loaded. His thumb still circles lazily over your spine.

“You should give me your number.”

You consider him for just a moment. But decide to shake your head. Not because you wanna see him sweat, but because you resolve not to. 

His brow shoots up to his forehead like he didn’t expect that response.

“If you’re still thinking about me after two years…” you say, not quite looking at him, “Then find me. Just like you did today.”

He huffs, repeating his request. “Or you could just give me your number.”

You meet his gaze now, seriousness in your eyes. “I’m not gonna do that.”

“Why? You were hustling me for it in the boat…” he teases with a sly grin.

“Shut up, I just wanted to help you find your fish.”

He pokes his tongue in the inside of his cheek, still waiting on you, deciphering that look.

“Look. I don’t want to wait around for your text or your call. I’m not that girl.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “I mean, you won’t have to. I do plan to call. And I’m a pretty good texter, actually.”

You roll your eyes, tracing a slow line over his chest with your fingertip. “Be for real. You look like the type who won’t charge their phone for days.”

He gasps dramatically. “You’re… super wrong. And I have a fucking cool library of cat memes. You’ll be missing out.”

“I think I’ll live.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

There’s a moment. He tilts his head toward you, so adorable, so boyfriend, like you’re an old couple bickering about something mundane, like who’s gonna check the front door if it’s locked. Certainly not a conversation that basically dictated if you will ever see each other again. 

Then before you know it, you jut your lip, unable to stop yourself from acting cutely.

“Kiss me?”

He grins, cat-like. “I’ll do you one better. I can also give you tongue.”

You groan. “God, you’re cringe. You sure you have fans?”

“A fucking lot of em.” He hovers above you, his inky bangs tickling your forehead. “Shut up and take it.”

Tongue teasing against the seam of your lips, he kisses you breathless for the hundredth time tonight. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, deepening it just enough, with a lot of tongue, as promised.

It’s that feeling.

You could stay here forever.

And that’s the problem.

For now, you let it be what it is. Just a moment where your body fits perfectly against his, your laugh harmonizes with his, and it feels like—just maybe—you were really meant to find each other in the middle of the sea.

You’re both hovering by the door, breaking every rule in the one night stand playbook. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this..

But it fucking does.

He’s dressed the same way he came in last night—cap tugged low over damp hair that smells faintly of your shampoo. You’re in your oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts, bare feet brushing the cold floor. It makes the contrast feel starker somehow—him stepping back into the world, you still rooted in this little bubble of what the night became.

“You think we'll see each other again?” he mumbles, leaning his shoulder beside the door. It’s a quiet question, almost tossed out like it’s nothing.

“You’re you,” you say simply. “You have the world in your hands. It really just depends on one thing.”

His brows lift, a flicker of interest breaking through the fatigue in his face. “And what’s that?”

“How bad you want this.”

That makes him pause.

His eyes dip down your body like he can’t help it. Then his teeth sink into his bottom lip. 

“Don’t make this harder,” he huffs.

“I’m not,” you whisper back. “I’m just being honest.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely audible.

You shrug, trying for casual even though your chest feels like it’s about to collapse. “But you have to.”

And that’s all there is to it.

He turns, opens the door.

But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He stands there, hoodie sleeves too long around his hands, looking back at you one last time.

His gaze doesn’t wander. It lands right on your face, and stays.

“Maybe next time,” he says, just like he did in the island.

You nod, barely. “Maybe.” You try a small smile.

He hesitates for a second more. Tries that small smile to mirror your own.

Then he leaves. And this time, it’s goodbye.

The door closes with a soft click, and the room is too quiet all over again, everything intact like he was never even there. Except he left with maybe just a tiny piece of you and replaced it with a bit of sparkle that you don’t notice immediately until you step back in your room.

That morning, you fire off a text to Soomchai asking why he gave a stranger your address and demand he send you a generous portion of his seafood pad thai as a peace offering. He obliges.

🗓️ June 2025 -📍 Phuket, Thailand

Life goes on. You didn’t have much choice in that.

The tours picked up again after the rainy season, but not in the way they used to. Fewer tourists, more locals. The occasional influencer. You learned to smile a little brighter. Talk a little faster.

But when things got tight—and God, they got tight—you picked up a second job teaching English online. What started as survival became something sustainable. Eventually, something yours. Your own business, your own pace, your own students across time zones who asked if Thailand really was that beautiful. You always smiled when they did. You tell them how sugary sweet the watermelons are.

And then there was the bracelet.

The one Yoongi left on the nightstand without a word. Understated but expensive in a way you only noticed when you turned it over in your hand and saw the brand pressed into the clasp. You kept it for months. Until the rent was due and the electricity bill was on its last notice and your fridge was nothing but leftover rice, soy sauce packets, and a bottle of beer.

The pawnshop paid you enough to stay afloat for four months.

And then last week—after months of hard work, after finding your footing again, you walked back into that same pawnshop and bought it back. The bracelet. 

Not that he’d ever come looking for it. But it felt right having it again. Like you were reclaiming something. Maybe not him, but you.

You think of Yoongi sometimes. Not in the hopeful, aching, delulu way you used to.

He’s no longer in headlines. Gone stone cold on socials. Even ARMY wants to do a recon mission to find him. But he’s doing his bid to serve his country so the absence must have been necessary for him. At least you hope so.

You play his music when you’re cooking, or on the rare evenings you chill on your balcony with a cold one and the humid breeze and his husky voice and the sweet piano melody lulls you to sleep.

It wasn’t clear then, but it is now. He simply was a blip on your timeline. An unforgettable 24 hours that changed the pace of your heartbeat. And you don’t hold it against him anymore.

If anything, he reminds you of your favorite line from one of his songs: “Future’s gonna be okay.”

And deep down, you really believe that.

It was one of those nights. Adele was blaring through your bluetooth speaker. And you’re out singing the shit outta her in the kitchen, lyrics be damned, crooning in your frilly little apron with a wooden spatula being used as your mic.

“Never mind I’ll find, someone like youuuuu…

I wish nothing but the best for youuuuuuu toooooo

Bla bla bla I bet I remember what you said

La la la sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead…”

It’s probably the onions but you’re now crying and it feels phenomenal and oddly cathartic.

Your phone chimes with a text.

Soomchai: Hey. Sorry I know it’s late. Stopping by to drop off dessert.

Strange, but okay. Everyone likes a freebie. Especially when it’s sugar.

You’re rinsing dishes when the doorbell comes.

You wipe your hands, heart racing for a reason you can’t name. You open the door.

And he’s there.

Not Soomchai.

Min Yoongi.

Wearing a hoodie just like when you last saw him. His hair is a bit shorter, face slightly more gaunt and just as guarded. There’s a weariness behind his eyes—one you recognize instantly.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step forward.

Says one thing as you struggle to regulate the thumping of your heart.

“Dessert?”

You stand there, barefoot and blinking at him, stunned into silence. You want to ask why now. You want to ask what changed. But instead, you step aside. Quietly. 

He walks in, a plastic bag with dessert in tow. Takes off his shoes. Looks around like the space is familiar and foreign all at once.

And then—

“I tried to forget you,” he says, voice a bit raw. “Turns out I can’t.”

You swallow hard, emotion clawing up your throat.

“Me too,” you say softly, lifting your wrist so he can see the glimmer of his bracelet. You haven't removed it since you got it back.

He nods, walking closer. He hesitates just long enough to make your pulse quicken.

You stare at him, waiting.

“Wanna try this again,” he says. “If you still want to.”

You don’t answer right away. You just step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in the warm cotton of his hoodie. He exhales, slow and shaky, like he wasn’t sure you'd say yes. How could you not? He walks in with a pretty face, and even prettier words.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed you too,” he replies.

And that night, he proves how much.

“Butterflyfish,” you whisper.

“Hm?” His voice is drowsy, the sound vibrating softly against your forehead.

You tilt your head back, just enough to glance up at him—but his eyes are already closed, lids heavy, expression peaceful in that half-dream state right before sleep.

“The fish you were looking for,” you say quietly. “Back then.”

There’s a small pause. A breath. Then a soft, sleepy grunt of remembrance.

“Ah.”

His arms tighten around you, warm and sure, like he’s tethering himself to this moment. To you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You feel it more than hear it—his lips brushing your hair, the words settling between your ribs.

“For helping me find what I was looking for.”

The End :)

A/N: … and now we know deez fish. 🤭

I hope this story was like a brief vacay in the tropics just like in Yoongi’s vlog, and made you feel like you were there in the moment with him. 

Well—tell me what you think! Favorite parts? Please leave me a note and reblog if you enjoyed this story! 🙏🏼😘

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human. xo

Check out my masterlist if you want more Yoongi.

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[the-witty-pen-name]

Not Just a Neighbor (1)

Simon "Ghost" Riley x PlusSize!F!Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: When Simon is home from deployment, all he wants to do is sleep, but noise from the apartment next door keeps him tossing and turning- his cute new neighbor's puppy.

Request submitted by anon. Thank you for your request!

Warnings: 18+ MNDI; eventual smut; language; mostly fluff; mentions of PTSD & anxiety

Series Masterlist

He hadn’t been home in months. The drag of his boots got heavier and heavier the closer he got to the front door of his flat. His eyes were heavy and his body was so goddamn sore. All he could think about was getting in his own bed, and he was looking forward to the best night's sleep since he can’t remember when. 

When he gets home, he leaves his duffel by the door with a thud and kicks of his boots. His feet sink into the carpet and he can’t even begin to describe how good it feels to be home. His muscles begin to untense and he’s not moving as rigidly as he was moments ago. 

He desperately wanted a hot shower, and that was his first stop. The water pressure in his building was nothing to write home about, but god did it beat the terrible showers with no pressure on base. The hot water did wonders for his aching muscles. He was beginning to slip back into a normal routine quite quickly. 

He couldn’t wait to fall asleep in his own bed. An actual bed with a plush mattress and pillows that don’t deflect immediately. He’s craving sleep so badly. He steps out of the shower and throws on a pair of his sweatpants. He collapses on his bed instantly, not even bothering to get under the covers. He stretches out on his stomach and he’s feeling the pull of sleep just about to take over him. 

Noise from the other side of his bedroom wall kept him from fully losing himself to sleep. It wasn’t like him, being so used to sleeping wherever on deployment, sounds never bothered him when he tried to sleep. He knew the apartment next to his wouldn’t have stayed vacant forever and perhaps he'd just been spoiled the last time he was home and it was vacant. He tried his best to ignore it. 

Was that a fucking dog? 

After a few attempts of tossing and turning, he was getting sick of this. He could barely stand it. He was so close to sleep and yet, it was like he got a second wind as he got up and headed out into the hallway to give this new neighbor a piece of his mind. He knocks on the door, and he hears another bark from the other side. He’s ready to lay into whoever is on the other side of the door, to cuss them out for not being able to control their dog while others are trying to sleep. 

Everything he intended to say goes out the window when you open your door. 

You’re so pretty.

Pretty eyes, pretty smile with soft cheeks… is that a dimple? Plush skin that looks so soft to the touch. So absolutely fucking beautiful that you make his mouth go dry. He’s completely forgotten why he came over here when you look at him with those eyes and that little head tilt. He should say something. 

“I’m so sorry,” you begin the conversation much to his relief. “Sarge is sick. I’m assuming you heard him barking.” 

“S-Sarge?” 

You nod, apologetically, but he can’t even remember why you’re apologizing until he hears a little yip from behind you. A little dachshund peers at him from behind your legs. It’s clearly a puppy, a really young one at that sporting an obnoxiously large cone for his little body. 

“I’m so sorry, like I explained in the note he’s a rescue..” 

“Note?” 

You left him a note? Something you wrote to him is in his possession and that knowledge makes his stomach flip. He glanced over to his door, and now he finally notices a yellow envelope taped to the front. He steps over and pulls it away. 

“I didn’t see this,” he says, tearing it open. 

“Hi, I’m your new neighbor Sarge. I’m a four month old dachshund. I have PTSD and I’m adjusting to my new home. I’ve recently been adopted and am trying to learn to be a good neighbor. We appreciate your understanding as I’m still in training. Please have a coffee on my mom as a thank you for your patience and support.” 

There’s a gift card attached to the coffee shop next door and he realizes a few other doors have that note as well. You got a small gift card for everyone in this hallway? He feels like an ass now. 

“I didn’t see this,” he explains, dumbly. “Sorry, I just got home from deployment- I’m so tired I must’ve missed it. Thank you for this.” 

You reiterate, overly apologetic, that you’ll do your best to keep the puppy quiet but he can’t even find any ounce of him that cares about that anymore. He can't even focus on what you’re saying, as much as he’s trying, because watching your lips is too distracting. 

As you’re trying to apologize, Sarge makes his way over, waddling from the weight of his cone and he rests his body against Ghost, taking a seat on his foot. God, how could he have ever been upset before? 

“Oh,” you say surprised, cutting yourself off. You look at Sarge, completely baffled. You look back to Simon. “He’s usually afraid of men.” 

Somehow your dog, notorious for barking and cowering in fear at the sight of any man, declared your neighbor- your tall, bulky and intimidating neighbor- safe. Your eyes widen in surprise, but also you can’t help the wide grin that expands across your face. 

“This is huge for him, you have no idea,” you gush. Your excitement makes his heart swell. Your dog likes him, your dog chose him. He wonders if this means maybe if he’s lucky he’ll have a chance with you. He can only hope. 

“Come on, baby,” you say, bending over to pick up the puppy in your arms. Simon quickly shifts his attention to the wall because he definitely wasn’t staring at the subtle way your tank top exposed your cleavage when you bent over. “I’m so sorry again, I promise I’ll do my best to keep him quiet,” you say, moving to close your door. “I hope you’re able to get some rest, you deserve it,” you smile, closing the door with your foot since Sarge was bundled in your arms. 

Simon is left dumbfounded, staring at your closed door for a few moments before he can even shake it off and return to his own apartment. He keeps your note clutched tightly in his hand, reading it over and over, practically tracing the slopes of your pretty handwriting.

