#doesn’t make the note itself lower

[dkniade]

Do people who use VOCALOID/Synthesizer V/vocal synth softwares in general feel attached to the first voicebank they got? Hatsune Miku is of course the most well-known/popular voicebank, but I feel attached to Tsurumaki Maki ‘cause she’s the first (and only, so far) SynthV voicebank I got

[luveline]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

you get a good dose, confess your affections, and leave poor, oblivious hotch to fix things up neatly. 

cw painkiller high, light suggestive theme 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hello.” 

You lift your gaze without blinking. Hotch is standing in the doorway, making his way in with a bouquet of flowers tucked under one arm and a white envelope against his chest. 

“Hello,” he says again, meeting your wide, still eyes with concern. “You okay?” 

“Flowers for me?” 

“You’re the one here in a hospital bed. They’re from me and Jack. He insisted.” 

You nod up and down robotically. Your heart is unhappy today. You’ve been fast and slow and now it’s running fast again, a tip-tip-tip on the heart monitor that makes Hotch frown. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They told me you were on a lot of pain medication, you shouldn’t be hurting anymore. Is it not working?” 

“I feel a lot.” 

“And that’s unsettling,” he surmises.

“Can I have my flowers?” 

Hotch offers them to you immediately. “Why don’t you count to a hundred for me?” 

“They’re beautiful, but there’s not that many.” 

“Count to one hundred. I can start. Do you need me to start for you?” 

You dip your face into the flowers. “I love when you say stuff like that.” 

Hotch doesn’t answer you. You begin counting, hoping he’ll say a nice thing if you do as he asked. The numbers get mixed up after thirty five, there really aren’t enough flowers to count to a hundred, but when forty five and fifty four begin to feel like the same number spiritually, Hotch reaches for your forearm and gives it a squeeze. That means job well done. Nobody else in the team gets arm squeezes ��they’re for you. Nobody else has noticed, but you have. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

You beam at him. The heart monitor beeps in slow loops. “You’re welcome. Did it help?” 

“I’d say so.” He takes off his suit jacket and puts it over the back of the chair, pulling the chair towards the bed with his foot, and getting comfortable beside you, a little lower down than you but tall regardless. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“I can’t believe you got me flowers.” 

“I got you flowers the last time you were injured.” 

“I know,” you say with a laugh. “I know, it was amazing.” 

“Here’s your card from Jack. I’ve opened it for you, I hope that’s okay.” 

“I cannot open anything. I tried to stab my pudding open with a spoon and broke it and can’t find the sharp part in my blankets. I’m worried it’s going to poke me.” 

Hotch stands from his chair. “That’s not good.” 

You take up Jack’s card, pinching the folded printer paper and pulling all of its homemade glory from the envelope. The front has a red heart drawn with bandages wrapped around it, and inside is a message written in impressive penmanship considering his age. To Y/N, it says, Please get well soon. We are hoping you to have a speedy recovery! Love you, Jack and Aaron 

“It says you love me,” you say. 

“Mm, Jack wrote the message. He misses you.” 

You catch the feeling of Hotch’s hand where it slips between your legs and almost burst, giggling excitedly, which makes his hand jump away from you like a fish out of water. “You have the spoon!” 

“Found it. No more danger.” 

“Thank you. I knew you could find it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The pain medication Hotch spoke of is starting to make itself known. You hadn’t felt very different to begin with, the only worthy note your absence of pain, but right now you feel weird. Light. Happy, but strange, like the opposite feeling of missing a step. You know something’s wrong and you know it’s the medication, but you’re elated at the same time. Hotch is here. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’ll know. 

“Do you think I feel happy ‘cos of you or the morphine?” you ask. Softly, slurring, you swallow and try not to sound as drunk. “I feel amazing.” 

“It’s the morphine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since I had some myself, but I remember feeling amazing at the time, and you’re on a lot more of it than I was.” Hotch sets himself back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you staying for long?” 

“Until they make me leave,” he says. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Yesterday you were here for ten minutes and I felt like my heart was bruised.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His eyes seem darker than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I had to be home to take care of Jack.” 

“I know you had to, it’s not your fault, but I still missed you.” 

You prop Jack’s amazing card on the nightstand with a proud grin. You love Jack Hotchner, he’s the smartest, kindest, sweetest boy you’ve ever met, and it must be because of his parents. You’ve not met Haley many times, but Hotch is amazing. It makes sense that his kid would be just as awesome as he is. Turning your attention back to the flowers, you find the courage to ask, “Do you think you could bring Jack to see me?” 

“I think he might be a little young for hospitals, I’m sorry.” 

“Well, maybe I can see him when I’m out of the hospital? How can I say thank you for the card? Does he still like bears?” 

“He has enough bears,” Hotch says gently. “You don’t need to buy him anything, he just wants you to get better soon.” 

“You’re such a good dad.” Your lashes kiss with the force of your smile. “You’re lovely. Jack is really kind.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re handsome,” you continue, slinking down in the bed. You feel tired but not sleepy, craving a really big, hot sandwich. Hotch holds your gaze. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“What?” he asks quietly. 

“Can you please get me a big, hot sandwich? Maybe with hot chicken? Or spicy chicken in a burrito? I really need it to be hot.” 

Hotch laughs aloud and reaches for your forearm to squeeze you again. “Of course I can. I’ll call Derek and I’ll make him get you both of those things, if you like.” 

“Oh, good. I really really don’t want you to leave but I really want the sandwich more than I want you to stay.” You tip your head to one side. “If you hugged me again I’d say I want you to stay more than I want the sandwich, ‘cos you haven’t hugged me in a long time.” 

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the pad of his thumb working against your wrist. 

“No, I know I’m not supposed to want you to hug me.” 

“We’re friends,” he says, shaking his head, “good friends, aren’t we? It’s alright if you want a hug. I should be better at giving them.” 

When he was with Haley you wouldn’t have dreamed of wanting it, because your affection for him has always been more than a friend‘s. You’ve guarded the secret carefully over the years. What’s more unfair to a wife than to fancy her husband? But Haley left Hotch, and he’s been single for a while now, and you think that lately he’s actively dating. He’s always had pride in his appearance, but his suits are tailored again. His hair is left to grow beyond what’s easily maintained. He and Dave occasionally joke about him getting back out there —he doesn’t need to get out there, you’re right here. 

You can’t help frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I think I’m a bad friend.” 

“You aren’t a bad friend.” 

“I am, I have ulterior motives.” 

Hotch rolls his eyes. “Honey, everybody does. You’re fine. You’re a good friend. You know you’re the sole member of the team who’s remembered Jack’s birthday every year? Remembered mine?” 

“I don’t do that to be a good friend, I just love Jack.” 

His hand slips down to yours. He holds it briefly. “I know you do.” 

“It’s why I remember yours,” you say, shaking your head, annoyed he’s taken his hand back but ready to move on to better things. “Can you ask Derek for my sandwich now, please? Please, please, I’m so hungry I’m gonna die.” 

Hotch gives you a funny look. “How about I go and get you your sandwich? I’ll be very fast. I’ll go to Sam’s across the street, would you like that?” 

“Can I have maybe a donut too?” 

“Sure, honey. I’ll get you a half dozen.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. Do you want any in particular?” 

Hotch goes off to get you a sandwich and you click the button for more morphine without really thinking. You’re asleep before he gets back.

—

You wake up shaking. 

Aaron straightens in his chair. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it’s nearing the end of your visiting hours and he’s been here since three. Your sandwich is stone cold in the bag and he’s not sure how he’ll get it warmed up.

Your arms are trembling badly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Hotch, where am I?” 

Aaron stands. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had some morphine and it ended up sedating you. The shaking will calm down soon, but nothing’s wrong, okay?” 

You’re noticeably confused, and Aaron hates it enough to sew his fingers between yours. His are thicker by quite a bit, but he’s used to smaller hands. He’s careful with you. He can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. 

The undercurrent of fear you’d been harbouring begins to ebb. You let Aaron hold your hand and settle back down into your sheets, turning your face toward him and shutting your eyes. You don’t seem sleepy. He’s not sure what’s wrong. 

When you say you love him, he understands. He loves you, too. He doesn’t think that he’s in love with you, but he could be. He’s had enough guilty daydreams about it, batted them away, moments doing the dishes or at the gym or when you’re standing together working a case, where he forgets to forbid himself the pleasure and imagines you in simple intimacies. He sees himself taking your hand. He pictures waking up to the smell of you on his pillows. When he’s especially pent up and you’ve haunted him with your bare face or a shy smile, he ends the day thinking of you. How he’d kiss your head with just a little of his weight atop you, or a lot. 

And then he feels so horribly wrong for doing it that he resigns himself to the distance between you forever. 