[meadowfics]

affair

anakin skywalker x f!reader

headcannons on having an affair with anakin skywalker

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact!! anakin is not married to padme here!! reader is the married one. cheating! smut and details mentioned but its not the entire thing.

it didn't take long after you and anakin first met when he admits he couldn’t stop watching you in those senate halls.

you didn't push him away, his breath was warm against your skin as he confesses everything he'd want to do for you.

that started everything.

however, you had a husband.

that didn't stop the chosen one.

months go by and the both of you create subtle signals to communicate secretly.

a quick tuck of your hair behind your ear during a senate session means you’ll meet him later, anakin leaves a single nabooan white flower on your desk, a sign he’s waiting in coruscant’s lower levels in the city.

your getaways to naboo’s lake country are your sanctuary.

anakin secures hidden villas by the water, where you spend days swimming in crystal lakes and nights wrapped in each other’s arms under starlit skies.

anakin’s touch is intense, his hands mapping every inch of you like he’s memorizing you.

in naboo’s soft grass, he takes you with a hunger that leaves you breathless, his lips whispering your name against your skin as if it’s a prayer.

on coruscant, you steal moments in abandoned senate storage rooms.

he presses you against the wall, his kisses desperate, hands sliding under your senatorial robes, the thrill of being caught fueling the fire.

after one of his jedi mission that left him away from you for six months.. he gifted you a delicate necklace, a tiny silver star from naboo, hidden beneath your high collars.

you wear it always, a secret tether to him, your fingers brushing it when your husband’s cold presence suffocates you.

anakin’s force sensitivity makes your encounters electric.

he senses your mood, knowing when to be gentle or when to match your need with fierce passion.

the jedi knight loves when his fingers are laced with yours as he brings you to the edge.

you confess your fears one night on naboo, lying in bed with the moonlight spilling over you.

anakin listens, his arms tight around you, promising he’d tear the galaxy apart to keep you safe from your husband’s corruption.

maybe a jedi knight shouldn't have those thoughts, but this relationship broke all of the rules anyways.

the sex varies.

sometimes it is slow, with lingering touches and whispered confessions.

other times it is frantic, like in a coruscant speeder after a close call, where he takes you in the backseat, both of you trembling from adrenaline and desire.

anakin writes you coded messages, slipped into your diplomatic files, filled with poetic declarations of love.

you read them in your chambers, heart racing, knowing each word risks everything.

you share quiet moments too, like watching naboo’s twin moons rise, your head on his chest.

he talks of a future where you’re free, his voice soft but fierce with conviction, painting a life you both ache for.

in the villa’s candlelit baths, he washes your hair, his fingers gentle, kisses trailing along your shoulders.

these tender acts feel as intimate as your passionate nights, binding you closer.

your husband’s suspicions grow as the years go by, forcing you and anakin to be more cautious.

once, he nearly catches you in a senate balcony, but anakin’s quick thinking (using the force to distract him) saves you, though the close call leaves you both shaken.

anakin’s black robes, a symbol of his jedi mastery, become your obsession.

you love peeling them off him, revealing the man beneath.

anakin's scars and strength is yours to worship in the privacy of your escapes.

despite the danger, you can’t stop.

every touch, every stolen night, feels like defiance against your cage.

anakin’s love is your rebellion, and you’d burn it all down to keep him, even if the galaxy crumbles.

one night, in your private vacation home on naboo, tucked among blooming gardens, anakin leads you to the grand bed draped in silken sheets, his eyes dark with want.

he undresses you slowly, reverently, murmuring, “you’re perfection, my star.”

the naboo moonlight streams through the windows as he lays you down, his hands trembling with need yet gentle, praising, “no one else could ever have me like this, y/n, you’re my everything.”

anakin's kisses trail fire across your skin, each one a vow.

your bodies move together in a rhythm that’s both desperate and sacred, anakin’s voice husky as he gasps, “you feel like heaven, love, I’d give up everything just to stay here like this forever.” his words unravel you, the intensity building until you’re both lost in each other.

afterward, he holds you close, your bodies tangled in the warm afterglow, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

your husband never found out, even after you left him and secretly married anakin shortly afterwards.

masterlist

[pankowcrumbs]

Try again X Harry Styles

MasterList

Harry Styles Masterlist

I don’t even remember what we were doing before it happened. That’s how those things go, isn’t it? Something mundane, something completely ordinary, like folding laundry or talking about what to have for dinner until suddenly it wasn’t.

I’d seen the messages earlier that day. Not because I was snooping I wasn’t. Harry had asked me to text his manager from his phone while he was in the shower. I didn’t even mean to look, but the name caught my eye. Clara. A woman I didn’t know.

The preview of the message read: Clara: "Last night was perfect. I can’t stop thinking about it."

I didn’t open it. I didn’t have to.

That single sentence had lived in my head all day like a splinter under the skin. Burning. Festering. I wanted to believe it was innocent. God, I needed to. But it didn’t feel innocent. It felt like betrayal. And Harry… he’d been distant for weeks. Months, maybe. Constantly away, always exhausted, barely touching me even when we shared the same bed.

So that night, I waited until we were alone, until Zadie, our dog, had curled up in the corner and the house had fallen into that soft hush. And I asked him.

“You been sleeping with someone else?”

Harry froze. His hand stopped halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “What?”

“I saw the message,” I said flatly. “Clara. ‘Last night was perfect.’ What was perfect, exactly?”

He blinked. His jaw tensed. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration already bleeding into his voice. “She’s a songwriter. We were working on lyrics. In the studio. That’s what last night was.”

“Oh, so you work with her, and she messages you like that? That’s normal to you?”

“It’s not what you think, Y/N,” he said, already walking away like the conversation wasn’t worth finishing. Like I was being ridiculous. “Jesus, you always do this.”

“Do what, Harry?” I snapped, following him. “Ask questions when something feels off? Wonder why the man I’m married to doesn’t look me in the eyes anymore? Doesn’t touch me? Doesn’t try?”

He turned. His face, normally so composed, cracked. “I’m working my arse off, travelling, singing, writing everything I do is for us. And the second something looks off to you, you jump to this? You think I’m cheating on you?”

“What am I supposed to think?” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. “You’re never here. And when you are, it’s like you’re not. You’re somewhere else with someone else.”

“You think I’ve got the energy to cheat?” he barked. “I don’t even have the energy to sleep, let alone sneak around shagging someone on the side.”

I blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, I thought maybe he’d calm. That we’d talk like we used to. But then he said it words I can never un-hear.

“You’re exhausting.”

Silence. Not even the fridge dared hum.

“What?”

“You. This. All of it.” He gestured between us. “It’s always drama with you. Always something wrong. I can’t come home without getting accused, interrogated, made to feel like shit. I’m tired, Y/N. I don’t need this kind of bloody noise in my life.”

I stood there, frozen. Because he didn’t just say I was dramatic. He didn’t just say he was tired. He said he didn’t need me.

“I see,” I whispered. My whole chest ached, the kind of pain that doesn't come from being punched but from the slow, deliberate slicing of trust.

He rubbed his temples, looking down. “I didn’t mean it like...”

“No. You did.”

“Y/N”

“I want a divorce.”

He looked up then, eyes wide. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” I asked, suddenly calm. “Exhausting?”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just walked out of the room, picked up my overnight bag one I hadn’t packed, but somehow was ready in my mind and left. I went to my sister’s place. I didn’t even take Zadie.

The first time I saw him after that night, I honestly thought part of me would crumble. Some tiny, stubborn thread inside me still hoped he would apologise, run to me, say he didn’t mean it.

He didn’t.

Instead, Harry was already angry when he walked into the solicitor’s office. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw tight, not even looking at me.

"Alright," he muttered, sliding into the chair across from me, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Alright," I echoed stiffly.

For a moment, it was civil cold but civil until we started talking about the house. About money. About what would happen to Zadie.

And that’s when the bitterness he wore like armour finally snapped through.

"You were always good at taking," he said, voice low but lethal. "Taking and making me feel like it was never enough."

I sucked in a sharp breath. "Excuse me?"

"You heard," he said, tipping back in his chair, arms folded like he was utterly unbothered. Like he hadn't broken me.

The solicitor poor woman, bless her tried to steer us back, tried to talk terms, but it was like neither of us could hear her.

"You’re unbelievable," I hissed. "You pushed me away for months. You practically left this marriage yourself before I ever said the word ‘divorce.’"

He laughed an ugly, hollow sound I didn’t recognise. "Maybe because being married to you started feeling like a fucking job."

I flinched. Properly flinched. Like he’d hit me.

The room spun for a second. I stood abruptly, pushing my chair back so hard it scraped against the floor.

"I’m done talking to you," I said, voice shaking with anger and humiliation. "From now on, everything goes through the lawyers."

"Fine by me," he spat, not even moving.

I didn’t look at him when I left. Couldn’t. If I had, I think I might have stayed to fight, to scream, to ask why he was trying so hard to hurt me when I had already walked away.

But there was nothing left to say. Nothing he could say that would undo what he’d already done.

It didn’t get better after that. Every time we crossed paths when we had to sign something, or drop off something that belonged to the other it was like pouring salt straight onto an open wound.

He’d mutter something under his breath, something cruel, something he didn’t mean but said anyway because it was easier than admitting he was hurting.

"Nice of you to turn up sober for once," he sneered once outside the flat, when I was collecting the last of my clothes.

I blinked at him confused "I don’t even drink, Harry."

"Could’ve fooled me," he said, before slamming the door.

I started dreading the moments we had to see each other. Started losing sleep, bracing myself for whatever new hurtful thing he’d throw at me just because he could.

That’s when I made it official. No direct contact. Lawyers only. It was the only way to survive him.

Because the truth was he wasn’t the only one hurting. He wasn’t the only one burnt out. I loved him. God, I still loved him.

But sometimes love isn’t enough. Not when the person you love keeps setting fire to you every time you get too close.

6 months later

The rain hit the pavement in dull thuds, matching the rhythm of my heart as I stood outside the chapel.

I almost didn’t come.

It wasn’t the whispers I was afraid of, nor the photographs that would inevitably surface. It was Harry. Seeing him again after months of silence. After screaming matches that broke the very foundation of what we once were. After we’d reduced our love to cold, passive-aggressive emails and lawyers.

He hated me. I hated him.

Or maybe we just convinced ourselves we did.

Anne’s voice had been soft over the phone. "He doesn’t know I called you, darling. But she loved you. You were family, and still are, if you want to be."

So, I came. Dressed in black, hair pinned up, nerves eating me from the inside. I stepped through the chapel doors, and immediately the scent of white lilies and old wood swallowed me whole. Familiar faces turned to stare. Some with warmth, some with confusion, a few with open disdain.

But none of it mattered when I saw him.

Harry Styles, my husband - Soon to be ex-husband stood at the front pew, hunched over, hands gripping the back of the bench so tightly his knuckles were white. His curls were messier than usual, suit slightly wrinkled. His shoulders looked heavier. He didn’t look like a global icon. He looked like a boy who had just lost someone he loved.

I didn’t think. I moved.

One step, then another. I crossed the chapel aisle slowly but without hesitation. Eyes followed me, but I kept my gaze fixed on him.

He turned when I was only a few feet away. I expected his jaw to harden, expected him to look through me the way he had for the past six months.

But when his eyes met mine, something inside them cracked. No anger. No bitterness. Just pain. Grief. Maybe something else.

"Hi," I whispered, voice barely audible.

His breath hitched.

I stepped closer and opened my arms.

He hesitated for only a second before collapsing into me. His arms wrapped around my waist, his head tucked into my neck. I held him, feeling his silent sobs shake his frame. My hands slid into his curls instinctively.

"I’m so sorry," I whispered.

He didn’t respond, not with words. But his grip on me tightened, grounding himself. His fingers curled around the fabric of my coat as if afraid I’d vanish.

Minutes passed like that. Maybe more. I didn’t care. We were a picture of intimacy in a room of ghosts and expectations. And for once, no one interrupted.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed, lashes damp.

"You came," he said hoarsely.

I nodded. "Anne asked. But even if she hadn’t, I would have."

He looked down at our hands, joined. His thumb brushed my knuckles. Habitual. Familiar.

"I didn’t think you would."

"I know."

We sat beside each other during the service. Silent. Still. But his hand remained hooked with mine. And when the priest spoke her name, I felt his breath falter, and I gave his hand the gentlest squeeze.

Afterwards, the family gathered at Anne’s house. The home that had once felt like a second home to me.

I walked through the front door and was hit with nostalgia. The faint scent of vanilla candles, the creaky stair on the third step, the family photos lining the wall.

Anne met me in the hallway, eyes glassy but warm.

"Thank you for coming," she murmured, pulling me into a hug.

"Of course. She was… she meant so much to me."

Anne nodded, holding me tighter. "And you mean a lot to us. Divorce or not."

I found Harry in the kitchen, standing by the sink with a cup of tea he wasn’t drinking. He glanced up as I entered.

"Bit mad, innit? All these people. But I feel alone."

I stepped beside him, leaning against the counter. "You’re not."

He looked at me, studying my face like it was the first time in years. "I never cheated on you."

I closed my eyes, pain flooding me. "I know. Now. I just didn’t then."

"And I said awful things. Things I didn’t mean. I was just… hurt. And scared. And tired."

"We both were."

Silence stretched between us. Not awkward. Just full of things we hadn’t said. Couldn’t say.

"Did you stop loving me?" he asked finally.

I looked up at him. "No. Did you?"

He shook his head, a sad smile ghosting his lips. "Not even close."

The cup in his hand trembled. I reached out, gently taking it from him and setting it on the counter. Then I wrapped my hands around his.

"This doesn’t fix everything, Harry."

"I know."

"But I’m here. And I care. And I always will."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against mine. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t about lust. It was grief and history and fragile understanding. It was a bandage.

That night, when I finally left, he walked me to my car.

"Thank you," he said, voice low.

I touched his cheek. "Get some rest. And if you ever need to talk…"

He nodded. "I know where to find you."

Our eyes met again. And maybe it was foolish, maybe it meant nothing. But as I drove away, I felt the faintest flicker of something that hadn’t been there in a long time.

Hope.

The house was far too quiet when I got home.

The silence buzzed against my skin, loud in a way it hadn’t been before, and I hated it hated how empty everything felt after the weight of the funeral, the sadness pressing down on everyone all day.

I didn’t bother turning on all the lights. Just the small lamp in the corner, throwing a soft amber glow across the living room. I changed into my pyjamas and curled up on the couch under a heavy blanket, a movie playing in the background I wasn’t even watching.

I was just... numb. Tired. Sad. For him. For the family I used to call my own. For what we had lost more than just the person we buried today.

I tucked my knees to my chest, sinking deeper into the couch, my hand absently toying with the hem of the blanket. It was the first time all day I wasn’t pretending to be strong.

The movie flickered on. Some old rom-com, the kind I'd usually have laughed along with, but now it just blurred into the background.

I didn’t even hear the knock at first. It was loud, urgent. I startled, blinking, head snapping towards the front door.

I frowned. Who the hell would be knocking at nearly eleven at night?

Dragging the blanket around my shoulders like a cape, I padded over to the door, peeking through the window beside it and my heart stopped.

Harry.

His tall frame stood on the doorstep, shoulders hunched against the cold night air. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and even from the dim outside light, I could see the redness in his eyes, the tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

I sighed heavily, forehead resting briefly against the door before I twisted the lock and pulled it open.

"Harry..." I whispered.

He didn’t even let me finish whatever thought I was reaching for.

"I didn’t know where else to go," he said hoarsely, voice breaking apart like a brittle twig. His eyes shone wet, and his bottom lip trembled in a way that nearly undid me completely. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just... I didn't know what to do."

He stood there, so broken, so unlike the man who had slung cruel words at me for months. He wasn’t angry now. He wasn’t proud or defensive. He was just lost.

I stepped back without thinking, opening the door wider. "Come in."

Harry moved immediately, brushing past me into the warm living room. He smelled like the cold night air, like aftershave, and faintly of salt from the tears he'd shed.

I shut the door quietly behind him. For a moment, we just stood there me clutching the blanket around my shoulders, him standing awkwardly, hands still buried in his pockets, looking everywhere but at me.

"Sit down," I said gently, nodding towards the couch.

He sank onto it like a puppet with its strings cut. I followed, dropping down beside him without any real thought, pulling the blanket off my shoulders and draping it over us both.

As soon as the blanket settled, Harry cracked. His shoulders shook violently as he leaned into me, pressing his face into the crook of my neck and chest like he was trying to crawl inside me, hide from the world.

I wrapped my arms around him immediately, holding him tight, letting him break apart in my arms. His fingers fisted the fabric of my top, clutching me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I’m sorry," he choked out again, voice muffled against my skin. "I'm so sorry for everything, Y/N. I don’t know how it got so bad... I didn’t mean to I never wanted this..."