Aaron doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he could fall in love with you if given the chance. He has to determine how honest your morphine-confession was, and there’s no time like the present. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

“I brought you the donuts and a sandwich, but I’ll have to reheat it. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I ask for a sandwich?” you ask, startled.

“A hot one. You emphasised.” 

“Thank you, Aaron. I don’t think I’m hungry now, I’m kinda queasy.” 

“You had a little bit more morphine than you should’ve.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says under his breath, “that’s not your fault.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly. Any want to draw the truth from you is quickly dwindling. All he wants now is to make sure you’re okay. 

He spills himself closer to you and, without untangling your hands, brings your thin blankets to your shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay. The queasiness won’t last long. In fact, eating might help, but we can wait.” 

“Don’t you have to go home?” 

“No, I can stay if you want me to.” 

“Please, I want you to.” 

“You’re still on the morphine,” he says, rubbing your hand, “I can ask them to lower your dosage if you don’t like it, but you have to remember that it’s keeping you unaware of your pain.” 

You hesitate. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Then it won’t,” he promises. You had more than your fair share of pain. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“This is all I want. For you to look after me.” 

He takes a measured breath. “I would love to look after you.” 

You turn your head half an inch to see him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying to blend the half of him you know at work with the half of him responsible for his outer life, the part of him that flirts with beautiful women at bars, the part of him that loved being a husband. “I don’t know what you want, and now isn’t the time, but,” —he prepares to be brave— “if you want me to look after you, then I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.”

“Can you kiss me?” 

His heart skips a beat. “No, honey, I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

“Not even on the head?” 

His stomach aches, but it’s a good feeling. Like worrying you lost something and finding it in the first place you’ve looked. “On the head I can do.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed in wait of his kiss, a light, chaste brush of the lips to your temple. The morphine makes you laugh, a girly, giggly bubble of it as you burrow into the sheets, like he’s tickled you. He’s twice as endeared when you squint at him like you’re waiting. 

“Can I–”

“One more,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “Any more than that and you’ll die of embarrassment when you’re not drugged out of your mind.” 

“I’m not out of my mind. I’m just hallucinating. Or having a great dream.” 

He’s inclined to agree, but he knows with confidence he hasn’t had any heavy medication today. He gives you a fond look and sits back down, obliging you when you scramble to put your hand in his again. It’s a weight he could get used to holding.

“I really like you,” you confess quietly. 

He quite likes you in return. “That’s great, honey. Do you want to talk about it later? Maybe you can have one of your donuts.” 

You don’t take his misdirection as rejection, you just pull his hand to your chest and smile. “No thank you. I can wait.” 

He can wait too. 

[hearts4hughes]

HE’S NOT ME | ANAKIN SKYWALKER X READER

note: first writing for anakin! my obsession for him is reawakening, and yk my fav trope is bsf x bsf!reader 🤗

you’re sparring again.

fourth time this week. sixth time if you count the ones that end with him lying flat on his back, laughing, arm flung over his face like he’s hiding something (he is.)

the training room is warm. dusk curls at the windows. your saber slices through the air in a clean arc, but he parries it fast, almost cocky.

“you’re slow today,” he smirks, gaze falling to the way your fingers grip your saber. he shakes his head, trying to free himself from his thoughts.

you glare. “you’re annoying every day.” you lunge at him, your braid whipping through the air with the movement. he simply side-steps you, like he’s calculated your every move.

“true,” he says, and winks.

it should be harmless. you’ve known him since you were both initiates. slept in the same bunks, snuck into the same mess halls after curfew. sparred until your arms shook, until your breathing fell into the same rhythm.

but lately… something’s off.

his touches linger. his jokes cut deeper. and his stare? his stare burns.

“where were you earlier?” he asks, not even trying to sound casual.

“with quinlan,” you mutter, distracted by the way he circles you now. he’s measured, sharp, a little too tight.

he freezes. “quinlan vos?”

“yeah?” you raise a brow. “he asked me to train. we ran drills.”

anakin’s grip on his saber tightens. knuckles pale beneath the glove.

“he’s not your partner.” his voice is lower now. something deeper, darker sparkles in his eyes. “he’s not me.”

you blink. “are you seriously jealous?”

he doesn’t answer. instead, he lunges. his saber collides with yours so hard it makes your arms tremble.“you think he can protect you?” he grits out, eyes locked on yours. “he flirts. he doesn’t care. not like I—”

he stops. chest heaving.

not like what, skywalker?

“what’s your problem?” you snap, breathless. you throw your saber on the ground, and turn away from him. your arm cover your chest as you stare at the ground.

he drops his saber and steps into your space.

“you don’t get it,” he says, eyes dark and storming. “i see the way they look at you. vos, kenobi, every soldier in the hangar bay. they think they can.”

“can what?” your voice falters. curiosity lingers in your gaze as his muscles stiffen.

then, he leans in. heat rolls off him like wildfire. “touch you. take you. love you.”

you stifle our a dry laugh, absent of any humor. “and you think you’re any different?”

his eyes flash.

“no,” he says, voice breaking open. “i know i’m not. i’m worse,” his voice falters. “but at least i don’t pretend.”

then his hands are on your face, pulling you in like the force itself is dragging you together. and when he kisses you, it’s not soft. it’s not sweet. it’s desperate. possessive. like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that could ever feed him.

you gasp against his mouth, fingers curling in his hair.

his hand slides down your spine, anchoring you to him, like you might vanish if he lets go.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “not theirs.”

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

your mouth just finds his again.

and for the first time, he stops pretending to be your friend.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

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@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

This piece contains 18+ content

Pairing Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Summary Eddie’s had a long day, but being with you is enough to turn even the worst days into something sweeter [fluff, artsy reader, mild hurt/comfort, smut, 3.2k]

A/N This is some of my favorite smut I've written. Still very much stuck on him.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

It’s much quieter in your neighborhood than it is in Forest Hills. No muffled music or raised voices carry from the houses around the cul-de-sac. Tired men don’t tinker on rusty cars. Unleashed dogs don’t sniff their way through ailing yards that aren’t their own. The only signs of life are cars in driveways and lamplight through windows. The golden sun hangs low in the darkening sky.

Eddie makes a final attempt to exhale the weight of the day away before he presses your doorbell. Not even a second later, the lock clicks and the door swings open.

The smile you offer has him convinced that every butterfly he’s ever seen now exists within the confines of his stomach. It’s as if familiarity and radiance itself exist in the way your lips lift upwards to reveal the glint of your teeth.

“I heard you pull up,” you say. “In case you were wondering why I opened the door in two seconds…” you trail off when you realize you don’t sound as convincing as you want. 

Eddie smiles with a fond shake of his head. The action causes more of his curls fall onto his shoulders. He’d never make fun of you for being eager to see him. Especially when half the people in Hawkins care more about his skills beneath the hood than him as a person.

“Sorry I’m later than I said I’d be,” he says as you usher him inside. “Wanted to grab a shower before I came over.” 

“Didn’t you hear?” Eddie's brow furrows innocently at your question. “I love the smell of motor oil.” 

He huffs out a chuckle that makes you bite your lower lip to keep from grinning like a fool. Then he laughs again, deeper this time, like a funny thought has struck him. But he takes a step closer, cups your cheek, and kisses you. His lips are slow and easy against your own.

When he pulls away, you catch the weariness in his eyes, softened by gratitude as he takes you in. He could’ve gone home. He could’ve turned in for the night. But he wanted to see you too. He needed to see you. 

“Hey,” you say softly. “Everything okay?” 

You reach out to tuck his hair behind his ears, and he lets you. Any other time, he’d shake it back loose with a playful smirk. Tonight he doesn’t. 

He catches your hand as you pull away, and dots a few kisses over your knuckles. Work and playing guitar have calloused his palms. His steel rings glint in the low light of the foyer. 

“I’m okay,” he says into your skin. You remain quiet in hopes that it’ll coax more out of him. “Long day at the shop.” 

You hum. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. Don’t be. 

“Got you something,” he remembers. "Been holding onto it for a couple days." He realizes he’s empty-handed.

“Shit. I left it in the van.” 

You chuckle as he presses another quick kiss to the back of your hand before he lets go and pulls away. 

When Eddie comes back inside, you’re on the living room couch with one leg tucked beneath you. The TV plays low reruns of I Love Lucy, but you grant him all your attention as he settles beside you. Before you have the chance to ask what’s in the brown paper bag, he pulls out a nice set of drawing pencils and a leather-bound sketchbook. 

Your mouth falls open as he passes them over to you, his expression quietly hopeful. Big brown eyes eager for your reaction. 

“Eddie…” 

“You filled your last sketchbook. And you’ve been needing some new pencils." He rests his forearms on his thighs and licks his lips. "Knew you’d hold off on getting them for yourself so I figured..." 

A smile finally breaks across your face.

“These are the fancy kind too," you note as you look over the pencils. "Thank you so much, baby. Really.” He shrugs like it's no big deal even as he bites back the proud quirk of his lips. It was a privilege to be able to do little things like this when he could.

The leather of the sketchbook is smooth as you flip open the cover to run your fingers over the crisp, fragrant pages. 

When you meet his eyes again, your gaze is soft and observant, like you have an idea. It feels like you're seeing straight into him. He's handsome. Long curls, kind eyes, plush lips. Even then, it's clear he still wears the remnants of the hours prior, though he masks it well.

“Maybe I can draw you," you propose with the quiet hope he’ll oblige. “To break everything in.

"All you've gotta do is sit back and relax. We can talk, watch some TV, eat my snacks." He smiles at that last part. 

After the frustrated customers he had to diffuse today, he can do that. Gladly so. 

•••

The warm lamplight and the glow of the TV cast soft shadows across Eddie's face. His long lashes appear heavy with the relaxed way he blinks at the screen. He’s sunk back into the cushions, legs spread just so, hands interlocked over his stomach, rising and falling with his breaths. An empty bowl of popcorn rests on the coffee table along with a hollow box of Jujyfruits. 

Five separate sketches of him now constitute the beginnings of your new sketchbook. He tilts his head to peer over at you when he no longer hears the familiar brush of graphite against paper.

The cushions shift as he straightens up and rubs his eyes with lazy fists. 

“All finished?” he asks, and you nod. “Can I see?” 

When you pass him the sketchbook, his eyes rove over the drawings with the attentiveness of a critic, but void of any harshness or critique. It’s more of an assessment, an appreciation. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth. Raises the book to get a better look at the hatching technique you used to shade the first sketch you completed. 

It’s a straight-on portrait that he’d faced you for. There’s a sense of ease about his gaze. A warmth paired with an underlying pensiveness. He knows he’s being studied but feels more seen than exposed. 

Except, Eddie's so much more than you’ll ever be able to confine to a couple sheets of paper. Charming in an awkward way, with one of the kindest hearts you’ve ever known. Loving him is as easy as blinking or breathing. So natural it feels innate. He feels your gaze as he studies the sketches.

When he redirects his attention to you, he offers one of his steady, slow-moving smiles that never fails to make your stomach flutter. 

“Always staring at me,” he accuses, too lighthearted to be mistaken for a complaint. 

In truth, you observed everyone and everything. But never with the same admiration allotted to Eddie. There were so many layers that you feared you wouldn’t have the time to unravel them all. You’d never wanted to know the inner workings of another person so intimately. 

After a lifetime of slipping through the cracks, it sure was nice to be seen in an unadulterated way by you. 

“Can’t help it,” you murmur.

Eddie tracks your movements as you grab one of the accent pillows and toss it to the floor at his feet. A second later, you drop down onto it. His breath catches when you place two gentle hands on his knees and spread his legs so you can better settle between them. 

"Hope your day's gotten a little better since you’ve been here," you murmur.

Eddie swallows. Sets your sketchbook aside with a jittery hand. 

“It has." His voice is thick as anticipation stirs within him. "As soon as I walked through the door.”

You hum as he squirms, hyperaware of your touch as your hands drift along his thighs. His head tips back when you palm him through the fabric of his jeans. Warmth ignites in his cheeks and melts to his torso as his pants tighten in the wake of his arousal. Along the thick column of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobs with another swallow.

It hadn’t even taken much. 

His legs fall open wider, like a gate, when you begin to unbuckle his belt. The metal hardware clinks with your movements, breaking the hush between you. You pop the button, drag the zipper down. 

“Wanna help me get these off?” A sweet smile plays on your lips as you blink up at him. 

Eager, Eddie lifts his hips, and you help him shuck down his pants and underwear. There's a tent in the front of his boxers when you get to them, and he shifts with the new exposure by the time everything pools at his socked feet. 

Featherlight, your fingertips ghost toward the apex of his thighs, his milky skin dusted with sparse hair. His muscles twitch at the ticklish sensation, and he braces for the inevitable.

Except your touch flutters past where he aches. Bypasses where he strains toward his stomach. Instead, your hands sweep over his hips. Slip beneath the hem of his shirt to scratch along the low part of his stomach where a thin, dark trail of hair leads down to his need. 

His chest deflates on a slow, bated breath. You hide your coy smile in the inside of his thigh in the form of a kiss. Right over the small smiley face inked into his skin. Eddie huffs in flustered amusement. 

“This is—” 

“One of your favorite tattoos of mine,” he finishes with flushed cheeks. 

You grin in feigned surprise. “How’d you know?” You trace your nails back down to his quivering thighs. 

His arousal kicks up when you grant him the gentle brush of your fingertips over the rounded fullness that rests heavily between his legs.

“Sweetheart,” he finally sighs, dark eyes molten when they find yours. 

“Teddy,” you coo back. 

He doesn’t have time to brace when you begin to pepper an alternating line of kisses up his thighs until your lips find the part of him that needs you the most. 

His breath hitches. “Baby—”

A pleasured shudder rolls through him as you kiss up the elegant curve of the thick vein along his underside. You follow the path of his need all the way to the rosy tip, where a wet, gleaming pearl beads in a testament to his want. You suckle it away. Savor it.

Eddie's eyes flutter shut, body taut as you spit over him and wrap a secure hand around his base. The slick heat of your palm makes his hips stutter as you begin to pull upward in a steady tug. At the top, you circle your thumb around the mushroom tip. You dedicate another swipe of your thumb to a slow trace along his slit. 

Eddie is warm and rigid in your hold, beautifully at your mercy, and he knows it. Doesn't mind it. The full hum in his throat unravels into a low, shameless moan when his lips part. 

“Yeah, baby?” you meet his gaze and hold it. Heat pools between your legs. “You feelin’ good?” 

Eddie reaches out to stroke his thumb across your cheek. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Please don’t stop.” 

You wouldn’t dream of it.

As you continue your languid strokes, you mouth at his inner thighs. Kisses, nibbles, licks. He’s so wound up that all of it gets to him. Pleasure tugs low in his gut with a radiance he can feel in his fingertips, his toes. 

With a practiced gentleness, your free hand lowers to massage the velvet weight of him that you’ve neglected. A rugged sound escapes him as he writhes. Even more so when you move to lap him again, this time taking him halfway and working what's left over with your hand. 

You pull away to trace your lips along his shaft, mindful of every inch and the tell-tale shudder that startles through him. You peer up through your lashes to find desperation etched across his features. 

He cups your cheek to get you to pause. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he insists. "Wanna feel you—lemme feel you.” 

You clench around nothing as he encourages you upwards. 

After you shuffle to your feet, you push your lounge shorts down, followed by your panties. Eddie strokes himself, gaze heavy-lidded as he watches. 

No sooner do you move forward to straddle his lap, standing on your knees with your hands braced on his shoulders. His hands find your hips, but one drifts lower in a curious glide between your parted legs. He graces through your slick folds, then brushes his thumb over your swollen bundle of nerves. He’s gauging if you’re ready for him, but you nearly crumble forward at his thoughtful touch. 

“So sensitive,” he notes lightly. A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes as they find yours. 

“Because of you.” You pout as you reach down and align him at your entrance. 

He catches at your slick warmth and whispers a string of curses. It shouldn’t already be this good. You shouldn’t already be this ready. But both things are true because the two of you have somehow stumbled into your own little perfect world. Both his hands find your hips again as you ease yourself down to welcome him in. Inch by slow inch, every vein and ridge. 

You don’t realize you’re whining until you’ve sunken to accommodate all of him. Eddie runs a soothing hand up your back as you lean forward into his chest in an encompassing haze of fullness. Already, he’s touching that devastating part of you that’s so thoughtfully tucked away. He’s the only one who’s been able to reach it. To find it as if the path had been carved for him alone. It’s a homecoming in its own right. 

“You feel so good,” he sighs the news like it's hot off the press. Like the words can't make it out of his mouth any sooner.

For a brief moment, stillness prevails as you adjust around him. You tuck your nose into his hair, where the subtle scent of his sweet, herbal shampoo lingers. Instead of canting his hips upwards like he so desperately wants to, he lets you have the moment. Presses a kiss to the bulb of your exposed shoulder, then allows his hands to find the hem of your tank top. You move to pull it over your head. He does the same with his own shirt, biting back a groan as you shift over top of him. 

Your nipples pebble in the cool air, even more so when he cups your chest and circles them with his thumbs. The sensation throws you into a shiver that jumpstarts a roll of your hips. Eddie’s fingers return to your waist in a silent encouragement. 

Before long, you leverage the bend at your knees to lift off him, then lower yourself back down. A rhythm soon forms, Eddie’s hips rise to meet yours. His thighs quake as a strangled sound of relief spills past his lips. 