"Shh," I whispered, threading my fingers through his curls, soothing him, rocking us slightly. "It’s alright. Just breathe, Harry. You’re alright."

We sat there for what felt like hours, tangled up together under the blanket while he cried. Big, heaving sobs that shook his whole body all the grief and guilt and exhaustion pouring out of him at once.

And I didn’t say much. Didn’t lecture. Didn’t demand apologies or explanations. I just held him. Like I had so many times before when the world felt too heavy.

Because no matter what had happened between us, no matter how much had broken. Part of me would always want to be the place he could fall apart safely.

When he finally started to quiet, his breath hitching less, he pulled back slightly, eyes bloodshot but clearer now. His face was so close to mine, I could see the tiny freckle just under his left eye, the one I used to kiss without even thinking.

His voice was barely a whisper when he spoke.

"I miss you."

Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them.

"I miss you too," I admitted, voice thick with emotion.

Harry’s hand came up, trembling, and he cupped the side of my face so gently it almost broke me all over again.

"I don’t want to fight anymore," he whispered. "I’m so tired, love. So fucking tired of pretending I don’t still love you."

I let out a shaky breath, forehead tipping forward until it touched his.

"I’m tired too," I said quietly.

We sat like that, breathing each other in, wrapped up in our own fragile, broken little world. The movie kept playing, forgotten in the background. The rest of the world didn’t exist.

After a while, when his breathing evened out and the worst of his tears had passed, I shifted slightly under the blanket.

"Come on," I said softly, brushing a hand through his messy curls. "Let's get some proper sleep, yeah?"

Harry blinked up at me, eyes glassy and exhausted, like he didn’t quite believe I was still there.

I stood, holding out my hand to him.

Without hesitation, he reached for me, his fingers curling tightly around mine. Like if he let go, I might vanish.

I led him down the hallway to my bedroom, the creak of the floorboards under our feet feeling almost nostalgic. We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Slipping under the covers together was the most natural thing in the world. I settled down, and Harry immediately wrapped himself around me, head resting on my chest, arms locking around my waist as if trying to memorise the feel of me. His legs tangled with mine under the duvet.

I stroked his hair gently, fingers weaving through his curls, feeling his breathing slow against me.

For the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I had to guard my heart. For the first time in months, I felt safe.

Harry burrowed closer, letting out a soft, broken sigh that made my chest ache. Within minutes, he was asleep, the exhaustion of grief and guilt pulling him under.

And soon after, I followed cradled by the rhythm of his breathing and the solid, familiar weight of him against me.

The morning light filtered in through the curtains, painting the room in a soft golden glow.

I woke up slowly, my body warm and heavy under the weight of Harry curled into me. His head rested on my chest, his curls a wild mess against my skin. One of his arms was slung lazily across my waist, keeping me anchored to him.

I smiled softly, my heart clenching painfully at the sight.

Without thinking, I started running my fingers through his hair again, smoothing out the knots from sleep. His curls were so soft, slipping through my fingers like silk.

Harry stirred slightly, a small groan escaping him before his eyes fluttered open, bleary and confused for a second until he focused on me.

He blinked up at me, and for a moment, we just looked at each other. No anger. No bitterness. Just two people who had hurt each other... but still somehow found their way back.

He shifted, pressing his face into my chest for a second like he was trying to steady himself, and then he spoke voice rough and low from sleep and emotion.

"I can never take back the things I said," he rasped out, voice breaking on the words. "And I don't expect you to forget them. But... after yesterday, after losing Jenn... it made me realise how bloody short life is, Y/N."

He pulled back just enough to see my face properly, his hand finding mine under the covers, linking our fingers together tightly.

"I was so stupid," he continued, voice shaking. "So fucking stupid for letting you walk out that night. For being too proud and too angry to fix it before it got this bad."

Tears pricked my eyes again, but I blinked them back, focusing on him the raw honesty on his face, the regret pouring out of him.

He squeezed my hand tighter, like he was terrified I'd pull away.

"Those last few months before you said you wanted a divorce... I wasn’t myself," he admitted, voice dropping even lower. "I was burnt out. Tired. Snapping at everyone. I wasn’t a good husband to you not even close. I made you feel like you weren’t enough, like you weren’t my priority when you are everything."

I opened my mouth to say something, but he shook his head, rushing to finish.

"Being away from you, losing you... it made me realise I wasn’t living the life I wanted. I was chasing something, always working, always touring, never stopping to think if I was actually happy." He swallowed hard, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of my hand. "I’m not happy, love. Not without you."

My chest ached so fiercely I thought I might shatter.

"I’m pulling back," Harry said firmly. "From everything. I’ve already cancelled things. I’ve spoken to Jeff. I’m taking a proper break. No more running myself into the ground and forgetting what actually matters."

He took a deep breath, his eyes searching mine desperately.

"I want to work on us, Y/N. I know it won’t be easy. I know I fucked up badly. But if you’ll have me, if there’s even a chance... I want to be better. I want to be the husband you deserve. I want to come home to you. I want to choose you every single day."

By the time he finished, tears were streaming down both our faces. Silent, heavy drops that soaked into the pillowcase and the sheets.

I let out a shaky breath, squeezing his hand back.

"You really mean it?" I whispered, voice thick.

Harry nodded fiercely. "More than I’ve ever meant anything."

I stared at him this man who had broken my heart, and somehow was also the only person who could ever heal it.

And I knew... I still loved him. I always had. Even when it hurt.

Slowly, I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against his.

"I want to try too," I whispered.

Harry let out a choked sound half sob, half laugh and pulled me into him so tightly it almost knocked the air from my lungs.

We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other in the morning light, two broken people piecing themselves back together.

No promises we couldn’t keep. No pretending it would be easy.

Just us choosing each other again.

And maybe... Maybe that was enough.

[sweetscene]

love is super sweet in my mouth!

pairing: timeskip!osamu x f!reader

wc: 693

tags: fluff, established relationship, uh an overthinking reader (me tbh)

comments: quick drabble (took longer than imagined cuz i accidentally deleted the og while writing…) dk any cake vocab so dont flame me, also havent had cake in a year so it was impossible to write about it lolllll (can u guys tell i suck at writing fluff😞)

For the first time since moving in with Miya Osamu nine months ago, his spot on the bed is cold and empty.

Your worst fear rushes to your mind as you try to free yourself from this apparent nightmare. But it doesn’t work. The more you lay still, staring up at the bland ceiling, the more reality hits. The more it feels like he’s left.

Just the night before, you’d asked Osamu if the two of you are truly meant to be together forever. And despite his natural reassurance, the silence at your side—no one to pull you closer and ask for five more minutes—leaves you shattered.

After spending a good while watching the sky clear up, you finally decide to get up. You put on a shirt you’d aimlessly thrown on the last night, and you brace yourself for the inevitable result bound to strike you deeply.

But when you open the door, you hear him quietly cursing at the kitchen to your left. Objects lightly hit the counter, and he continues to mutter words you can’t quite understand. You try your best to remain quiet, but as you take one step forward, your slippers slide against the hardwood floors, capturing his attention immediately.

“Y/N?” He calls for you, voice now loud yet tender, somehow worried. “Are you awake?”

You hesitantly peek your head out, and you discover him trying his best to cover the counter, but its no use. His body isn’t enough to cover the disastrous mess of baking materials scattered over the large surface.

“The bed was feeling cold,” you manage to say, approaching him steadily. “What are you doing?”

He scratches the back of his head, his eyes which just screams ‘i was hoping you wouldn’t ask that’ avoids your stare. “I uh…” he turns around for a quick moment, and you see it—a vanilla cake with intricate details of frosting rests neatly behind him. “I wanted to make you something nice…you were feeling down last night, right?”

Baking isn’t your forte, and despite being a good cook, Osamu never dabbled in it. 9:00AM strikes on the clock, and the bags scattered around the floor tell you he’d gotten up early in the morning just to buy the right materials.

oh…you fall to the ground, covering your face with your hands. i shouldnt have doubted him.

“Y/N?” He rushes to you with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling good?”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry,” you mutter.

There’s a brief pause, his hands on your shoulders as he tries to catch a glimpse of your face. And when you refuse to show, he takes your hands, kissing each knuckle as if he’s trying to tell you something beyond the art of words. “What are you sorry for?” He asks, running his thumbs against your hands sweetly.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he picks you up swiftly, taking you to the cleanest edge of the messy counter. “I did this because I wanted to.”

He cuts up the cake, and you notice how unbelievably perfect the inside is—icing and strawberries arranged in between the two layers of cake. “Here, have a bite,” he continues on, a fork now in his hand.

You do as told, taking a bite of the small piece. The vanilla is sweet as expected, but the sudden appearance of the strawberries leave you surprised. The gentle transition causes your cheeks to grow pink.

“So good,” you say, hands hovering over you smiling lips. “But ‘Samu, isn’t it too early for something this sweet?”

His mouth parts slightly, only realizing this is your first meal of the day. His features fall flat. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that. I’ll make you some breakfast right—“

Before he turns, you rush to cup his cheeks, landing a quick peck on his forehead. “Thank you, Osamu,” you say giddily.

He freezes up for a moment, eyes wide with surprise. At last, your touch melts him, and he drops into your embrace, arms looping behind your back and holding you tightly. “Not fair. I think I should be thanking you, my love. Thank you for staying with me.”

[hannahssimblr]

The gallery hallway is quieter, colder, the faint smell of cigarette smoke seeping through the courtyard door. Leaned against a wall, I stare down into my drink, gone flat now, swishing around in the glass. It doesn’t taste good. Never was a fan of champagne, or any drink with an opinion of itself. So much commotion, it seems, over something with the power to disappoint instantly. 

I hear her coming before I see her. Those shoes with the needle-thin heels clacking across the floor, through the gallery doors. In these, she’s tall enough for us to see eye-to-eye. Unsettles me a bit. 

I straighten up. “Hey.”

“Hello,” the buzz of conversation continues behind closed doors. “They really like to talk, those men.”

“Yeah, seems it. He–they seem impressed by your stuff.” I don’t intend for my words to have a curve, to have their back up like a threatened cat, but it is how they come out. She hardly seems to notice. 

“It was Steffan’s friend, really. He writes for an architectural journal, and wanted to talk about doing an article about the exhibition. My pieces remind him of soft brutalism.”

“Ah, yes. Soft brutalism. That’s what I thought, too. Found it obvious.”

Clumsy joke, worsened by my flat delivery. 

She doesn’t smile. “I never got the impression you thought that.”

“Oh, well, like, I didn’t. Not really.”

“You thought it was challenging, you said.”

Hesitating. Did I say that? It takes a beat. “Ah, yeah. Anspruchsvoll.” Fantastic, really, to know what the word means. “Yeah, I do. I think it’s challenging and ambitious and fucking… uh, sophisticated.”

She half-smiles. “Ah, that’s what Steffan said, too.”

Violent irritation jolts through my spine. Words slipping before I can catch them. “Ah, and was he talking about the work or about you?”

Her eyes sharpen. “What?” 

“Just...” I look past her down the hallway, at the abstract painting hanging on the wall. “He thinks a lot of you, doesn’t he?” 

She scoffs. “It was kind of him, actually, to come tonight and support me.” 

“Alright, yeah. It was.”

“And it was kind of him to introduce me to his friend, the writer.” Her voice takes on that careful, measured tone. “That was an important networking moment. I’ll need these connections when I leave—” 

“Yeah, but did he have to keep touching you all the time?” The words come hot and fast. 

A thick silence. She crosses her arms, spine straightening.

“On your...” My hand gestures vaguely in the air between us. “All over your arm every time you said something, his hand on your back. Christ, Astrid, the way he looks at you—like you’re a piece in his art collection.” 

A muscle twitches near her temple. “So this is why you’re standing out here sulking. You were waiting to have this argument again. It’s like déjà vu.” 

“Again? You mean after all the times he insisted on holding you back after class? Or the critique session last month?” I lower my voice as someone passes by. “I don’t know why you can’t acknowledge the way he talks to you, like you’re—” 

“Like I’m what, Jude?” Dangerous edge to her voice now. 

“Like you’re his. His student, his discovery, his—” I struggle for the word in any language. “It’s the way he ferries you around to his friends. Like you’re his little protégée, or like he wants them all to get a good look at you. It’s...” 

Her eyebrows shoot up. “What exactly are you implying?” 

“I don’t know!” I snap, then check myself. Quieter now: “It’s not right. You don’t see how his eyes follow you when you walk away?” 

Astrid takes a step back. Controlled voice. “It sounds as though you spend a lot of time thinking about Steffan.” She tilts her head. “Do you think he thinks of you quite so much?” 

The question hits like a slap. “Right. Jesus. Okay.” 

“You’re so interested in him, in this idea of what he thinks of me, or why he likes my work so much.” She studies me like I’m one of her art pieces. “I just wonder why.” 

“Because it feels obvious that he also likes you,” I say tightly. “For reasons that have nothing to do with your work.” 

“Oh, because a woman who looks like me could not possibly create something valuable.” Her voice rises, color touching her cheeks. “Any success I have must be entirely because of the way I look? Is that what you think?” 

“You’re twisting my words. I meant—” 

“You meant what? That my adviser appreciates me for my looks rather than my talent? That my work is secondary to whatever imagined attraction you’ve conjured up?” 

“No, I—” 

“Okay, and what’s the endgame here? You think we will sleep together? That’s the kind of person you assume I am?” 

The conversation slips from me like fistfuls of water. “No. That’s not my point. It’s that he… and I… It makes me feel—” 

“Ugh, God,” she groans and throws her eyes to the ceiling. “It makes you feel. It hurts your feelings. It’s always so melodramatic, these conversations, repeatedly. Since you got back from Ireland, this is every day for me. I’m tired of defending myself against things I haven’t done.” 

I keep my mouth shut. Stomach souring with shame and anger. 

“Do you know what Steffan said to me tonight? He said my work shows remarkable confidence. Confidence.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Meanwhile, my boyfriend is hiding in hallways because he can’t bear to watch me succeed.” 

I stare at the champagne glass, rum my thumb around the rim, wishing for something stronger. 

“Please,” she says, genuine fatigue in her voice now. “I want to enjoy my evening. I want it to be about me, not about you, and what is making you sad and insecure today. Enough.” She takes a breath. “I’m going to go back in. Will you come?” 

The question hangs—an offering, despite everything. “In a bit,” I say finally, and she turns, loud heels across the floor as she pushes through the door into the noise.

I stay where I am—the sound of her swallowed by the gallery’s chatter. Slipping back into her world, a small group crowding her, and Steffan’s hand there, appearing by her elbow before the door swings shut. 

Drain the champagne. Horrible. Leave the glass on a plinth.  

Outside in the courtyard, freezing air, cigarette smoke dense and seductive. I borrow a smoke from someone I know from college, chatting to some others, their fluent German filling the space. I say “Ja, sicher, genau,” about fifteen times, picking out the words I know from their conversation, contemplating the ones I don’t. 

Later, half an hour, maybe, I’ll go back into the gallery, stand by the edge of her spotlight, practice words under my breath that might impress someone in her group. Vielschichtig. Eigenwillig. Facettenreich. But for now, I lean against the cold, flat wall, silent, and let myself be foreign. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[mosquego359]

𖤐One Kiss and A Quidditch Match — Chapter 9: The Yule Ball

Prologue (recommended to read)

Chapter 8 (previous)

Pair: Cedric Diggory x Male Slytherin Reader

Word count: 3K words

Summary of the book: You and Cedric Diggory hate each other. It has always been this way. But everything changes one night when you kiss each other at a party. Now, it seems you can’t escape each other — from being partnered up in Herbology for an important project to having to help Cedric during the Triwizard Tournament.