A whimper escapes you as an invisible string pulls you forward to dot a few languid kisses across the apple of his cheek as you continue to ride him. 

“Oh—shit,”  he exhales shakily. “You’re perfect, sweetheart.” He sounds panicked and awed all the same. 

All you can do is hum at his words. Every time you lower onto him, it feels like he manages to reach a new depth that makes you want to crawl away. Yet your hands find his tattooed chest for the sole purpose of feeling more of him, his warm, dewed skin. A shiver shakes him when the tip of your nail grazes over one of his nipples. Spurred on, you pinch the peaked flesh next, which earns you a particularly hard thrust as he groans. A jolt of electricity rushes straight between his legs with the threat of being his undoing. 

“You’re gonna make me come, angel.” The shameless, exasperated way he says it makes you clench around him. 

You lower a hand to rub tight, purposeful circles over the tender bud between your legs, the pleasure sharper in the wake of his words. 

“I want you to come,” you attempt to keep your voice steady as you lilt. “Want you to fill me up. Want all of you.” 

Eddie groans and sags back into the cushions in an air of disbelief. Somehow you’re real. Somehow you chose him. And you’d never led him to believe that things should be any other way.

You lean forward in pursuit of him to kiss his throat, then up along his jaw until you’ve arrived at his bitten lips. The kiss carries the neediness of being on the edge. 

“Always gonna want you,” you whisper heavily against his mouth.  

Eddie whimpers. “You have me.” His thighs tense beneath you as he teeters on the brink. This time, when his hand finds your waist, it’s to ground himself in the intoxicating rock of your hips. 

You kiss him one last time, saliva slinking between you, before you touch your dewy forehead to his. 

“Come with me,” you frantically encourage. “Eddie, please—” 

The broken sound that punches out of him sends you into the thralls of a reckless release. It’s swift and forceful like a lightning bolt zipping from the sky. Your walls flutter around him as pleasure courses in every direction. Eddie has no choice but to let go. He jolts beneath you like stricken earth. His stomach clenches in time with each pulsing wave of release. 

Eddie’s neck becomes your hiding place as aftershocks ripple through you both. Your lips begin to press more deliberate kisses to the space where his neck and shoulder join. Beneath you, he sits like putty and softens within the warmth of you. He’s attuned to every small shift you make. You’re not quite ready to relinquish the fullness. 

A steady, clammy hand glides up your back and settles at the nape of your neck. When you sit up to meet his tired, satisfied gaze, you're struck by a surge of fondness. Of love. If you could erase his bad days, keep them from ever touching him, you would. But you can’t. They’ll come, for both of you, whether you like it or not. 

Still, you had this. Each other. That’s enough to make life a little sweeter, a little kinder. Even on the days that are anything but. 

Eddie’s lashes flutter when you run a gentle finger down his nose. “You okay?” you ask. 

He shifts beneath you, wincing at his forgotten sensitivity. A small smile pulls at his lips as he finally nods at your question, contentment clear in his eyes. 

“Promise?” you ask. 

“I promise, sweetheart.” 

He offers his pinkie as a seal of truth. 

- 

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. I promise I see them all!

MORE EDDIE

ALL MASTERLISTS

[aajjks]

The Shower Show (m)

synopsis. A lot happens when you find out that your horny housemate is taking a shower in your bathroom and the worst way to find out is when you walk in on him naked in the shower.

genre: 18+, cringe, comedy, mature, crack

pairing: roommate jungkook x female!reader

warnings: shôwêr wârs, rôômâtês tûrñêd châôtîc fôês, jûñgkôôk bêîñg â flîrty lîttlê shît, tôwêl drâmâ, bîg d sélf-hypê, înâpproprîâtê shôwêr sêx rêfêrêñcês, dîrtÿ jôkês, thrôwîñg shâmpôô âs â wêâpôñ, sêxûâl têñsîôñ bât nó shôwêr shârîñg (fôr ñôw).

note. Besties he’s here to torture you again.. I bet you’ve missed him, but let’s see share your feedback. Please give me everything. ENJOY. I just want to thank JK for this GIF because it fits so well 😭 also GIF credits to owner. I found this on Pinterest.

•••

The bathroom door is open.

The shower is running.

The universe is testing your patience.

You stand frozen in the doorway, towel slung over your shoulder, brain cells malfunctioning as you process what’s happening.

Jungkook. Your roommate. Your personal headache. Your walking HR violation.

In your shower.

Naked.

Steam curls around his body, clinging to the obscene lines of his back, his unholy shoulders flexing as he runs shampoo through his hair, completely unaware of your presence.

Until he hums.

Not just any hum.

A deep, throaty, sinful hum.

Like he’s enjoying himself too much. Like he’s two seconds away from making the type of noise that would get this entire building evicted.

Your eye twitches.

“JEON JUNGKOOK.”

He jumps. Actually yelps. And then—he turns.

You see everything.

Then you see nothing because your soul leaves your body.

“Oh,” Jungkook breathes, completely shameless, absolutely evil. His hair is soaked, water dripping from his stupidly pretty face, rolling down his obnoxiously chiseled chest and lower—

You look lower.

Mistake.

The steam is not covering enough.

Jungkook grins.

“Hey,” he says, like this is normal. Like he’s not standing there, dick swinging, looking like a Greek god sculpted by the hands of sin itself.

Your brain malfunctions.

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN MY SHOWER?!”

Jungkook just shrugs. “Yours has better pressure.”

Better pressure.

Better pressure.

Better fucking pressure.

Like that is a valid reason to traumatize you before 8 AM.

“Jungkook,” you seethe, gripping the doorframe so tight it might snap. “Get. Out.”

He pouts. “Babe, don’t be like that.”

“WE ARE NOT DATING.”

Jungkook tilts his head. Smirks. Drops his voice.

“But you’ve thought about it.”

Your soul glitches.

“I— WHAT?!”

“I mean,” he hums, so casual, so dangerous, “you’ve definitely thought about me naked before. So this is, like, a dream come true, right?”

Your sanity explodes.

“Jungkook,” you hiss, “the only dream I’ve ever had about you is me strangling you to death.”

He grins. “Kinky.”

“THAT IS NOT—;”

“You should’ve told me earlier, baby. I would’ve let you tie me up.”

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.”

Jungkook just laughs, shaking his head, completely unbothered, completely insufferable.

And the actual worst part?

He doesn’t even stop showering. He just turns back around, casually flexing, running his hands through his hair like he’s doing an audition for a porn parody of an Old Spice commercial.

Your life flashes before your eyes.

“Damn,” Jungkook sighs, glancing over his shoulder, grinning so hard it hurts. “Wanna hand me the body wash, babe? You can get real up close and personal.”

“I WILL THROW IT AT YOUR HEAD.”

“Mm.” He smirks. “Do it. I like it rough.”

You black out.

The next thing you know, a bottle of shampoo is flying across the room.

Jungkook dodges. Laughs. “Ooh, feisty.”

You are going to prison.

“You’re seriously not leaving?” you demand.

Jungkook just leans against the wall, completely naked, completely hardheaded, and possibly just hard at this point.

“Why would I?” he smirks, tilting his hips slightly, watching your eyes flicker down involuntarily.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You looked again.

And he knows it.

Jungkook grins. “Wanna touch it?”

You make a strangled noise.

“I—EXCUSE ME?!”

“What?” He grins wider, stretching, flexing, committing war crimes against your sanity. “It’s really nice. People say I should charge.”

Your brain ceases to function.

“I—WHAT PEOPLE?!”

Jungkook shrugs, completely casual. “Y’know. The lucky ones.”

Your life is over.

You should leave. You should run.

But you’re too furious, too flustered, too weak in the knees to even move.

Jungkook notices. Oh, he notices.

“Damn,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your very obvious reaction, his voice dropping even lower. “You’re really into this, huh?”

You sputter.

“I—NO?!”

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Babe, you’re standing there watching me like I’m the main course at a five-star restaurant.”

Your soul leaves your body.

“JUNGKOOK.”

“You wanna ride me so bad—”

“I WILL KILL YOU.”

He laughs. Laughs. Like this is fun for him. Like he’s living his best life while you suffer.

And then. Oh.

Oh.

The real war begins.

Jungkook leans back. Smirks. And then drops the bomb.

“You know,” he purrs, so cocky, so smug, so filthy,

“shower sex is scientifically proven to be good for your health.”

Your entire body malfunctions.

“EXCUSE ME?!”

“It’s efficient,” he winks. “Gets you clean and gets you off. Two birds, one very lucky stone.”

Your soul ascends.

“I—WHAT THE HELL—;”

Jungkook tuts, shaking his head. “Damn, no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time.”

You malfunction.

“Y’know,” he continues, completely evil, completely Jungkook, “I could totally help you out.”

Your brain combusts.

“YOU ARE A DEMON.”

“Or,” he grins, so sinful, so smug, “I’m just really good at what I do.”

You cannot breathe.

Jungkook tilts his head, all fake innocence, all filthy intent.

“You’re curious now, aren’t you?”

You launch the showerhead at his face.

Bestie, you want filthy? You’re getting filthy.

“OUT.”

You’re dripping wet, the bathroom is steaming up, and Jungkook? Still standing there, looking entirely too entertained.

“In a second,” he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Now.” You point at the door with all the authority you can muster while wrapped in a damp towel.

But Jungkook? He just grins.

“Damn, babe, you’re really gonna throw me out when I’m standing here, fully clothed, knowing damn well you just got all wet and needy—”

“Jungkook.”

“—And naked.”

You whip a bottle of conditioner at his head. He dodges, but barely.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re in denial.” He tilts his head, all faux innocence.

“You sure you don’t wanna share? It’s an efficient way to save water. And time.”

“GET OUT.”

He scoffs. “You act like I haven’t seen tits before.”

“Not mine.”

“Yet.”

You stare. “Jungkook. I will kill you.”

He bites his lip like he’s thinking. “Damn, at least let me die with a good visual.”

You grab the showerhead.

“Okay, okay..” he laughs, hands up, but his eyes are shamelessly raking over your barely-covered figure. “You don’t have to be shy, babe. We’re roommates. We share everything.”

“Not this.”

“C’mon,” he grins. “It’s not my fault I’m built for shower sex.”

You gape. “Built for—what the fuck?”

“I mean, you’ve seen my thighs.” He gestures to himself, completely dead serious.

“Perfect for bracing you against the wall, if you think about it.”

Your brain is short-circuiting.

“Oh my fucking goodness.”

“And don’t even get me started on my stamina,” he continues, absolutely shameless. “I could make you—;”

The shampoo bottle goes flying.

Jungkook DIPS.

He books it out of the bathroom, laughing his ass off, knowing damn well you’re about two seconds away from actual murder.

Fucker.

[rafeysbangs]

ꪆৎ𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖↷ ex!bf!rafe sneaks into your room late at night...

warnings ; MDNI !!, ex!bf!rafe, soft!rafe i guess, oral f. receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, rafe calls reader baby, creampie, aftercare ! yippee

notes ; phew... enjoyyy !

the cool night air swept through your open balcony door, carrying the distant hum of cicadas. you were curled up in bed, trying to focus on the book in your hands, when the faint scrape of shoes against metal made your heart leap.

"rafe?" you whispered harshly, your pulse quickening as his familiar frame hauled itself over the edge of the balcony.

"don’t freak out," he said quickly, holding his hands up as if to calm you. his hair was a mess, his eyes wild, and he looked more desperate than you’d ever seen him.

"are you insane? you can’t be here, especially not at this hour," you hissed, glancing nervously at your door.

but rafe wasn’t listening. he crossed the room in two long strides, his voice cracking as he said, "i had to see you. i can’t- i can’t do this without you."

you folded your arms, trying to stand your ground, even as your chest tightened at the raw edge in his tone. "we broke up, rafe. i broke up with you. and you know why. i can’t keep pretending it doesn’t kill me every time i see you flirting with someone else."

"i wasn’t-" he started, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

"don’t lie to me. i saw you. over and over again. it’s too much, rafe. i couldn’t do it anymore."

his hands raked through his hair, his frustration evident. "it wasn’t what you thought, i swear. i’m... i’m a mess without you, okay? i’ve been losing my mind since you left. no one else matters- no one but you. i’m obsessed with you, and i’ll prove it. i’ll do whatever it takes to make it right."

"rafe," you began, your voice softer now, but he stepped closer, his hands gripping yours like his life depended on it.

"it’ll never happen again. i swear on everything. just... just give me one more chance," he pleaded, his blue eyes locking onto yours, filled with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

you tried to resist, tried to remind yourself why you ended things, but the way he looked at you, like you were his entire world, made it nearly impossible.

"i don’t know if i can trust you," you said quietly, your voice trembling.

"you can," he said, his voice steady. "i’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if i have to."

before you could argue further, his lips were on yours, cutting off your words in a kiss so desperate, so full of longing, that it left you breathless. your resolve crumbled as his hands cupped your face, pulling you closer.

the kiss deepened, his lips trailing to your jaw and down your neck as your back hit the bed. he hovered over you, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured your name like a prayer.

your fingers tangled in his hair as his lips travelled down your body, heat pooled in your lower stomach watching him grow closer to the waistband of your tiny pyjama shorts.

he stopped there, slowly littering kisses as he looked up at you, you chewed at your bottom lip as your eyes were stuck on his, "rafe..."

"i'll make you feel good baby... don't worry" he whispered against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. his course fingers connected with your clothed pussy, slowly rubbing circles to make you squirm.

he grinned when he saw you twitch at his touch, your clit aching from the lack of direct contact. as if he could read your body, he pulled your shorts to the side, now faced with soaked panties staring back at him.

rafe sighed gratefully, "you're so soaked already, god you're perfect" he mumbled. his long fingers traced your slit and he chuckled a little to himself before pulling your panties to the side too.

without warning, his mouth connected with your wet cunt, sloppy kisses and flicks of his tongue made your eyes roll back before he slid a finger through your folds again. he tapped at your aching hole before sliding a finger in, watching your face contort as you got used to the welcome intrusion.

you groaned, "god-" rafe's smirk perking up against your heat, he came up for air for a second, "rafe's fine baby.."

you threw your head back as he licked a stripe down your pussy, grinning as he slid another finger inside, curling them before mercilessly pumping them in and out.

one thing leads to another, you're bent over the bed, rafe's cock bulging out of your stomach as his hips snap against your ass. a loud whine escapes your lips as he's rearranging your guts. your tight walls clamping desperately around his cock as your ass bounces with every thrust.

his tip brushes your cervix as he thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out and flipping you over mumbling, "need to see your pretty face.."

he shoves your body further onto the bed before climbing over you with his classic smirk. your breathing ragged as your eyes locked with his, he tapped his cock on your pussy before dragging it through your folds. he knew the teasing drove you crazy, your eyebrows cinched together as his ego grew.

a pornographic moan escaped your lips as he slid in again, rolling his hips against yours he pumped his cock at a heavenly pace. your nails left crescent shaped indents as you gripped on rafe's arms, the pleasure sending the both of you into overdrive.

rafe cursed as his thrusts grew sloppy, the way your gummy walls were squeezing him made him dizzy, his release creeping up on him. you too could feel a familiar coil tightening in your stomach, unsurprised at the discovery that rafe was the only one to be able to make you cum, even when you're technically broken up.

he lifts a hand and connects it with one of your tits, his tongue darting between his lips as he massaged the fat, your nipple between his fingers. you whimpered as his cock kissed your cervix before finally you felt the coil snap, your orgasm overpowering you.

the way your pussy clenched rafe's cock as you finished around him caused him to groan gutturally, spilling his release into your sopping hole. he collapsed on top of you, littering your neck and cheeks with kisses as he heavily breathed.

"fuck.. i love you baby" he said finally before getting up and slowly pulling out, his release leaking from you a little. he grinned at the sight and pumped to fingers into your pussy, pushing his cum back inside you. "i'll get us a wet towel" he mumbled, walking towards your bathroom after kissing you on the forehead.

taglist ; @rafegetinmybed @doeletteprincess ( feel free to ask to be added! idm! )

[unr3markable]

— mark grayson x f!reader

masterlist

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+ ONLY

summary: mark has a tendency to push you harder, he doesn’t mind a little whining and some tears. in fact, it makes him want more…

content warning: possessive! mark, piv, slight praise kink, overstimulation, dacryphilia, slight humiliation, slight dumbification

wc: 600-700 ish ?

author’s note: first time posting for the Invincible fandom so let me know if this is any good. i haven’t written in years lol. send me whatever your heart desires, i’d like to get the creative juices flowing. (and make friends!! <3)

“mark,” you whine, hiding your face with a hand, “too much, too muc—“

you have a quick fuse and tend to get overwhelmed. you’re not used to this kind of pleasure, never really let yourself explore the more exhilarating parts of the human experience. but mark discovered how you came so easily during sex and thought it was so cute. what was even better was seeing how many he could pull from you until you broke.

he shakes his head, smile coming onto his face. “then why are you still enjoying it, baby?”

you always have tears clinging to your lashes, cheeks wet from spit (or from warming up his cock in your mouth or maybe from him slapping it against your cheeks or all of the above). it happened every single time he fucked you. he loved how fucking messy you got, all the spit, the tears, the sweat, the hush of wetness he’d get from fucking his fingers right against your sweet spot, coxing orgasms from you over and over again ‘til you’d squirt all over his fingers.

your skin would flush warm and hot in the prettiest way, pouty lips loose and crying his name like a prayer. perspiration sticking to your skin, he loved to smell the sweat on you, the mix of sex in the air. and god, you loved that wild look in his eyes, a predator eyeing its prey.

you hiccup, trying to get the words out. “‘because icanthelpit.”

mark kisses your nose, finding your inability to respond properly endearing. his lips take yours again and he pulls on your lower lip, murmuring, “wanna try that again, sweets?”

he is so used to going again and again, his stamina impossibly high from years of superhero training and pushing his body to the limit. so this? it’s nothing compared to what he usually puts his body through.

the difference between his half-alien body and your human one always made itself very apparent, the fact that he could do so much to you and barely break a sweat made your sex throb at the thought. the power difference appealed to you, only because you know that he’d never hurt you, at least not in a way you didn’t ask for.

the bedsheets wrinkle in your clutch, your breath stuttering as you try to string out a cohesive reply. mark knew that it was always so hard for his poor babygirl to try to talk to him when you’re so out of it.