Summary of the chapter: It's finally the Yule ball. Why do you feel so stressed all of a sudden?

Notes: Please comment on anything I should change to improve this. Also, I am not British so I am not 100% sure how to correctly write people from the UK. (I'm very sorry for the late ass update but motivation hates me)

I am also really sorry for posting so late; my life has been pretty busy right now and this is the most relaxing week so far. Also, no, the reader and Cedric don't kiss in this, you have to wait, my children.

Content warning: A singular swear word and a bit of angst.

!PLEASE DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION OR CREDIT TO ME!

...

Usually, whenever you dreamed of your ex-rival, you wouldn’t wake up until noon unless Brian or Alistair shook you awake. However, as your eyes adjusted to the dark room, you faintly spotted the numbers on your clock: 7:45.

It was time for breakfast.

You slipped out of bed, pushing off your blanket. You put on your uniform, for when you woke after the dream about Cedric, you couldn’t sleep, spending an hour or so on homework and then changing to go to bed for the night.

Your hands trembled as you buttoned your white blouse, mind warping around the fact that you were perhaps in love with the person you once despised the most. Not to mention that you’d already kissed him.

The party.

The memory had completely slipped your mind. You used to feel irked or embarrassed whenever you thought of it, mainly because you used to hate Cedric, but now, you felt as if there was a missing puzzle to your lips, a gap that could only be filled by the warm feeling of Cedric’s kiss.

And then there was Alistair. You knew he was closed-minded — even as kids, you could tell his discomfort with knowing that you were a Half-blood — but you never expected him to stay that way. To say that his homophobia shocked you was an understatement. His twin sister literally kissed Elsie at the party. How could he ever be homophobic? Was he unaware? Did that mean you’d have to cut ties with him? You didn’t want to — you had been friends for years — but was it likely that he’d change?

You finished dressing before heading upstairs to the Great Hall. On the way, you passed Brian.

“You’re awake?” he asked, slight surprise in his monotonous voice, “That’s a first. Never thought I’d see the day where our dear Sleeping Beauty would wake up without a shove from little old me.” He mocked you, but you knew it was harmless.

“Must have been good sleep, then.” You reasoned, ignoring how late you stayed up.

“Come on,” Brian turned around and started up the stairs, “The gang’ll be happy to see you eat breakfast with us.”

You followed him to the Great Hall, where most of your friends were settled. You noticed Alistair, Ziggy, and Roman sitting at the Slytherin table, apart from your group of friends.

Winnie and Destiny were chattering about something, and Elsie had her arm slung over the Hufflepuff’s shoulder, taking slow bites out of her toast. Over the past month or so, you noticed how happy Elsie seemed, and you suspected that her getting over her crush on Alistair and befriending Destiny helped a lot. 

You approached the Hufflepuff table — where you typically sat, now — and settled in the empty seat next to Brian and across from Elsie. When she noticed your presence, she quickly removed her arm from Destiny’s shoulder.

Winnie still hadn’t noticed you, too engrossed in her conversation with Destiny to spare a glance in your direction.

“You’re up early,” Elsie pointed out.

“Yup, I had amazing sleep.” You said, not trying to sound sarcastic, but your words came out that way.

“Sure seems like it,” she joked, “I’m surprised you actually joined us for a meal this time. You usually hang out with Cedric.”

You let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of your neck, “Yead, I guess. Sorry for that; I’ve just been so invested in helping him out with the egg. I don’t really want the other schools to win in the Triwizard Tournament, and being beaten by Harry Potter is embarrassing.” 

Elsie nodded in understanding, “Figured. It’s nice that you’ve been getting along. I’ve always been tired of that stupid rivalry. How did it even start?”

“Aparantly in year 2, when Slytherin won the Quidditch Cup, but my memory’s still foggy ‘bout that.”

Elsie hummed and glanced to the side, “Speaking of the devil, you’re boyfriend’s walking towards us — towards you.”

You felt the back of your neck heat up at her statement, and a light shade of pink tinted your cheeks. “Don’t exaggerate, he is not my boyfriend.” You turned your head to see that, indeed, Cedric was walking towards you.

“Hey, mate,” He smiled warmly as he neared you, slipping into the empty seat on your other side. You couldn’t help but smile back, finally aware of the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“Oh, hey.”

Don’t think of the kiss. Don’t think of the kiss.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation with Wilson, but I just wanted to tell you that I tried your idea — y’know, putting the egg under water — and it worked!” Cedric recounted.

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” You beamed. You had totally forgotten that you had said that, but felt proud nonetheless. “That was relatively simpler than I imagined it would be.”

“Right? I’ll tell you all about it later, but I gotta head to the library to study. Just, thanks, man.” He stood up again.

As he started to walk away, he gave you a small wave and shot you a smile that melted your heart and sent a warm tingling sensation through your body. If that wasn’t love, then you didn’t know what was.

For the rest of breakfast, you chatted with Brian and Elsie (as well as Winnie when she finally noticed you). You and Destiny shared curt nods and small comments but never truly conversed. She was much less annoying than when she was Alistair’s girlfriends; now you understood why she was considered popular and well-loved by not only Hufflepuffs but the rest of the houses too.

The white suit fit like a glove, minus the fact that the sleeves of the silver tailcoat were a tad bit too short, although your snow-coloured gloves made sure that your wrists weren’t bare. Luckily for you, the black dress pants were long enough to cover up your socks and the top of your fancy suits.

Once you had carefully buttoned up the tailcoat with golden chains and buttons, you inspected your reflection in the mirror. You did a little spin, admiring the golden patterns engraved in the sleeves and along the sides and back of the tailcoat, as well as on your gorgeous waistcoat. Your dad had really outdone himself.

While your outfit was absolutely sublime, your hair was another thing. You personally felt proud of how you combed it back, but the way Brian scrutinized you made you sweat in self-consciousness.

“You could have added more eyeshadow and your eyeliner is relatively sloppy and uneven, but overall, not too embarrassing.” Brian remarked, a hand on his chin.

“Since when were you a professional makeup stylist?” You huffed teasingly. Winnie was the best out of the friend group, although she used it for excessively colourful looks.

“I’m just logical.” He responded, “At least one of us has to have a good sense of fashion.”

That was a bold claim for him to make with his bark-coloured suit and messy dark hair. You thought to yourself, but decided not to point it out. Tonight was a night meant to be enjoyed, and you wouldn’t let it go to waste.

“Here,” Brian said, stepping towards you to tie a cravat around your neck, “So that you look less like an eejit.” 

“I still think that tie makes me look stupid.”

“It’s a cravat.” Brian corrected, tightening the cloth. “Now, come one, we don’t want to be late to the party.”

“Shouldn’t we fetch the girls?” You questioned, waiting for your friend to put on his shoes.

“No, they said they’d meet us down there. You’d know if you hung out with us more.” You knew Brian didn’t mean it as an insult, but you felt a pang of guilt at his comment.

As both of you exited the dorm, you crossed paths with Alistair, whom you locked eyes with. You internally laughed, recalling your conversations the day before Cedric told you about him cracking the code to the egg; you had done the very thing Alistair warned you not to. Oh well, it wasn’t as if you valued his opinion as much as before.

You broke eye contact first as you and Brian left for the Yule ball.

Your breath caught when you caught sight of Cedric. His outfit was basic, but the icy blue lighting gave his features an angelic glow. His smile warmed the room, like the sun on a windy day. You felt a blush creep up your neck, and your heart was racing. It was just like that dream. The one where you realise your feelings for him.

Cho walked beside him in a pretty silver dress, her dark hair nicely made and pretty dabs of makeup on her pale face. Despite the knowledge that they were just friends, your heart ached at the sight of their arms wrapped around each other. 

Throughout the start of the party, you occasionally got up to dance and attempted to fit in, but your jaw ached from your forced smile, and your limbs felt sluggish. So you settle by the buffet table, munching on snacks, trying not to stare longingly at the man you love.

Suddenly, someone sat in the spot next to yours. It was Brian.

For a moment, you two sat in silence, however, your thoughts and the music filled that void of conversation. You remarked with a frown how odd it felt being near Brian. Sure, you shared the same dorm and you got ready with him for the Yule Ball, but those were the only times you hung out with him.

You recalled his previous comment about how you never hung out with him, Winnie and Elsie. Your stomach twisted as you realised he was right. You’d been friends with them for years, and Winnie was your closest friend — you’d gone through everything together — but you literally left them for someone who most definitely didn’t reciprocate your feelings.

Winnie, Elsie, and Destiny looked like they were having fun on the dance floor, holding each other’s hands with grins that shone like diamonds.

Winnie wore a long sun-coloured ball gown with tons of ruffles and sparkly stones. It was floor-length and puffed out like it was filled with air. How she didn’t trip on the fabric, you didn’t know. Her hair was equally voluptuous, layers and layers of curly black stacked atop her head, reminding you of the wigs people used to wear in the 18th century. It was decorated in feathers and pearls, something flamboyant and uniquely hers. 

Elsie’s sleeveless black dress fitted her body, especially with her corset wrapped tightly around her waist. It was much shorter than Winnie’s —only reaching her knees — but the back of the dress drooped down to the ground like crow feathers. Her short hair was in an updo, and her makeup was bold and dark. She stood out among the flood of soft, cool-coloured girls, but you didn’t think she minded, too absorbed with having fun with her friends.

Destiny’s dress was a little less decorated; a coral pink gown with poofy sleeves revealing her shoulders and a bit of her cleavage. Her hair was styled down in coils of blonde, decorated with pink ribbons that you were certain belonged to Winnie.

The trio spun around, hands clasped together and laughing with all their heart.

You felt something squeeze in your chest, remembering all the memories with your best friends. Oh, Merlin, you were a terrible friend. You left them. They who had been at your side forever. Sticking by you when you hated Cedric, and still seeking you out despite how little time you spent with them. You missed them, even that idiot, Alistair, whom you noticed was locking lips with a girl from Beauxbatons. Roman and Ziggy danced next to him. They made their own group. Your friends made another group. You felt like you were drifting around in the void of society. You didn’t belong anywhere, it seemed. Not with Elsie. Not with Alistair. Not with Cedric Diggory.

Brian seemed to notice your inner turmoil — easy, considering tears prickled your eyes — reaching for your hand.

You pulled away and got up; the room felt stuffy and too crowded. The sensation was overwhelming.

Air. You needed air.

Without a second thought, you dashed out of the room, dodging the crowd of teenagers, only faintly aware that Brian had called your name. You never felt so stressed. Only a few months ago, you’d been fine. Completely fine with your ordinary life, ordinary friends, and not too much to worry about. So why now, why you? 

You stumbled outside, frantically trying to get away from the crowd and all your feelings.

You collapsed onto the ground near a tree, confused tears finally spilling onto the grass like raindrops. You gasped, trying to gulp down air whilst hiccuping as you finally let your sorrows out.

Finally, when you had no more tears to cry, only numbness and the cold night wind on your cheek, you stumbled back against the tree, head hanging between your knees. How long had you been gone? It felt like ages. 

Suddenly, you flinched as you felt a hand on your shoulder. You looked up with wet cheeks to see Elsie. She sat down next to you without a word, not even glancing at you.

You two sat there for a minute, her hand on your shoulder, rubbing her thumb around in soothing circles. She reminded you a bit of Brian with her quietness, but this silence was different; soothing, waiting, but not anticipating. It was different from her usual self, who was loud and snooty. 

“I’m not good at comforting people,” Elsie said bluntly, breaking the silence. Her voice was clear and monotone, but much quieter and less condescending. “But Winnie is with the other two, and you’ve always been by my side to help, so it’s about time I repay the favour.”

You had arrived early to your class, excited for your first lesson. You had heard of Professor Snape’s harsh demeanour and strict grading, and as a high achiever and child prodigy, you arrived extra early to show how amazing a student you were. That’s where you found a little girl curled in the corner of the classroom, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She was a skinny twelve-year-old with brown hair that had been chopped to shoulder length by a pair of scissors.

A girl had been bothering her and cut her pride and joy: her long, silky hair. You comforted her and got the bully expelled. That was how you became friends. You handed her confidence while she controlled your ecstatic energy.

Now, that same girl you gave a shoulder to cry on when she needed it most was by your side the moment you felt that your life was falling apart. 

“Do you want to talk about it? Elsie whispered, staring at the moon’s reflection in the dark water of the lake.

You paused. 

“Not…really.”

“It’s fine you don’t have to.”

And it was silence all over. You twiddled with your fingers while she continued to stare at the lake. You looked at her, a puddle of anxiety churning in your stomach.

“I think I have feelings for Cedric.” It felt good to admit it.

She didn’t turn to you. For a moment, she didn’t respond. But then she nodded.

“For how long.”

“I’ve known since the day he figured out the secret to the egg. But it’s probably been around for longer; I just never seemed to notice.”

“Was it why you were acting slightly different that day?”

“Yes.”

Elsie hummed in response. You admitted the silence was comforting.

“Why are you letting your emotions for a singular person to dictate whether or not you’re having fun?” She asked, bluntly. It was a weird way to put it, but she was right, and you knew. “I’m not saying we — Brian, Winnie and I — should be your top priority. We shouldn’t be the reason that you do something you don’t want to do. You’re a person too. Live your live how you feel you should.”

With that, she got up. But before she could get far, you called after her, “Elsie! I’m sorry that I’ve been drifting away from our friend group. It… wasn’t very considerate of me.”

She shrugged, moonlight dancing off her sparkly raven dress, “Don’t apologise. You’re in love, it’s pretty normal to want to spend time with him. Just don’t pine over someone who won’t let you live your life. I’d know. And… we all love you. And forgive that stupid apology. If Winnie and Brian were here, they’d say the same thing.”

And with that, she turned away, and you thought a bit about what she said. Although Elsie had never been good with romance or even feelings, her logic made sense and soothed you quite a bit.

You sat back down for a moment, wiping away the eyeliner that had stained your cheeks.

You then walked back to the Hogwarts building, back to the great hall. Elsie was right. Why did it matter that Cedric was dancing with Cho? Why did it matter that he wasn’t hanging out with you at the moment? Why would you let that influence whether or not you had fun? Maybe that wasn’t entirely why you were upset, but having one of your closest friends by your side made you feel powerful.

With that in mind, you spent the rest of your night dancing and chatting with your friends. You even got to have some one-on-one conversations with Destiny, whom you hardly knew. She was actually quite a pleasant person.

During the entire night, you managed to avoid Cedric without problem, save for the numerous times you caught him staring at you. You left the party past midnight, a satisfying buzzing in your chest and glad that you spent time with Winnie, Brian, Elsie and Destiny.

...

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[str4wberri-mochi]

Drowning yourself in alcohol is not the healthiest way to deal with shit, it does not solve one’s problem at all but rather serves as a distraction with a price.

As a man who had seen the world change and grow right in front of his eyes, he knew emotions were a fleeting aspect of life and took quite pride at the fact of how well he managed his emotions.

But he felt a small void in his heart as he read your text 'Will stay at HOL 2night'.

It was humorous really, how the both of you managed to go three thousand years back in time, lived under the same roof and somehow- just somehow, the brothers still occupy the most of your time.

That just shows your bond with the brothers, doesn't it? And that's nice, he tries to convince himself.

Well since you're not coming tonight, might as well hit a bar right?

And now he's down under six shots, unable to walk straight, and probably red (though he can't tell). He feels a bit guilty, for coming to alcohol as a solution. But not because it crosses his morals- hah, as if he has those- it's because you scold him like a child whenever he drinks too much.

but it's alright, he'd take your scoldings as long as you're looking at him. How cute you look with that sternness in your eyes. He walked out of the bar, unsure why, but he did.

hm?

that's you.

cue a frown.

with satan.

"Hey MC!"

He exclaimed to his full ability while ignoring the demon you held hands with. It's fine he's not jealous.

Solomon isn't a jealous man.

~

[draconabraxas]

there needs to be a real discussion about fandom decorum bc some of the comments i receive on fics are just rude as hell like why would i want to update a fic when yall are all mean about me taking time to update lmfao? esp when i JUST updated like 2 days ago… i just gave you an update and you’re already being rude

(this isnt about the arcane fandom btw yall are lovely)

[hellsbellssinclub]

When you think you might have bombed an interview and won’t get a job just keep this in mind;

I forgot to mention doing vital signs on a patient who in a scenario is having a heart attack. Vital signs is the one thing you start off with for any patient who is in a possible medical emergency.

I was just offered the job I applied for. They are sending me a letter of offer once they confirm my start date (as it is an internal transfer).

You didn’t do as badly as you thought. Everything works out in the end.

[lieutenant-amuel]

Today is my… ahem Emilio’s birthday!

Happy birthday, Señor Writer <3

He’s “good” now so he deserves to have a kind-looking version of his picrew (and I gave him a pocket watch because he does have a pocket watch. With the portrait of his family inside)

[milo-is-rambling]

Quick Netflix play the Tuca and Bertie episode where Bertie has intrusive pastry pete memory/fantasy masturbation and then has panic attacks and tries to get rid of her vibe and her bed to magically fix herself. Umm. No reason why I wanna watch that one tho. It’s fine. No comment.

[humanjarvis]

tantrum

synopsis: what makes sylus snap?

tags: fluff, sylus is tired and grumpy bc he misses you, he obliterates his phone with his evol, sunshine reader probably, cartoonish luke and kieran appearance (sorry boys) word count: 842

a/n: after that magnum opus line i really wanted to see sylus throw a tantrum and i kept mulling over what would actually make him do that because i can’t see him doing anything much worse than this. i think he’d find Actual grown man tantrums lame. anyway i don’t like this and will maybe delete? nvm but i had the writing urge so i sacrificed this concept from my wips. 

When you arrived at the base after your three-week business trip, your long-awaited homecoming was…tame, to say the least. You’d been expecting a teasing “How nice of you to join us, sweetie,” or a cocky yet vulnerable “I was beginning to think you’d run away.” But once you’d stepped through the front door, Sylus had barely said a word. A soft “Welcome home” and a kiss on the forehead, and before you knew it, you were cradled in his arms as he carried you to his office.

He’d sat you both down in his leather armchair, making you face him in a straddle. His tired eyes had searched yours, and a moment later, he’d buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I missed you,” you’d murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair. With a quiet groan, he’d tightened his grip on your hips and nuzzled into you even deeper.

That’d been 15 minutes ago. Basking in the comfortable silence, you’d traded kisses all the while—yours on his hair, his on your neck. 

But suddenly, a low buzzing noise cuts your reunion short: his phone is ringing.

When he makes no effort to answer, still breathing heavily in your embrace, you twist in his arms and accept the call before he can protest. 

A familiar voice crackles over the line. “Boss?” Kieran asks. “Next meeting’s in 10. The one about those stolen shipments from Linkon—we’ve been waiting to hear back for months. You coming?”

Sylus doesn’t answer.

“…Boss?” Kieran repeats. “Boss, you there? You oka—”

Red and black mist shreds the phone into pieces. 

“Sylus!” you yelp, jumping in his lap. “What’d you do that for? He’ll probably be worried. And how will I text you now?”

You pout up at him, and as you study his chronically calm expression, you see something unusual: Sylus’s eye twitches. Just for a millisecond, only moving a millimeter, but you catch it.

“I’ll have a new one delivered tomorrow. As for the meeting, I’ll stay here,” he says lightly, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face.

“But Kieran said it was important,” you reply in confusion. “Why don’t you want to go? Are you feeling sick?” you frown, starting to lift off of him.

“No,” comes his too-quick reply. “It’s just…the twins can go in my stead,” he decides simply, moving to lean into you again.

But before he can move an inch, a rhythmic sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

“Come in!” you chirp happily, too excited to see the faces you’d missed the last few weeks to notice Sylus stiffening under you.

Immediately, the door swings open, revealing two masked figures. 

“Hi Luke, hi Kieran!” you beam, and they wave back at you eagerly.

“Long time no see,” Kieran begins. “Boss, did you lose signal or something? I tried calling you about the meeting, but I think it disconnected. Anyway, we’re about to head down and—”

“Cancel it,” a frustrated growl rings out.

You all freeze.

Somehow, you’d been too wrapped up in your excitement to feel Sylus's body shaking—no, quaking—beneath you.

“W-what? But they’re already here!” Luke sputters.

“Cancel. It.” Sylus grits out the words as if holding back a snarl, and the power in his voice leaves no room for argument. 

“O…kay,” the boys say in unison, and as they back away slowly, you shoot them a sympathetic look.

Red tendrils wrench the door shut behind them, and when you’re alone once more, it’s like the man under you deflates.

His head returns to the crevice of your neck with a soft but unceremonious thud, and his deep exhales and burning hot skin tell you he’s trying to calm himself down. 

Uncertain and a little amazed—you’d never seen him lose his composure—you give his cheek a gentle poke. “Sylus,” you whisper. Nothing. 

“Psst. Sylus,” you try again, and there’s some force behind your poke this time. With bated breath, you watch as your finger sinks into the space under his cheekbone, sighing in relief when the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

Lifting his head up to make eye contact, you smile at him softly. “Hi.”

“…Hi,” he rumbles, and as his crimson gaze softens, the remaining annoyance dissolves from his face.

“Are you upset?” you prod gently. 

A brazen scoff precedes the dry chuckles that fall from his lips. “And what makes you say that, kitten?”

A squint and a slight tilt of your head is all it takes. 

“I haven’t had you to myself in a while,” he begins cautiously. “Three weeks is…a long time. The longest we’ve been apart. And then the moment I have you in my arms, well…” he trails off, gesturing to the shards of phone on the table. “I just want to enjoy you right now. Undisturbed.”

“Oh, I see,” you coo, cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your way of saying you missed me too?” you quirk a brow.

“Yes,” he responds through squished cheeks, honest and unabashed. “Now, won’t you stay with me like this for a little longer?”

[fingertipsmp3]

That last post just reminded me of something honestly mind-boggling that that friend did

[suguboos]

USED TO BE MY GIRL

getting stuck baby catsitting a high maintenance ball of fur wasn't how you planned on spending your saturday. and then your ex shows up for the same thing. yay!

FEATURING: ex boyfriend! gojo satoru x fem reader

CONTENTS: 18+ content, MDNI. non canon compliant/au (he’s a ceo), kinda angsty at first but gets pretty silly :p, he’s kind of an idiot sorry, ex sex, unprotected p in v, kinda pathetic gojo, body worship, nipple play, panty-sniffing + panty taking (?), cunnilingus + fingering, missionary, hair pulling (m receiving), belly bulge mention, some aftercare

WORD COUNT: 6.4k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: over two months later here it is ^.^ anyways, forst time (solely) writing for this white haired freak so lmk ur thots 🥸

@aquasoftware here it isss, hope you enjoy bae :3

“we should break up.”

when you’d spent nearly an hour and half in the shower prior to this date and another hour getting ready, the last thing that you would’ve imagined was that you were getting dumped. publicly.

fairy lights illuminated the dark sky, soft jazz playing throughout the restaurant’s speakers out into the balcony—a simple quiet evening where you and satoru had been having a pleasant dinner date.

you could practically hear your tiktok swirling down the drain—is he going to propose or he just…?

setting down the the glass of water you had in hand, you turned to look over at him just to make sure you’d heard him right, “you want to break up.”

the entirety of your relationship came flashing to the forefront of your mind along with questions that you weren’t even sure you wanted the answer to. how long had he been thinking about this breakup?

and just what was so unforgivable that he didn’t deem this relationship worth it anymore? you began relaying all the little things the two of you bickered about—like dirty dishes in the sink, socks scattered in the hallway, or picking out where to go eat.

all the little arguments that somehow seemed all too big at the moment. but surely those didn’t warrant a breakup of all things, right?

“well no, i don’t want to break up,” he stared at anything and everything but you, paying more attention to the flower bed situated beside you, “but we don’t have enough time to put into this relationship.”

“you mean you don’t want to put enough time into this relationship,” you stated plainly, folding your arms across your chest.

case in point, the two of you had finally come out to dinner after multiple ‘i can’t make it, sweet cheeks’ or ‘can we reschedule? i’ll make it up to you, princess, i promise.’

“to-satoru,” you were quick to correct yourself and fuck, that stung more than it was probably supposed to—he couldn’t even begin to remember the last time he wasn’t your toru—“we’ve been making it work so far, we can keep trying to make it work.”

the moment that satoru looked up at you, you already knew. it was practically engraved all over his face—he didn’t want to make it work, all that he was doing was simply announcing the break up to you.

“i love you,” he spoke up after a couple seconds, like that had the answer to everything, “and i don’t want you to end up hating me because this relationship will never be a priority to me. not as much as my family’s business.”

you sat there in complete silence, barely registering when the waitstaff had placed your food in front of you. food that you didn’t even have an appetite for anymore—despite wanting to try out the restaurant for a few months now. “so if this relationship wasn’t a priority to you, what was it?”

satoru tried to find the words to speak but before he could get a word in, you continued, “and if you knew, if you fucking knew—” your voice cracked, “—then why even bother in the first place? why even bother making me fall in love with you?”

each moment of silence that lingered in the air gnawed at your mind, each second that you waited for some explanation to come. “i’m sorry,” gojo reached over to take your hand, an action that you quickly rejected. you pulled your hand away, hastily getting out of your chair.

“you’re not giving me an answer, just half assed responses,” a bitter laugh left your lips, “just answer me one question, please. when did you decide this relationship just.. wasn’t worth it? that i wasn’t worth it anymore?”

“you will always be worth it to me, but—” gojo spoke up, avoiding your gaze all the while. an action that made your eye twitch—wanting to shake him by his shoulders and make him give you an answer. instead, you settled for tightening your grip around your purse.

“—but sukuna co.’s basically starting a war between the two companies, stealing away our biggest clients and investors alike. i don’t have the time to be with you. like i said, i don’t want you to hate me.”

a scoff threatened to leave your lips, tears threatening to spill with each blink you took. when he finally looked at you is that you finally spoke, “it’s a little too late for that. but fine, since you’re adamant on throwing away our relationship—we’re done. have ijichi take the stuff i left at your place to my apartment sometime in the week. i never want to see you again.”

the unfinished piece of steak you’d ordered a few minutes prior sat on the table, the only reminder that you’d ever been here in the first place. well that and the aching feeling of regret settling deep within his very bones with each step you took further away from him.

gojo satoru was a truly hopeless man.

every single thing about you consumed his every thought like an unrelenting parasite every single day, every single hour, and every single minute. he’d resorted to having one of your shirts next to him, the scent of the perfume he loved so much lulling him to sleep at late hours of the night.

and it worked for the most part. but the fantasy dissipated the moment his fingertips reached out to grab you, to hold you, only to find nothing but cold sheets and the sheer feeling of utter regret.

waking up to find your coffee mug sitting on the counter where you’d usually be leaning up against, finding himself torn between wanting to store it away in the depths of his cabinet or keep it there just in case. just in case, in the odd chance, that you’d come back to him. that he’d wake up and his stupidity was just a dream.

and usually, the latter ended up winning. the coffee mug remained in its rightful spot, stuck in time. stuck in memories of simple morning bliss.

then he found himself thinking what even was the point of having all this ‘extra’ time to himself when he couldn’t bring himself to focus in on any meetings? when all that came to mind when he filled out another report from the heavy paper stack was the look on your face.

and so, here he was begging shoko for just an opportunity to talk to you again.

after countless attempts of trying to send you extravagant bouquets of roses and cashapp requests in the thousands just begging to be unblocked. you usually accepted the money, leaving him blocked regardless.

satoru would take that as a good thing, at the very least.

“sho, pleaseee,” a loud whine left his lips, attracting some attention from those passing by. not that it necessarily mattered; he would get on his knees if deemed necessary.

“weren’t you the one who dumped her? in public, too?” shoko raised a brow, taking an obnoxious sip from her coffee.

gojo let out an offended scoff, “sho, you’re missing the point. yeah, i made a tiny little mistake but i’m trying to fix it.”

shoko simply took another sip of the black coffee in hand, giving him a quizzical look, “disregarding everything i just said, somehow you think my cat’s the answer to your problems.”

“well duh, that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you. all we need is like five minutes together and it’ll be like the breakup didn’t happen,” satoru responded, taking his own obnoxious sip of the overly sweet concoction he called an ice coffee.

(a drink rumored by baristas to have the capacity to put a victorian child in the hospital)

she set her cup down, folding her arms across her chest as she faced him. a clear sign that she was about to go on a spiel about how utterly ridiculous this whole idea was. so, naturally, gojo took out his wallet, handing her a couple hundred bills as if he were handing out flyers, “please.”

shoko took the money in hand, flipping over through the bills before letting out a reluctant sigh. “you’re forgetting to include the lying and deception fee. she’s my friend, y’know.”

“fine, i’ll message her. it’s not on me if it doesn’t work out, though.”

satoru let out a quiet hum, adding in as an afterthought, “hey, silly question, haha, but you don’t happen to know if she maybe kept the flowers?”

shoko didn’t find the same amusement, staring at him blankly, “she gave them all away.”

he nearly choked on a sip from his coffee, nearly knocking his drink off the table, “all of them?! she didn’t keep a singular rose? a petal? anything!?”

passersby looked over at the table upon his little outburst yet again, having shoko hide her face behind the menu. “keep. it. down. and no, i think she mentioned smacking the vase over your head if you kept sending them actually.”

gojo quickly came to realize that maybe, just maybe, there was the odd chance that he’d need more than five minutes.

but at least step one of his plan was complete.

now to see if you’d actually show up.

“hey, sorry i’m late,” you gave shoko an apologetic smile when she opened the door,

“it’s fine, you’re not that late. i have something to tell you, though.”

you stepped foot into her apartment, leaving your shoes at the door before dropping your bag off at the kitchen counter. “yeah, what’s up?”

“so, you’re not actually babysitting her alo-” shoko barely managed to get that out without grimacing before you heard a grating voice behind you, a voice you were hoping to never hear again, “pooks, what a silly coincidence.”

you simply looked at shoko with a pleading expression, begging for this to be a joke. all you received in response was a slight grimace, her own version of an apologetic look on her face, “i wasn’t actually expecting him to show up, i’m sorry.”

gojo came up behind you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders for a split second before you pushed it off. and he had the audacity to look at you with his arms raised in defense, “okay, okay, jeez. but at least we’ll both be babysitting the little maniac.” like that was supposed to be any reassurance.