“b—because i can’t help it,” you whine, refusing to make eye contact with him. shame makes you dizzy, intimacy intoxicating you, and mark is the root of all this.

he has a playful smile, clearly enjoying seeing you tremble and cry. he basks in your ruined state of tear stained cheeks and lips red and raw from biting down on them. he reaches your face with a firm grip, fingers pressed into your cheek, cupping your whiny little mouth with his hand as he forces you to look at him.

as much as he loved it when you behaved, when you were a good little girl. he also loved it when you were a tinsy bit bratty. teasing him until he snapped was secretly something so exciting to you. (of course he knew. he knew you too too well.)

and when you refuse to meet his insatiable gaze. you feel him watching you like he wanted to eat you alive. his appetite for you insatiable.

he taps your cheek hard, pulling a gasp from you, your skin flushing with warrmth you know he’ll be able to see.

“look at me,” mark growls, canines peaking out from behind his lips. you could help but think that it suited him with his selfish appetite.

your head moves towards him, looking at him through your lashes. eyelids heavy with want as you heed his demand.

“good girl.”

his cock twitches inside you, the sight of you beneath him so little and submissive for him is such a turn on. his balls tighten at the fact that you voluntarily let him push you around like this, let him use you how he wants.

your walls clench down on him, a reaction to his reaction as if you were begging him to keep going. your nipples peaked and hard from arousal, imploring him to pull and pinch at them ‘til he found out if you’d cum on his cock just from that stimulation alone. he loved staying inside you if that meant he could just feel you writhe under him.

but if he were being honest the hardest times for him to hold back are when he’s working your tight cunt open with the sensitive tip of his dick, letting your swollen, pretty little puffy cunt drool all over him while he kisses away your moans. or when you finish around him, shaking and babbling about god fucking knows what because you’re so stupid when he’s fucking you dumb.

mark loves the fact that you crumble so easily the minute he’s worked himself up into you; you are his and everything he does to you is just what you asked for.

[nikixkoo]

𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 6k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], protected sex, dirty talk, oc’s a nightclub dancer.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 to be honest, i don’t know if this will have a second part, but for now, i hope u enjoyed reading it. lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

summary: You dance beneath the harsh glow of neon lights, each movement a promise, each step a declaration of independence. Living on your own isn’t easy, and the money doesn’t always stretch far. But in the nightclub, you’ve found a place where you can truly be yourself, a place that makes you feel free.

Jungkook is everything you’ve learned to distrust. A music prodigy wrapped in luxury, carrying wealth, fame, and a smile that could melt anyone.

When his world collides with yours one fateful night, neither of you expects what happens next. He sees you, and in that moment, everything changes for both of you.

You fix your lipstick in a mirror that’s seen better days, the fluorescent light above buzzing like it’s got secrets to spill. Behind you, the dressing room hums with chatter, perfume clouds, and the sound of stilettos clacking against worn tile. Someone giggles. Someone curses. You barely hear it.

Your focus is razor-sharp. The crimson lipstick stains your mouth like a weapon. You’ve learned how to wear it like armor.

You step out onto the stage with the kind of confidence you’ve learned to fake until it feels real. The lights are dim and seductive, low purples and moody reds licking across your skin like silk. The air is thick with smoke and perfume, the scent of attention heavy in your lungs.

Love, I said real love…

The opening notes of Cherry drip through the speakers like slow, warm honey, and you feel it before the sound even reaches your ears. It wraps around you, slinks into your spine, and settles in your bones.

You don’t rush. You never rush.

Your fingers trail down your sides, slow and teasing, as your body moves to the rhythm, hips rolling in a lazy figure-eight that draws every gaze like gravity. You let your head fall back, exposing the column of your neck, lips parted just slightly. The music is a heartbeat beneath your skin, and you let it lead you, let it possess you.

A touch from your real love…

There’s a chair waiting center stage. You walk toward it with purpose, heels clicking against the glossy floor like a countdown. You turn your back to the crowd, lower yourself onto the seat like a whisper, and spread your legs just enough for the room to hold its breath.

Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’, I fall to pieces when I’m with you…

You run your hands up the inside of your thighs, slow and deliberate, eyes hooded as you look out into the sea of shadows.

And that’s when you feel him.

You don’t know how or why, but somehow, you know exactly where he is. Back corner. Booth. Dressed in black like sin dressed itself up to behave. His gaze is molten, quiet, and sharp enough to cut through the noise.

You tilt your head slightly, just enough for him to wonder if that glance was for him. And it was.

Still seated, you slide one leg over the arm of the chair, reclining like you belong to the stage, like the world should beg to touch you. Your hand slips up your torso, fingers brushing under your chest, and you arch into your own touch—not for them, not for the money—but because it reminds you this body is yours.

You move like liquid. Like smoke curling in the dark. The song coils tighter, and so do you, legs closing slowly, body shifting with sin-soaked grace. The chair groans beneath you as you lean forward, hands gripping the edges. You let your tongue touch your lip, let the lights catch the sheen on your skin.

And my cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme…

You drag the final steps out like a promise you don’t plan to keep, rising from the chair one last time and walking offstage as if you don’t notice the tension you leave behind.

The dressing room swallows you like a deep breath.

Backstage, the lights are too bright, and the air too still. You peel off your heels, stretch your legs, and lean back against the wall, still in your performance set, still buzzing from the stage. Sweat clings to your skin, the lace of your top damp where it hugs your ribs. You don’t care. That was one of your best sets in weeks, and you felt it.

You think about him. Dark eyes. That stare. The way his presence reached you from across the club like heat from a flame.

You try not to let it linger. You’ve got other things to focus on. Rent, groceries, getting home without your ankle giving out. But even as you wipe off your lipstick and slip into your hoodie, he’s still there, in the corner of your thoughts, in the imprint of his gaze.

Time skips forward.

It’s late now, the club is closing, the night air bites at your skin as you step outside, the sounds of the city soft in your ears. You wrap your hoodie tighter around you, your little backpack slung over one shoulder, heels hanging from your fingers.

The sidewalk is mostly empty. Most of the crowd has already scattered into cabs and Ubers, high on alcohol and neon. You’re about to head for the subway when you see him.

Leaning against a sleek black car parked across the street. Hands in his pockets. Still in that same all-black outfit, like he never left.

His eyes meet yours, and this time, he smiles.

You slow your steps, unsure for just a moment if you should keep walking. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

There’s a quiet confidence in it, something that tells you he’s not used to chasing, but he will, if he has to. You step off the curb and cross the street.

“Were you waiting for someone?” you ask, voice calm, curious. You keep your distance, but not too much, just enough to test the air between you.

His gaze flicks down, then back up. “I wasn’t sure,” he says. “I thought maybe I imagined you.”

You tilt your head, trying not to smirk. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t think so.”

The night hums around you. He still hasn’t told you his name.

“Jungkook,” he says, like he felt the thought leave your mind.

You nod. “You always wait outside clubs for dancers?”

He chuckles. “First time. I guess I got lucky.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, intrigued. “You don’t seem like the type to come here.”

“I’m not.” He leans back against the car a little more. “My friends dragged me. Said it would be good to get out, I didn’t argue.”

“And now you’re here. Still.”

“And now I’m here,” he repeats, like it means something. “What about you? You always leave looking like that and walk straight into the night?”

You shrug, shifting your heels in your grip. “This is me after work. You should see me at rock bottom.”

He laughs again, and this time, it’s genuine. It crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I don’t think you have a rock bottom.”

You glance at him. His jawline sharp in the streetlight, earring catching the glow, one hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to stay cool. He’s not trying to impress you, he’s just interested, and that’s dangerous.

You’ve learned to be careful with men who have everything.

“You should go home,” you say eventually. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but makes no move. “You got someone waiting on you?”

The question is light, but loaded. You smile, tired. “No. Just bills.”