“more like i’ll be stuck babysitting two maniacs,” your response came out immediately, and much to your annoyance, it only made satoru’s grin spread even further.

“always so charming, princess.”

“i’ll be right back. try not to kill each other,” shoko called out, disappearing up the stairs and leaving you alone with gojo. exactly how you planned on spending your saturday off.

“so you didn’t have enough time for a relationship but you have enough time to catsit,” you finally turned to look around at him with a glare on your face, and damn. he’d even made time to hit the gym more often, biceps straining against the tight material of his black compression shirt.

it would’ve made you practically drool if you hadn’t gotten pissed all over again—he had the time for everything else but you, clearly. you quickly averted your gaze, staring at shoko’s home decor with a newfound curiosity.

“how could i give up the opportunity to catsit this little cutie? she loves me,” satoru had a cocky grin when he spoke, walking over to the cat and patting her head. a cocky grin that quickly morphed into an overexaggerated frown.

if the cat loved him—she certainly didn’t show it now. purrsephone hissed in retaliation, flicking her fluffy white tail against his arm when she turned to face the wall. “can really feel the love,” you deadpanned, making yourself at home on the couch.

satoru took that as an opportunity, plopping his bony ass next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “you’ll see, she’ll get used to me,” he remarked, making a point to flex his arm against you.

you shoved his arm away, inching away from gojo until you reached the end of the couch. “just because we’re stuck in the confines of these four walls for the next night doesn’t mean we have to get along.”

gojo wasn’t exactly sure if it was the disgust on your face or the fact that you were acknowledging him for once—but he found himself getting turned on regardless.

“so let’s just focus on keeping the cat alive for—blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff,” satoru found himself nodding along, staring mindlessly at your pretty face, “i’m so pretty, i like you. but im angry with you for some reason.”

you snapped your fingers in front of his face when you saw a bit of drool start to leak out from the corner of his lip, letting out an annoyed grunt, “you didn’t listen to anything i said, did you?”

“absolutely not, princess.”

shoko walked over to the extensive cat tree, picking up the white ball of fluff from her resting spot and placing her against her chest. “if the two idiots don’t feed you, i give you full consent to scratch their eyes out,” she cooed, letting the cat rub up against her shamelessly.

somehow, you didn’t doubt that she was being 100% serious either.

the second shoko dropped purrsephone back onto the cat tree to get her suitcase, the cat was already glaring at the two of you again. definitely loathing this idea more than yourself.

“alright, have fun. there’s a to-do list of sorts on my nightstand and if there’s anything else, just call me,” shoko called out, leaving for her medical convention. (ie: a bunch of show offs grouped together with an open bar)

purrsephone looked over at shoko with each step she took, letting out a pitiful meow before making her way down the cat tree. she hopped onto the couch, walking over satoru’s lap in circles before laying down in a ball.

"see? told you the cat just had to warm up to me," gojo began stroking through her fur, sticking his tongue out to you. the moment hadn't lasted for more than a minute—purrsephone had chosen to use his designer pants as her scratch post, digging her tiny razor sharp claws into his thighs.

“ow-ow-OW! let go, you little gremlin!” satoru let out a loud hiss, moving to pull the cat’s claws off his pants. she remained unmoving, practically attached to him now. purrsephone simply looked over at him like he was the inconvenience.

“meow.”

“please?”

“meow.”

a low huff left your lips, standing up from your spot on the couch. “alright, while you go deal with that situation, i’m gonna go see where the list is,” you approached the stairs, hastily stopping in your steps to look back at the two, “don’t mess this place up, please.”

picking up the scribbled note when you approached the nightstand, you began skimming through the contents—

shoko’s 101 guide to taking care of purrsephone

1) only eats 1/2 of a cup between 2pm-5pm

2) she only falls asleep after a warm glass of milk and singing her a lullaby (she’s really into twinkle twinkle little star)

before you could continue reading the list of demands, you heard a loud CRASH echoing through the living room up until it met your ears. “ah fuck,” you could barely pick up gojo’s complaint, taking a deep breath to brace yourself. it couldn’t be that bad, right? you’d only left for a minute or two.

wrong.

you walked downstairs to find the living room a complete mess, from cat litter sticking to the floors up to the couch and somehow even the walls to cat droplets trailing a little path around the expanse of the coffee table. you walked closer to gojo, practically in his face and digging a finger against his chest,

"you just can't do anything right, can you? i swear, it's like it goes in one ear and ou-" your complaints were quickly shut down, his lips pressing against your own before you could even muster what was happening. 

every single atom in your body was screaming to push him away, not to do this. again. but instead of doing just that, your fingers dug into his shirt and pulled him all that much closer.

kissing him felt all too familiar—a practiced dance you hadn’t quite managed to forget all the moves to. “be mad at me later, just.. let me have this please,” he pleaded, pressing his forehead against your own.

and you were certain that the man had done witchcraft, gotten some spell from a witch on etsy that’d been activated with the kiss, because somehow, someway, you found yourself nodding.

satoru hooked his fingers underneath your thighs, squeezing the supple flesh once while he made his way up the stairs. “mmph, fuck, i missed you baby,” he let out a quiet moan against your lips.

“shut it,” was your response, nibbling down on his bottom lip. your nails raked through his hair, tugging at the strands when you pulled him closer.

“yes ma’am,” satoru breathed out, lightly opening up the guest door on the far edge of the hallway. closing the door behind him, he walked over to the queen sized bed in the middle of the room before gently placing you down.

every second was savored—not willing himself to stay away from you for too long. he was hovering above you in a matter of seconds, holding your chin in between your fingers, “can i?”

once again, every thought in your mind was telling you to push him away. to remember how little he made you feel. “yes,” your mouth had a mind of its own, answering him before you thought better of it.

satoru let out a sigh, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “are you sure? i want you to want me. to want this as much as i do.”

you shook your head, reaching up and pressing your palm against his cheek. he was like a pathetic puppy, rubbing against your touch. “i do want it, toru. i want you.”

his touch was careful, almost like unraveling an expensive gift he didn’t quite want to ruin the wrapping of. a strangled breath left him upon seeing your lingerie, cerulean and lace framing your body in the best damn present he’d opened.

a cerulean blue that was too similar to his eye color—too much for him to deem as a coincidence.

looking over at you in disbelief, he asked, “when’d you make the switch to agent provocateur?”

you raised a brow at how quickly he recognized the material—deciding to leave it be though, “ever since i had seven grand to blow from a veryyy generous donor last week.”

satoru let out a quiet scoff, tracing the outline of the lace on your bra with the tip of his finger. his thumb barely circled against your clothed nipple, a featherlight touch, “and just who were you planning on showing this pretty set to?”

“wouldn’t you like to know weather boy?” a scoff of your own left your lips, rolling your eyes. but he was already in his own little world by now.

satoru had been deprived of the taste of you for months now—the very feeling of your skin underneath his fingertips nearly having him break out in a moan.

every nerve in his brain seemed to go haywire when he pressed his lips against your neck, the lingering scent of your perfume intoxicating whatever brain cells remained in that big noggin.

"did you just moan?" you raised your head as you looked down at him. never mind, not almost.

“you taste and smell good, what did you expect?” he licked a stripe down your neck, reaching your collarbone. gojo gently pulled the skin in between his teeth, sucking at the flesh. determined to leave a mark—even if you’d just have him for today.

each kiss trailed lower and lower down until he got to your shoulder, unable to resist the urge of snapping your bra strap. before you had the chance to glare at him, he reached for your back—unclasping the hooks and tossing your $300 bra to the floor.

you nearly winced.

“there’s my girls,” satoru took one of your breasts in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your nipple, “my favorite girls. missed them too, missed everything about you, baby.”

one of his large hands engulfed your other breast, rolling his thumb against your areola while he mindlessly sucked on the one in his mouth. “there you go. arch your back for me, sweetheart,” a groan left his lips, slipping his knee in between your legs to keep them open.

satoru alternated between each breast, giving each equal attention. leaving your nipples hard and covered in his spit. “so pretty,” he whispered in awe, giving each a farewell kiss.

he made his way down to your navel, pressing chaste kisses to whatever skin he had access to. kissing everywhere but where you needed him most—where he was rubbing his knee against.

you almost expected him to pounce up at the first opportunity, but instead, he settled by the foot of the bed. his touch featherlight as he dragged his fingers from your ankle to your calf, eliciting goosebumps down your spine in his wake.

“i’m sorry,” satoru started off, pressing his lips against your right calf before moving on to the left. “never wanted to make you cry, baby,” he continued, kissing his way up your leg.

not a single inch of your body went untouched by his lips before he moved up, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties. you raised your hips, letting him slide them down your legs.

he looked up at you with puppy eyes, holding the slick-covered panties you in his hand. a silent request.

your eyes narrowed, “no. you’re not keeping those.”

satoru let out a whine, bringing your panties up to his nose. taking an audible whiff and closing his eyes, practically relishing in the lace. “oh come on, i’m the one who got you these, technically.”

“generous donor, since we’re getting technical,” you shrugged, “put the merchandise down on the floor.”

“i’ll get you ten more. twenty, if that’s what you want. just let me keep these,” he spoke quickly, watching the way your eyes practically turned into money signs. “and maybe if you just show them off to me.”

he’d already spent over seven grand, what was a couple more thousand?

you looked at the pair in his hand, before shrugging, “i’ll be generous and only ask for fifteen.”

satoru quickly pocketed your panties, kissing up your thigh. “the most generous,” he mused, nibbling on your inner thigh. his hands spread your legs out, presenting to him like one of the finest meals.

and he was more than ready to feast.

he leaned forward, swiping his tongue in between your folds. your fingers ran through his hair again, gripping his hair tightly. or at least.. you thought your grip was tight. it was hard to tell when satoru moaned regardless, sucking on your folds.

“so good, so good, use me, i’m all yours, always been,” just one taste of you again was enough to have him pussy drunk, babbling against your cunt. you pushed his head further into your cunt, swiveling your hips against his eager tongue, “yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop.”

you looked over to see satoru laying down on his stomach, completely at bliss slurping and sucking at your cunt with his feet swinging back and forth. if his mouth and hands weren’t busy, you had no doubt that he’d be twirling his hair and giggling.

“come onnn, let me know how i’m good i’m making you feel,” he pouted as he looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, his lips glossed over with your slick.

"fuck you," you bit down on your lip, gritting the words out in an attempt to keep any moans at bay.

"aht, aht, that's my job, cutie. and first, you gotta tell me what you want," satoru gave your thigh a loud smooch, his fingertips tracing your folds and barely dipping inside of your dripping cunt before he’d pull away. only to repeat it again.

in a moment of weakness, you found yourself relenting, “your fingers, toru. please,” it came out low, barely enough for his ears to register. and almost like clockwork, he took that opportunity to tease you further.

“what was that, baby? couldn’t really hear you,” he retorted, clicking his tongue. when you went to open your mouth, he pushed his fingers inside of your cunt. the loud squelch cutting you off completely.

“your. fingers,” you gritted out, your request coming out louder, “please.”

he pushed his fingers inside of you yet again, bringing them to his lips and swirling his tongue around them, “please what?” another tease.

“please, toru. i want your fingers,” a low whine was evident in your voice.

“there we go, baby. that wasn’t so hard, hm?” his fingers thrusted inside of you once more, curling in a come hither motion.

satoru closed his lips around your puffy clit, sucking on it before swirling his tongue. he started with drawing small circles on your nub, before your brows furrowed.

he was using your damn clit as a writing board.

the tip of his tongue carefully spelled each letter,

‘I. LOVE. YOU.’

“seriously?” it came out shakier than you would’ve liked, little gasps and unsteady breaths leaving your lips.

“mhm,” he didn’t bother on elaborating further, covering your clit in his spit as he sucked. the curl of his fingers hit that spot inside of you with each thrust, his fingers thrusting deeper than even some of your toys.

“ah ah, fuck!” you let out a moan, hips bucking into his face to meet his tongue frantically. “don’t stop, don’t stop, just like that,” each swipe and thrust brought you closer and closer, your back nearly off the mattress.

satoru simply shook his head, swiping his tongue back and forth. the idea was simply absurd—that he was even capable of thinking to stop. “not gonna stop, baby. just wanna keep tasting you,” he responded, swinging his feet back and forth again in sync with his thrusts.

you weren’t sure if you hated him or you wanted to fuck him even more. maybe a little of both.

that familiar coil tightened in your lower stomach, your nails practically digging into his scalp in response. “ah fuck, yeah, dig them in there, i can take it, i can take it,” satoru was reduced to a babbling mess yet again, each whine vibrating against your clit.

“i’m close, i’m close, gonna cum,” your moans had him pushing his hips into the mattress, seeking anything to relief his aching cock. but—this wasn’t about him. it was about you first. “come for me, baby, take what you need.”

the coil inside of you snapped, your orgasm hitting you at once. your hips stilled, your release coating his fingers and spilling out onto the bedsheets underneath. he sucked his fingers, cleaning up every. single. last. dribble.

gojo wasted no time in unzipping his pants, sliding them down along with his boxers. freed from its confines, his cock sprung up against his stomach. pink tip twitching and all—dripping drop after drop of precum.

wrapping a hand around the base, he swiped the tip against your folds. much like he’d be swiping his card later. up and down, letting your slick coat the head before he slowly pushed it inside. pushing against that initial resistance.

“biggg stretch, there we go,” a hiss escaped from his lips, feeling your walls squeeze against him tightly. he had to close his eyes, refusing to look down at you. he knew that if he did, that would be all it would take for him to bust.

satoru placed your legs on his shoulders, slowly starting to move his hips forward. pushing inch by inch inside with each thrust, up until he could see his tip bulging in your lower tummy.

“toru?” your voice broke him out of the trance, hazy blues meeting your own glazed over gaze.

“yes, baby?”

“you think maybe, just maybe, you could go a little faster?”

satoru broke out into a cheshire like grin, making you instantly regret your ask, “anything for you, my princess.”

*PLAP* *PLAP* *PLAP*

the sound of your skin slapping against his own, the sound of your moans and his shaky breaths filled the room, mixing in with the heavy stench of sex. satoru’s grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers digging into you while he used your cunt how he pleased.

“that fast enough for you, baby?” satoru taunted, a smirk on his face. the sight in front of him was nothing short of perfect—from the way your jaw fell taut, drool leaking out from the corner of your lips with each punishing thrust. all the way down to the way your tits bounced, each bounce nearly putting him in a hypnosis.

“yes yes, fuck!” your hands dug into the bedsheets underneath as a lifeline, something to cling onto. you could even feel the slight curve to the left, each vein grazing your walls.

“y-yeah? finally good enough for you?” you could only nod in response, his cock drilling out every thought. your walls squeezed around him, toes curling against his back. you didn’t have to give him any warning this time—he simply knew.

“so good, so good,” you babbled like a broken record, his dick hitting your g-spot with such ease it had you wondering why you’d ever accepted the breakup.

“suck for me,” satoru prodded his thumb against your bottom lip. you instinctively parted your lips, swirling your tongue around it and sucking on it. all while keeping your eyes on him. he could’ve sworn you were trying to kill him now.

you released with a pop, his thumb glistening with your saliva. “ah fuck! keep going, keep going!” satoru rubbed quick circles against your clit, his own thrusts starting to grow sloppier and sloppier. heavy balls smacked against your ass with each push of his hips, one of his feet propped up against the mattress for an angle that had your eyes rolling back.

“t-toru! make me cum, please, please!” you whined, nails scraping against the cotton bedsheets. your walls clenched against him tightly, milking his cock, before your orgasm washed over you like a wave.

your release coated his shaft, your cunt squelching as he fucked you towards his own orgasm. he was close, so so close, but the man needed one more push. “tell me you love me, please,” his voice came out ragged, “i need you to tell me.”

“i love you, toru,” his name had never sounded so good, so sweet before. the quiet whisper of your admission was all it took to push him from the edge. a low groan left his lips, spurt after spurt of cum dripping inside of you. painting your walls white, pooling where he and you were still connected.

satoru pulled out carefully, the mixture of fluids dripping from his softening shaft onto the cotton bedsheets underneath. at least he’d been smart enough to use the guest room. “stay here, i’ll be right back with something to clean you off.”

he came back into the room with a wet hand towel from the guest bathroom, gently cleaning in between your legs. wiping away at the cum dripping down your legs, staining your thighs. “there we go, how are you feeling? you need water?” satoru tossed the towel to the side, pulling his pants back up.

“no, thank you. but you’re cleaning up the cat shit downstairs by the way,” you pulled the covers over your nude body, turning your back over to him. satoru let out a whine, kneeling over on the bed, “you’re not serious.”

kiss. kiss. he pressed his lips gently from your exposed shoulder blade up to your neck, his mouth ghosting over your ear when he finished. “please, baby?” he whispered, the proximity of it all making a shiver run down your spine.

a shiver that you concealed by pulling the cover tighter around your body, turning your head away from him. “no. you made the mess.”

gojo reluctantly made his way downstairs, picking up a broom for what seemed to be the first time in his life before he started to awkwardly sweep the floor. trying and failing to scoop it up in the dust pan. trying to mimic what he’d seen from one of the maids.

even the cat had woken up from her nap, staring daggers into him with beady emerald eyes. despite him feeding her just a couple minutes beforehand and trying to appease her with extra treats (the cat was not appeased). like she knew what had just taken place upstairs.

“don’t look at me like that, i’ll give you more,” satoru pouted when the cat continued to glare holes into him, possibly definitely plotting out his murder when he went to sleep tonight, “please.”

eventually, after 9 minutes of trying (and failing) to mop up the place, he broke down. he dialed shoko’s number like second nature, hoping to every entity she wasn’t completely drunk off her ass. or passed out. or both.

“heyyyyy, how you doing?” shoko slurred into the phone. at least she was coherent enough to respond. phew.

“things are fine. but…” satoru took a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable teasing he’d get, “—how do you use a broom?” the words left him in a whisper, akin to a deeply guarded shame. maybe it was.

“come again?”

he had to take another deep breath, letting out a quiet groan before repeating himself, “i’m asking you for help on using a broom.”

one second passed.

two seconds passed.

he almost had the hope that shoko wouldn’t react.

a hope that quickly died out when shoko burst out into boisterous cackles, managing to get out a broken, “you don’t know how to use one at almost thirty?”

satoru folded his arms with a petulant pout on his face, tapping his foot against the floor while he waited for shoko to get her laugh in. “no. can you just help me? your cat’s glaring at me.”

it was almost pitiful the way he clung onto every word shoko was telling him, finishing up what should’ve been a thirty minute job in an hour. he leaned back against the couch cushion, wiping nonexistent sweat from his forehead.

“how do you people do this everyday?” he let out a scoff, taking a moment to admire his surroundings. squeaky clean. absolutely no streaks on the floor (maybe a couple on the wall—they didn’t count.)

he could practically hear shoko’s eyeroll, a grunt leaving her lips, “dunno, probably by not depending on maids or whatever.”

“touché, yeah. but if you had a maid, the opportunity to babysit with my girlfriend wouldn’t have happened.”

“speaking of babysitting. sooo, how’d it go?” shoko mused from the other line, her words starting to slur together. seemingly more drunk than when the conversation first started.

satoru giggled, giggled into the phone, “oh, we’re so getting back together. it only took her like one glance and she was already soo whipped.”

“uh-huh,” and despite shoko’s obvious disinterest in the conversation, satoru continued to talk her ear out, “no, no, but i’m telling you. she wants me so bad, i swear. she practically jumped my bones.”

after nearly 20 ‘uh-huh’s’ and 15 ‘that’s crazy’s’ from shoko, he decided to hang up and go back to bed. a small smile formed on his face upon seeing you still asleep, trying to carefully tip toe his way into the opposite side of the bed.

“did i wear you out, baby?” he poked the side of your cheek when you finally stirred, propping himself up on a elbow. despite the stupid grin on his face, he couldn’t hide the sheer adoration in his eyes.

not when he stared at you like you were an expensive painting, something to be admired. scratch that—someone that he wouldn’t mind admiring if given the opportunity to.

“no, never that,” you let out a stifled yawn, rubbing your eyes. a clear indicator that he did, indeed, wear you out.

satoru let out a small snicker, nodding along before wrapping an arm around your torso. bracing himself for the moment that you’d push him away like before. much to his surprise, you didn’t.

you welcomed the cuddling—much to your tired state, scooting closer to where he was laying down.

and satoru didn’t find himself minding cleaning up cat shit again if it meant getting to hold you like this. to have you mold against him like a missing puzzle piece.

though granted, he’d like to avoid cleaning up cat shit for as long as possible.

you wrapped an arm around him, resting your head against his chest in your sleep. “i love you,” he whispered, lightly pressing his lips against your shoulder blade.

“just because we fucked doesn’t mean we’re getting back together. an i’m sorry and a couple thongs won’t fix what you said,” you muttered in your half asleep state. despite your words, you let him engulf you into his own version of a human blanket and entangle his limbs in every possible crevice.

“i know, i know. that’s why i sent the flowers too,” at the glare he’d grown so used to seeing directed his way, he decided to shut up, “okay, i’m sorry. i’ll try to show you better, i promise.” just being with you like this, holding you close against him was enough to ease the pain he’d felt the last couple months.

your embrace allowed him to find his home again, a home that he wasn’t sure he wanted to give up again when morning came. “and if you still don’t want me, just let me love you, sweets. doesn’t matter if you never wanna see me again,” he whispered, noticing a faint smile on your lips. gone as quickly as it’d appeared.

maybe gojo satoru wasn’t such a hopeless man.

[selfcarecap]

✧ Manipulative best friend!Logan with a corruption kink

warnings: smut 18+, this is not a dark fic, Logan isn’t truly manipulative but we have a very naive/innocent/inexperienced reader; first time masturbation, JOI, handjob, fingering (in front of a mirror), first kiss, pet names (bub, baby, my girl, good girl), Logan doesn’t always fully ask for consent but if he did reader would want it, so those are the type of vibes, Logan takes advantage of the situation but reader is into him too, it’s implied that reader is a mutant too but powers are not specified, mentions of alcohol, reader wears Logan’s (big) shirt, Logan is a bit gross 

This kind of got out of hand lmaoo it was just supposed to just be a short concept but I ended up writing 5.5k words lolll. It’s not a fully fleshed out fic (it’s in full sentences etc but still just kind of loosely written scenes) but I thought I’d still share <33 (gorgeous divider by @anitalenia <3)

Logan knows he wants you from the moment he meets you. He knows he needs you the second you come to the mansion and join the school. But you’re so shy and nervous that he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, so he tells himself he’ll wait for a bit and let you get used to your new life here first. 

What he isn’t expecting is that you become really good friends in the meantime. Yes, he still wants to fuck you but he also genuinely enjoys your company and cares about you. Logan has a big, fat crush on you and there’s not really anything he won’t do in order to be closer to you.

But the problem is that you’re so innocent and he can’t tell if it’s an act, if you just don’t like talking about sex in front of other people, or if you’re really like this. 

He hears you talking to Storm and Jean one night and Storm is trying to convince you to get a vibrator and you’re asking “what would I need that for? I don’t… y’know”. Storm says “you don’t what? Masturbate?”.

Logan knows exactly what shy expression you’re making even though he can’t see you, and you’re all like “oh my god, don’t say it that loud”. And he knows your pretty face must be getting all hot with embarrassment and the thought alone turns Logan on to no end. It’s quiet for a bit and Logan gathers that Jean reads your mind, and she confirms to Storm that you’re not lying.  

Logan can only hear the conversation because he’s in the kitchen and you’re all in the room next to it, but some students come in so he can’t keep eavesdropping, as much as he wants to. And he knows there’s no way you’re continuing the conversation if he’s in the room, so he has to give up for the night. He tries to ask Storm the next day about what you said and she just calls him a pervert and says to ask you himself if he wants to know so badly. 

But that’s kind of the thing. He’s become your best friend over the last few months, but there are still some things you’d never tell him just because he’s a guy, even if you don’t see him as more than a friend. Yet.

And Logan only gets more desperate when you’re drunk one evening after a girl’s night and you’re knocking at his door. It’s really late but Logan lets you in of course. You’re crying a bit and he makes you sit in his bed and takes off your shoes and slides off your jacket while you hiccup something unintelligible. 

He sits down with you and you can barely focus on what you’re saying, and then you get up mumbling about your uncomfortable tights and your skirt and suddenly you’re in front of him in just a top and panties. Logan has to gulp down a moan as he stares at the flesh of your thighs and the rolls on your belly and all he can think about is devouring you whole – until he hears you mention the conversation with Storm and Jean from the other day, “wait, what was that?”

You pout, “Well I was talking to them and turns out apparently I’m the only woman in the world that doesn’t masturbate and– and Jean went home to Scott, and Storm went home with someone she met at the bar and I’ve never even done anything with a guy, not even with myself. I just feel left behind.”

And Logan tells you something about how you’re just a late bloomer and there’s still time, because that’s what he thinks you want to hear, but you tell him it’s condescending. You don’t want to be a late bloomer, you just want to have sex. And oh– Logan can help you with that.

He has to do his absolute best to keep calm and not mount you immediately, but you’re drunk so that’s what’s stopping him. He might manipulate you a little to get what he wants but he’s not that bad. He asks “you don’t like touching yourself?” And you just shrug and say “dunno”. 

“You never feel an ache between your legs?” Logan asks, keeping so calm it’s painful. And he can practically feel the heat melting off your face at the question as your eyes dart around the room, “I don’t know, sometimes”.

 “And you don’t touch yourself?”

You shrug again, looking everywhere but at Logan, “I never really know what people mean when they say that. I, like, touch myself and it feels nice but that’s it.” 

Logan smiles, “how long do you touch yourself for?” 

“I don’t know, a few seconds.”

And he chuckles and says “it’s normal that you don’t get anywhere in a few seconds, bub.” 

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” you manage to meet his eyes briefly but look away again as you sit on your hands shyly.

“You ever watched porn?” Logan asks and your eyes go wide as if he’s just committed the worst sin known to womankind in front of you and you hug your legs and say “noo, I would never. I’m not, like, a pervert.”

Logan laughs, “Porn isn’t just for perverts. There’s more to it than choking and bondage, there’s tame stuff.” You just say “well I’ve never watched any.” 

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” 

He can tell you’re getting a bit ashamed and while he would love to train that shame out of you when it comes to sex, now isn’t the time when you’re drunk in his bed at 2AM. 

“You wanna go to sleep?” He asks, failing to resist giving a small squeeze to your knee. Your eyes fly to his hand there, gaze lingering on his fingers even as he pulls them away. You nod after a few moments, and Logan reaches out to wipe away the remnants of your tears and says “you wanna sleep in my bed? We could cuddle”. 

You grin like a child who’s just tried ice cream for the first time at his suggestion and he gives you a bigger shirt of his so you don’t have to sleep in that small, tight top you’re wearing. You pull off your top without warning and then he’s looking at you in just your underwear and he feels like he’s died and ascended to heaven even though he’s probably more likely to go to hell with the thoughts he’s having about you right now. 

You cast a shy glance over your shoulder as you undo your bra and Logan wills himself to shut his eyes, putting his hand over them because he knows otherwise he’d look.

He only wants to fuck you more when he sees you in his shirt though, and he’ll definitely have to go to the bathroom to jerk off once you’ve fallen asleep. Except that you snuggle against his side so cutely, head resting on his shoulder with a leg thrown over his. 

You’re fast asleep before he can even say good night and when he moves to get up you move closer, and now he’s got your plush tits pressed up against his side and your arm over his waist. A tent has formed in his pants and he feels pathetic that he’s measuring the distance between your elbow and his crotch, silently willing you to move just a few inches. 

He’s so horny that he’d feel no moral qualms at jerking off right next to you. He’d cum so quickly with you pressed to his side, but he wouldn’t know how to explain it if you woke up. He doesn’t want to scare you away. So he pulls away to get up, and you wake up and whine when he stands up, telling you he just has to pee to which you grumble, and you grab his pillow to cuddle with instead. 

He jerks off shamelessly, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. His spit slicked-palm is starting to get loud as he strokes his cock to thoughts of you, but he doesn’t care if you hear. You probably wouldn’t know what he’s doing anyway with how innocent you are. 

He doesn’t even have to fantasise about any sexual scenario with you. Thinking about the pretty smile you have whenever you look at him is enough to have his fists drenched in his cum as he jerks himself off with both hands to stroke his entire length. 

He can’t hold back the small moan that spills over his lips when he cums, torn between hoping you heard and hoping you didn’t. Logan washes his hands and rejoins you in bed. 

He takes a moment before he slips under the covers, taking in the sight of you in his bed, imagining you’re his and that it’s the norm for you to sleep together rather than an exception. You stir as the mattress dips with his weight, swapping the pillow of his that was clutched between your arms for his bicep that you hold onto instead. You’re way too gone to have heard any of what he just did, and for a moment he feels dirty for thinking about you the way that he does. 

It doesn’t last long, of course, as he dreams of you most nights. He can’t feel bad about it though – he’ll take any dream over one of his nightmares (that he hasn’t had since he met you). And if he’s honest it turns him on how innocent and unsuspecting you are of what goes on in his head when he thinks of you. 

-

You wake up still wrapped around his body the next morning. You have a headache and Logan brings you something to soothe it, offering to massage your stiff neck too. You sigh in bliss as soon as Logan’s hands are on you, and he reminds himself that you must be touch-starved. You’ve never touched yourself, let alone felt the touch of another person that went beyond platonic or familial affection. 

He revels in the sounds he pulls from you with ease with the most basic massaging technique there is. He never wants to leave. He started off hovering over the back of your thighs, but he’s been making his way forwards and now his crotch is nestled right against the soft swell of your ass. You either don’t notice that he’s slowly moved or you don’t realise what exactly is pressing into your backside. 

It’s obvious that you’re enjoying his hands on the back of your neck and the top of your shoulders; he doubts there’s anything that could distract you from it. Except if he got hard maybe, but he’s got more self control since he jerked off in the bathroom again after waking up with morning wood and with you by his side, just before he brought you some painkillers. 

“You’re so good with your hands, Logan,” you tell him, voice all raspy, and he smirks at the innuendo you don’t realise you’re making. 

“It’s what my girl deserves,” he says, pulling a smile and a hum from your lips. 

“I’m your girl?” you ask shyly, eyes still closed as his knuckles drag over your skin. 

“O’course you are, bub.” He’s not sure in what way you interpret the pet name but he can tell you like it, hearing how your heartbeat speeds up just that little bit. You like being his, and he likes that. 