He nods, eyes flicking down to your heels again. “Want a ride?”

“No thanks,” you say, not unkindly. “If you’re smart, you won’t wait for anyone who dances like I do.”

He raises a brow. “Why’s that?”

You hold his stare. “Because girls like me don’t lead you anywhere safe.”

The moment hangs, then you walk past him, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

He turns as you go. Watches you disappear into the night with that same look he wore in the club, like he’s still trying to figure you out.

The walls of your apartment are thin, not just the kind of thin where you can hear neighbors argue, the kind where it feels like your life could split down the middle if you breathe too hard. You’ve been here six months, and it still doesn’t feel like home.

You’re curled up on your couch, a cup of instant coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, the glow of your banking app reflecting off your tired eyes. The numbers glare at you, mock you. Rent’s due in four days.

You have almost enough. Almost enough to cover bills, almost enough to maybe buy some groceries, almost enough to keep pretending this version of your life isn’t eating you from the inside out.

You rub your thumb over the screen. Your feet aches from hours in heels. Your shoulders are sore. You’ve got another shift tonight.

And still, it’s not enough.

You let your head fall back against the couch. Maybe if you picked up more shifts, maybe if you danced dirtier, maybe if you finally said yes to that older guy who keeps asking for a private show.

You hate thinking like that. But sometimes, surviving means doing things you swore you wouldn’t.

You glance over at your worn-out calendar taped to the wall, two more weeks until your second job pays out, until then, it’s late nights and glittered skin, making magic onstage for strangers who toss money without ever seeing you.

Well… except for one.

You blink that thought away like it’s dust in your eyes. He was just another rich man with too much time and not enough boundaries. He looked at you like he was curious, like you were a mystery, you’ve seen that before.

You set the coffee down, pull your knees up to your chest, and try to breathe through the pressure closing in behind your ribs.

You’ll figure it out. You always do. But damn, you’re tired of surviving.

The club is already breathing heavy when you arrive. Bass pounding through the walls, lights spilling onto velvet floors, bodies moving like shadows in a fever dream.

Your locker’s waiting. So is your routine. But before you can even make it down the hallway, a familiar voice calls after you.

“Got something interesting for you, sweetheart.”

You turn around. Your manager, Dean, is grinning like he knows a secret. You arch a brow. “If it’s another pair of fishnets, I’ll scream.”

He chuckles. “Better. Or worse, depending on how you see it.”

You follow him back to the dressing room, your curiosity sharp. He gestures toward your station, where a black velvet box sits, untouched and elegant, like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.

“What is it?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs. “Open it and see.”

You hesitate. Nothing good comes wrapped like that. Not in this world. Still, your fingers move before your mind can catch up. The lid lifts, and your breath catches.

A choker. Thin, intricate, red velvet lined with diamonds, tiny but real. You can tell by the glint under the lights, it’s delicate and rich and dangerous, it’s the kind of thing worn by women who know they’re being desired.

Dean crosses his arms. “You gonna wear it?”

You close the box. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On who gave it to me.”

He gives you a sly smirk. “Then you might want to take a peek at the lounge.”

Your pulse stumbles. You step out of the room, shoes silent against the carpet now, and look.

He’s there, again. In the far booth. Casually lounging like he’s part of the decor. Black slacks, a fitted shirt rolled at the sleeves, rings glinting on his fingers, one ankle crossed over the other. A drink in front of him, untouched. His eyes already locked on yours.

A smile curves across his lips, you stare back for a second too long, heat crawling up your spine. Then you disappear back into the dressing room. You don’t say a word to Dean, you don’t explain. You just take the choker out of the box and fasten it around your neck.

You change into your outfit for the night, a deep crimson bodysuit, sheer panels that show just enough, long sleeves that hug your arms, heels that add an edge to every step. You keep the choker on.

He gave it to you, and you want him to see it.

The night starts slowly, but you can feel him there. Watching from his booth, nursing that drink he hasn’t touched. You dance for others, smile for them, let them fantasize for the length of a song. But the only eyes that matter tonight are his.

You pass his booth once, on your way to the bar. His fingers tap against the glass lazily, but his gaze trails down the line of your legs, lingers on your throat—on the choker.

“You wore it,” he says lowly as you pass.

You don’t stop walking. Just smile over your shoulder. “It matched the mood.”

He chuckles behind you. The kind of laugh you feel in your stomach.

Later, as the night starts to wind down and the crowd thins, you find him standing at the bar, no entourage or noise, just him. He’s been patient. But his eyes are hungry now.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he says, voice dipped in velvet.

You lean against the bar beside him. Close, but not quite touching. “That’s bold.”

He shrugs. “I’m not good at pretending I don’t want something.”

Your fingers toy with the edge of your glass. “And what do you want?”

“You.” The word drops between you like a spark. “But not like this,” he adds, eyes steady. “Not just in glimpses. I want to sit across from you and hear your voice when the music’s not drowning it out.”

You’re quiet for a moment, staring at him. It should be easy to say no. You’ve had men want more, want what they shouldn’t, but he’s not like them.

There’s no pressure in his words, and… something you haven’t seen in a long time. Something real.

You take a sip of your drink and finally smile. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe’s a good start.”

Your shift ends later than you’d like. The night stretched long with sweaty bills tucked into your thighs and too many hands reaching for a version of you they’ll never truly get. But all you could think about was that choker on your neck… and the way he looked at you like you were the only person who mattered in the whole damn room.

“Goodnight, baby,” one of the girls purrs, already halfway out the door, heels swinging in hand.

You nod, half-dazed. The rush has faded, but your heart still beats fast, because it’s not over yet.

You head back into the dressing room, peeling off the crimson bodysuit, watching your reflection in the mirror as your skin shimmers faintly with leftover stage light.

You change slowly. A black dress that hugs your hips and dips just enough at the front to make your pulse jump. Strappy heels. Clean skin, the faintest trace of perfume behind your ears, and the choker stays on. Of course it does.

Outside, the city is humming. Night air kisses your skin with a bite, but you barely notice, because he’s there.

Leaning against the side of his car, hands in his pockets, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the ink on his arms. His hair is messy in that way that looks styled on purpose, and his gaze is already locked on you the second you step into view.

He doesn’t say a word at first, he just looks at you. From the choker down to your dress, down your legs, then back up again, slower.

You walk toward him, your heels soft against the pavement, lips curved. “Thought maybe meant maybe,” you tease, stopping just a breath away.

He smiles. “You don’t dress like a maybe.”

You tilt your head, heart racing. “You always this smug?”

“Only when it works.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but there’s no denying the heat between you.

He opens the passenger door without a word, and you slip inside, the choker catching the light as you move. It’s quiet in the car, just the pulse of the city and the rustle of your dress as you cross your legs.

Jungkook slides into the driver’s seat and glances at you sideways, eyes dark with something wicked and wondering.

“You look like trouble,” he says.

You smile slowly. “So do you.”

The restaurant is drenched in luxury. Everything glows with a low, golden hue that makes every table feel like a secret. Crystal glasses, flickering candles, linen napkins folded with mathematical precision. It smells like money in here. Old money. And for a moment, you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.

Jungkook walks like he belongs here. He thanks the hostess with a nod, hand resting lightly at the small of your back as she leads you to a booth tucked into the curve of the wall. It’s intimate, shadowed. You slide in across from him, trying not to feel small, or out of place.

When the menus come, you pick yours up slowly. It’s black leather, the font too elegant to be readable at a glance. Your eyes trail down the list, and your heart drops with every number beside every name.

₩92,000 for an entrée. ₩160,000 for a bottle of wine.

Even if it’s not your money, the guilt creeps in. You should be focused on the rent due in four days, not sitting across from a man who smells like spice and sin, making you forget you’ve been scraping coins out of your coat pockets all week.

He notices the way your fingers still against the page. “Hey,” he says, voice smooth and quiet, but pointed. “Order whatever you want.”

You glance up. “I— It’s just…”

“I know,” he interrupts, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But you don’t have to worry about that. Not tonight.”

You hesitate. He leans forward, tattooed fingers wrapping around the stem of his wine glass. “If I bring you somewhere, it means I want you there. Let me have that.”

You feel the breath catch in your throat, because it sounds so simple when he says it. Like indulgence isn’t dangerous. Like pleasure isn’t a slippery slope.

But deep down, guilt bubbles beneath the surface. You should be thinking about the bills piling up in your tiny apartment, you should be clocking into your next shift, counting tips, wondering if you’ll make it.

Instead, you’re here. Wrapped in silk, lips glossed, his choker still hugging your neck, letting a man like him treat you like you’re worth more than what the world ever gave you.

You close the menu slowly, trying to keep your voice steady. “You really are impossible.”

He grins. “That’s not a no.”

And it isn’t. Because no matter how hard your reality pulls, there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you. Like you’re art. Like you’re a fucking storm.