-

It’s during a particularly horny evening that Logan comes to your room. He’s jerked off twice today to pictures of you — pictures he’s snuck over the time he’s known you, you smiling as you laugh at a tv show, stretching on the sofa not realising that he’s got his phone out, or that one photo of you smiling all shyly on the day you first met him and he showed you around the mansion. Jean asked to take a picture to commemorate the day you joined them, and he remembers the way he slid his arm around the back of your waist and you placed your hand shyly on his back, smiling all adorably. 

He’s got a picture of you in a bikini from that one time you two went swimming but he keeps that for special occasions. Today was one of those special occasions, and he came all over his phone screen, cursing when he had to clean it afterwards; he even had to get the phone case off and all. 

But you still won’t leave his head for even just a second, so he decides it’s time for the next step. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you with anything, but he also just really wants you. Can’t help it. He’s a selfish man but any man would be if he knew you the way Logan did. He knocks at your door. “Yeah?” you call out. 

You grin when he steps in and closes the door behind himself. You stretch out your arms for a hug to greet him, even though you only saw him a few hours ago. He joins you where you’re sitting on your bed with your laptop. Logan turns the screen towards him, hoping to find something naughty but he should have known better. It’s just some video essay on a topic he’s never even heard of. He shuts the laptop. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” you tell him, genuinely focussed, “If I’m your girl then what are you to me? My boy sounds weird, and my man.. I don’t know.”

He almost forgot that he called you his girl to your face, and he smirks when he imagines you thinking about it these past few days. He lies down on his side, invading your space, almost touching you with how close he is next to you.

 “I can be anything you like, bub.” 

You shrug shyly, “Maybe you’re just my Logan.” 

He’s surprised at how much that turns him on. You being his, that’s one thing. But him being yours? Those two things go hand-in-hand, of course, but he thought you were still a long way off from liking him as much as he likes you. 

It encourages him to ask you what he’s been thinking about for days. He says it casually. “So, had any success touching yourself?” He uses that tame expression so that you’re less embarrassed.

Still, your eyes widen slightly and you immediately start playing with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. “What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean,” he smirks, “Don’t gotta be embarrassed around me. We’ve been over this.” Although, for a second he wonders if you even remember the conversation. You were drunk after all, and he considers feeling bad, but then you smile. 

“I know, but… I haven’t tried it since. I’ve thought about it but I still don’t know what to do.” He’s got you right where he wants. 

“Y’know, I don’t mind showing you. You deserve to feel good.” 

You look away, “What would you even show me? And how? Guys are different down there.” Oh, you’re so innocent. He’s having so much fun. 

“I could touch you.” He watches you experience a multitude of emotions as you think about it. Shame, intrigue, resolve. 

“Wouldn’t that be weird for you?” 

“Not at all, don’t worry about me.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure, bub.” 

You look around you, putting your laptop and your phone on your nightstand, “What do I do?” you ask, playing with the blanket. 

“I’ll just touch you a bit, okay? Just get you used to the feeling,” he tells you, both of you sitting up and he pulls your legs around his waist, gently touching all over your inner thighs, squeezing the flesh.

You’re already arching your back, scooting closer to him, and he lifts your shirt up over your hip and sees the wet spot on your panties. He’s not sure if you notice how hard he is under his sweatpants but no one could blame him for that. You’re getting so worked up and he hasn’t even touched you anywhere near your pussy, you’re breathing so heavily and your heart is beating so fast.

“Y’want a kiss, bub?” Logan asks you all sweetly, and you lean in as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your lips on his are messy but eager, and Logan loves that he can feel that it’s your first kiss. You don’t know what you’re doing but you need it – need him. 

But he has to stop at some point because it’s getting harder to not fuck you, so he gently pulls away, and you grin shyly when the kiss is over. Logan leans in one more time for a quick kiss. He pushes you backwards a bit and looks between your spread thighs. You’re so wet. You’re squirming under his gaze.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, tugging at the waistband of your panties and your breathing gets shaky when his finger grazes your belly. You bite your lip and nod.

“Good girl,” he says, pulling your underwear down your thighs with one hand, eyes glued to your pussy. You’re so wet and sticky already, and your pussy looks even better than anything he’s imagined – and he’s imagined it a lot.

He wants nothing more than to fuck you, or eat you out at least, but he’s supposed to be showing you how to masturbate, so he lies down next to you.

“So, if you were alone, you might touch yourself like this.” He takes his hand between your thighs, softly touching your clit. You’re leaning into him, head against his shoulder as you watch his big hand between your thighs. It looks so right there. You look to your side and gaze up at Logan, and you can’t help but just kiss him again.

And while you’re kissing, Logan puts his palm on your pussy and starts rubbing you a bit rougher, and you become too distracted to keep kissing him.

“You like when I play with your clit?” he teases you and you nod, hiding your face in his neck. Logan moves down to fuck one of his fingers into you, then two, and you’re whimpering against his warm skin. With his palm still rubbing against your clit, you have your first ever orgasm with Logan and you hold onto him as the pleasure flows through your body.

He keeps going until you put your hand around his wrist to stop him and you shyly smile up at him. “Was that good, bub?” 

You answer with a weak “yeah”, your voice hoarse but you’re smiling and your skin is glowing. Logan pulls his hand away and shows you how your arousal sticks to his fingers, and your eyes search his because you’re not sure if this is a good or bad thing.

Your mouth opens when Logan takes his fingers into his mouth and sucks your taste off them. “Taste so fucking good, baby. You wanna taste yourself?” And he waits patiently until you’ve made your mind up but you nod and let him put one of his fingers into your warm, wet mouth. You suck on it for much longer than necessary and Logan tries to save the image in his brain for later.

He holds you for a bit as you comprehend that you’ve just had an orgasm for the first time in your life. You shyly thank him before he leaves and he makes you promise that you’ll try it again by yourself soon. That was the whole point of this, after all – nothing to do with Logan or anything.

-

Logan thought he’d be satisfied for a bit, but all it’s done is make him even needier for you. You’re so oblivious to all his flirting, and he’s sure you genuinely thought he just wanted to show you how to masturbate the other day. 

Of course, he could just ask you out, but it’s more fun this way. He likes watching you figure stuff out. He wonders how long it’ll take you to realise that he actually likes you, that teaching you how to jerk off maybe wasn’t only in your best interest but in his too.

He’s a bit pathetic when it comes to you at this point, though. As much as he’s teasing you, it’s also teasing him. It’s a bit of a low point, but he pretends to be in a bad mood to get your attention.

You come to his room in the late afternoon when you haven’t seen him all day, and you’re so kind and so caring and immediately worried when you see him sprawled in bed in his pyjamas that consist of grey sweatpants and a white shirt.

“You okay? What happened?” you close the door and sit on his bed immediately.

Logan fake sighs, suppressing a smile as he pouts exaggeratedly. “Nothing, bub. Don’t you worry about me.” He squeezes your knee to reassure you, and he watches you perk up at his touch.

“You know you can always talk to me,” you smile kindly, and he wants to kiss you so badly. He doesn’t usually talk about emotions and feelings all that much, but you’re always trying to get him to open up because it’s good for him, so he knows he’s got you with this.

“I’m just feeling a bit down today. That’s all. Don’t wanna bother you with my problems.”

“You’re not bothering me. I’m always here for you.”

He watches you gnawing on your lip as you think about what to say next, and Logan waits curiously. “Have you uh, jerked off today? I think an orgasm would cheer anyone up, if it feels as good as you made me feel the other day.”

And Logan’s all like “I’ve tried but it’s been so long since a woman touched me, and my own hand just isn’t doing it for me anymore.”

He gets hard immediately when you perk up, smiling with your sweet expression and saying, “I could help you! I hate seeing you so sad”.

And Logan pretends, saying “no, bub, I’d never ask that of you,” but you sit up on your knees and say “I really wouldn’t mind! And I owe you for last time anyway.”

“If you’re really sure?” 

You nod sweetly and brush your hair out of your face and ask, “where do you want me?”

And even just you asking that is something that will stay in his mind for a long time. He feels like you’d do anything he asked of you right now and it’s already driving him crazy. He says “just next to me here, bub. Yeah there is fine”. 

You lean in to kiss him and he only pulls away out of surprise, and you’re blinking back at him with wide eyes, apologising, “It’s just cause you kissed me last time, I thought— I thought it’s part of–”

“Yeah, baby, it is. Just didn’t know if you wanted to kiss me again.”

You give him a cheeky smile and nod, “of course I wanna kiss you. You’re my best friend. I’d do anything for you”. 

Logan grins and bites his lip and says “me too, bub”, and leans in and kisses you again, basically attacking you with his mouth. He can tell it’s getting a little much for you with the way he’s eating you alive so he stops himself and asks “was that too much?” 

You shake your head, “just don’t know how to kiss like that yet.” And he likes that. Yet. Maybe he can sneak in some kissing lessons at some point, just to show you how it’s done of course, no other reason. 

You look down at his lap then and it’s obvious how hard he is. “Y’wanna you touch it like this first?” he asks you, grabbing himself over his sweatpants, the outline becoming clearer.

And you nod so eagerly, but get a bit shy when you’re touching his cock, one of your knees pulled up to your chest as you palm him over his sweatpants. “It’s so big,” you marvel, oblivious to how much this is affecting Logan.

“You wanna see?”

You tell him yes and he pulls the waistband down, and you lean closer when he wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself just a few times to relieve the pressure. 

You bring a finger to his mouth like he did for you the other day, and he chuckles, “that won’t be enough, bub”. Your cheeks burn when you say “oh”.

“Here,” he moves your hand so your open palm is facing him and he spits into it.

“Now do this,” Logan tells you, taking your hand and wrapping it around his cock, guiding you up and down with your spit-slicked palm. You watch in awe as you jerk him off, his hand never leaving the back of yours.

He could cum immediately like this, but he tries to savour the feeling a bit longer.

“Does it feel good?” you ask him.

“Yeah, doing so well, bub. Think you can do it by yourself?”

You shake your head with a smile. Yes, you could do it by yourself, but you like the feeling of him guiding you, setting the pace and intensity. He grins and continues, squeezing your hand tighter so that your grip on his cock tightens too.

Logan lets you jerk him off a bit longer before he gives in. He’s proud of you for not pulling away in surprise when he cums, coating your hand and his in his cum as ropes of white shoot over your skin and onto his shirt. He lets go of your hand to pull off his shirt and watches you examine your hand full of Logan’s cum.

“Can I taste it?” you ask in a quiet voice, and Logan just about gets hard again.

“Yeah,” he tells you, but pushes his own fingers into your mouth. Your lips wrap around his two fingers and suck the cum off, and Logan can’t help but push them further into your mouth, making you giggle. You pull his hand away after a bit, only to lick your own fingers. He uses the clean part of his shirt to dry your hand off after, and you lie down to cuddle him.

“Do you feel better?”

Logan chuckles, “Yeah, bub, I feel better. Thanks.”

“Good,” you grin, proud of yourself. Logan’s proud of you too.

-

It’s still the same day when you come to his room the next time. You left after a bit to go to sleep, but now there are knocks on Logan’s door that he recognises as yours before you say anything.

You enter his room in your pyjamas – a big shirt – and some fluffy socks, a plushie under your arm. You look so oh so innocent that he almost feels bad for corrupting you. You come in, close the door, and sit on his bed again, legs dangling off the side of it. He could really get used to you being in here.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, but you ignore him, hugging your plushie for comfort.

 “I… can you maybe…” you let out a sigh, “I tried to masturbate but I can’t do it by myself. Can you show me again?” 

Maybe you’re not so innocent anymore. He chuckles and tells you of course, and he’s starting to wonder if you’ve caught on to the game that he’s playing, and if you’ve joined him, but he’d still bet money that you really are this naive. Logan pulls his full length mirror in front of his bed, not too close, but close enough that you can see yourself in it. 

He moves to lift your shirt to get your panties off, and his heart skips a beat as he’s greeted by the sight of your bare pussy, already glistening.

“It was easier to come with them already off,” you say, and he reaaally has to restrain himself so he doesn't bend you over and take you right here.

You drop your stuffed toy to the side of Logan’s bed as he sits you in front of the mirror, getting behind you, putting his legs either side of you.

“God, you’re so pretty.” He can’t stop himself from saying it as he makes you look at yourself in the mirror, legs spread.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Logan,” you say, shying away from looking in the mirror.

“You can do it, bub. I got you, okay?”

You’ve turned around to look at him better, and he chuckles when he gets it.

“Is this what you need?” he asks as he leans in to kiss you, and you moan yes into his mouth. He loves you so fucking much.

His dick is already so hard and he’s not sure if you can feel it pressing into your ass, but either way you’re not complaining. He takes your chin to make you face yourself in the mirror, and he can’t get enough of seeing you two in it together – the way he’s sitting behind you like this, imagining other positions you two could be in.

“Here,” he pushes his finger into your mouth, even though you’re already wet enough, watching you suck on it eagerly. His finger stays in your mouth much longer than necessary.

He starts gently rubbing your clit in circles, and you squirm in his arms that are around you, one on your waist, the other between your legs.

“I did that too, but it feels better when you do it,” you mumble after a while, clearly enjoying it but unsure what you were doing wrong when you did it yourself.

“Try it.” Logan takes your hand, and makes you do it yourself. You’re squirming with him watching you like this, but it is useful to sit in front of the mirror, copying how he played with your pussy just moments ago.

Logan’s not blind to how wet you are, at having him watching and guiding you, and he can’t help it as he reaches into his boxers to jerk off. He doesn’t get his cock out but he’s not hiding it. You can see the movement of his arm in the mirror and you might even be able to feel it at your back, as Logan’s fist grazes your shirt every now and then as he strokes himself.

But you’re so focussed on looking between your own legs that Logan is genuinely not sure if you’ve noticed him jerking off, and the sounds of your wet pussy are louder than his hand on his cock.

“I… I can’t,” you whine after a bit, taking your hand away from your pussy, but Logan is close, and he wants you to cum too.

He keeps jerking off, and he sees you noticing it, sitting up a bit taller but you don’t seem to mind. You’re smiling, biting your lip.

“Yeah, you can, baby. Here, we’ll do it together.” He keeps a hand on his cock, reaching around you to put your hand back between your legs, and then he pushes two of his fingers into your pussy, fucking you with them.

“You close, bub? I’m close,” he says, and the idea of cumming together with Logan makes your pussy squeeze around his fingers, so you do your best to recreate the pattern on your clit that Logan showed you, rubbing it in circles until you get the right angle.

“Good girl, that’s it. So tight around my fingers. Come on now.” Logan’s so close he has no idea how he’s still holding off, sloppily jerking his cock with one hand and fucking your pussy with his fingers on the other hand.

You lean your head back, landing on Logan’s shoulder, as your orgasm pulses through you. Logan can feel your pussy spasming around him, and he lets go too, cumming over his hand and his boxers.

You’re both out of breath for a while after, barely moving.

“Y’did it, bub,” he kisses the top of your head, and you smile at him through the mirror, turning to press a messy kiss to the side of his face. He won’t take that though, so he grabs your face, smearing some of his cum on your cheek, and pulls you to face him for a proper kiss. You smile against his mouth as you make out.

You sleep in his room again that night, but he can’t say it feels like you know that he likes you yet. He’ll have fun watching you figure it out soon.

-

✧ reblog and let me know your thoughts for Logan to appear in your dreams tonight <3