The wine is deep and red, almost black in the low lighting, and you take the first sip slower than you mean to. It’s sweet, rich, the kind of expensive you’d never order on your own. You glance over your glass at him, lips still wet from the drink, and find him already watching you.

“What?” you ask, setting the glass down with a soft clink.

He rests his cheek against his hand, rings catching the candlelight. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”

You raise a brow. “Good luck with that.”

“I like a challenge.”

You laugh, softly. But beneath it, there’s a hum of something warmer. Something that cuts deeper than playful banter.

“Why me?” you ask before you can stop yourself. The question slips out too honestly, too bare. You hate that it does.

He blinks, then tilts his head like he’s surprised you even have to ask. “Because you walked like you weren’t afraid of being looked at,” he says. “And danced like no one ever saw you the way you wanted them to.”

God. That shouldn’t feel as raw as it does.

“I didn’t think you were watching that closely.”

“I wasn’t watching,” he says, voice lower now. “I was caught.”

You stare at him for a beat too long, your heart hammering in your ears. It shouldn’t get to you, but it does. You look away, your fingers tightening around your wine glass.

“I should be worrying about my rent,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him. “Not sitting here with a guy who wears watches worth more than my entire apartment.”

He doesn’t laugh, he just looks at you, seriously this time. “Then let me be the exception.”

You meet his gaze again, and for once, he’s not cocky or teasing. He’s… sincere. Dangerous in a whole different way, and somehow, that’s worse. Because you can already feel yourself leaning in.

The car ride is quiet, but not calm.

Jungkook’s hand rests casually on the wheel, his other arm draped along the center console, fingers inches from your bare thigh. You’re still in the same dress, the one that felt powerful earlier, but now it feels tight, like your skin is stretched too thin. Too aware of him beside you. The scent of his cologne. The warmth of his voice still coiled inside you.

You glance at him once, but he’s already looking at the road, jaw tight. You know he wants to say something. You know you want to say something. But neither of you does.

When he pulls up to your apartment, the street is quiet. Your building stands there, small, a little worn down, but home. His engine idles. You reach for the door handle, but pause.

“I had a good time,” you say quietly.

He turns toward you, one arm still resting on the steering wheel. “I did too.”

You linger in that second, waiting for it to end, but it doesn’t. His eyes drop to your lips. His jaw ticks.

“Do you want to come in?” you ask, breath barely audible.

Jungkook doesn’t move for a second. But then, his voice comes low. “Are you sure?”

You nod, heart pounding. He kills the engine and gets out.

You leave the door to your apartment cracked behind you, and the moment he steps inside, he sees all of it. Your life in its smallest, truest form.

Shoes scattered by the door. An old mug on the table. A tiny couch barely big enough for one person to stretch out. This isn’t his world, but he doesn’t blink. He just looks at you.

You slip your shoes off quietly, walking toward the middle of the room, unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your desire.

“You live alone,” he murmurs, eyes slowly sweeping the space.

“Yeah.”

He steps closer. “Doesn’t feel lonely?”

You shrug. “Sometimes. But it’s quiet. And it’s mine.”

He nods, but his gaze lingers on your lips again. He’s closer now, only a few inches separating your breath from his. And then, like it’s inevitable, you lean in.

Your lips brush his, just barely. You feel his breath stutter. His hands clench at his sides, like he’s holding back. But you’re done holding back.

You press your mouth to his, full this time, and he groans into it, like you’ve finally broken something he’s been trying to keep caged. His hands rise, one threading into your hair, the other gripping your waist.

Your back hits the wall, and he kisses you like it’s oxygen. His mouth moves over yours, tongue tasting, claiming. You gasp when his teeth catch your bottom lip. He swallows it down like a curse.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers against your mouth, voice ragged.

You whimper, fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s nothing between your bodies but heat.

“You want this?” he asks, lips ghosting along your jaw, down your throat.

“God, yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all he needs. He lifts you easily, lips never leaving yours, and you wrap your legs around his waist, letting him carry you toward the bedroom, or hell, ‘cause you’d let him take you right there if he asked.

He carries you through the short hallway like it costs him nothing. One arm under your thighs, the other curled around your back, holding you like you weigh less than a thought. You feel the muscles in his chest flex against you, the soft drag of his breath near your neck, the beat of his pulse hammering through his skin.

You don’t tell him which door. He picks the right one anyway.

Your bedroom is small, barely more than a mattress pushed up against the wall and a rickety dresser, but it’s clean. It smells like you, soft perfume, maybe vanilla, and Jungkook freezes for a second in the doorway.

Like stepping into your space is suddenly more intimate than kissing you. But you’re already pulling him back in.

Your hands are in his hair, fingers tugging gently, tilting his head until you find his mouth again. He groans into the kiss, and this time, it’s needier, more frantic. His hands slide down your thighs as he sets you on the edge of the bed, and he doesn’t let you go, not for a second.

Your legs fall open for him instinctively. His body slots between them like he was made to fit there.

“You’re so—” he starts, but his voice breaks off in a low growl. His hand comes up, brushing hair from your face, then trails down your jaw, over your throat, and lower. “—fucking beautiful.”

You shiver at the rasp in his voice, the reverence tangled in the filth.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, soft cotton stretched across a lean chest. He watches you as you push it up, exposing inch after inch of inked skin. His abs flex beneath your touch, and he hisses when your fingertips trace the lines between muscle and tattoo.

“You wanna touch me, baby?” he murmurs, voice like honey-drenched sin. “Then do it. Take what you want.”

And god, you do. You lift his shirt over his head, and he lets you, dropping it somewhere on the floor. Your hands roam his body like you’re trying to memorize it. His skin is warm, smooth, and covered in ink and heat.

“Take it off,” he whispers, fingertips brushing the strap of your dress. “Please.”

That please wrecks you. You slide the straps down slowly, teasingly, letting the silky fabric pool around your waist. You’re not wearing a bra, and Jungkook’s gaze drops like gravity’s pulling it.

“Fuck,” he says, almost reverently. His hands rise, hesitating just an inch from your chest.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

His palms cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they stiffen, until your hips shift restlessly beneath him. He kisses your chest slowly, tongue dragging, mouth worshipping. He trails kisses down your stomach, open-mouthed and warm, until he’s kneeling between your thighs, looking up at you like a man starving.

His hands trail up your legs. His thumbs stroke gently along the inside of your thighs, raising goosebumps with each inch.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, lips parted, eyes dark and blown out. “Lay back,” he says softly. “Let me taste you.”

You sink into the mattress, hair splayed around you, your breath already caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. And when he slides your panties down your legs, leans in and kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, like you’re something delicate and holy, you swear you feel it in your soul.

The first lick is gentle. Experimental. He watches your reaction as his tongue flicks once, then again, a little firmer. Your legs tremble. Your fingers twist into the sheets.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

He hums like he agrees. His mouth is warm, wet and perfect, tongue stroking with unhurried precision, lips sucking softly, gently. It’s not rushed, it’s thorough, like he’s learning you. Mapping the way your breath stutters when he drags the flat of his tongue up and flicks at the top. The way your hips buck when he moans against you, sending vibrations through your bones.

You’re soaked in seconds, your back arching, one hand covering your mouth and the other clutching his hair, grounding yourself to the only thing that matters right now.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, pulling back just long enough to speak, then licking a slow stripe that makes you whimper. “You want me to stop?”

You shake your head desperately. “Don’t you dare.”

That makes him grin, mouth shiny with you. “Didn’t plan to.”

And then he dives back in, more eager now, more relentless. His tongue works in tight, steady circles, and when he slips one finger inside you, it’s all too much.

You come with a gasp, legs shaking, voice breaking around his name. He keeps going until your hips jerk from oversensitivity, and even then, he kisses the inside of your thigh like a goodbye.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then rises to hover over you, gaze fixed on your face.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, brushing hair from your cheek. “Do you know that?”

You shake your head, too breathless to speak, but your body tells the truth.

You pull him down to kiss you again, and this time, there’s nothing soft about it. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your mouth. Like he’s starving, but still somehow patient, hands braced on either side of your head, his body suspended over yours like he’s keeping himself in check.

He pulls back, staring at you. You drag your palms down his chest, and he watches you with hooded eyes, lips parted, breath heavy.

Then his hand cups your jaw. “I want you,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “But I’m not going inside you without a condom.”

You blink, your breath catching for an entirely different reason now.

God, even when he’s like this, cocky, dominant, eyes dark and body tense with want, he still thinks. He still respects you.

You nod, breathlessly. “Top drawer.”

He leans over you, muscles shifting beneath his inked skin as he slides it open and pulls out a condom. You’re still catching your breath, thighs slightly parted, watching him like he’s something out of a fever dream.

He stands. His eyes stay locked with yours as his fingers go to the front of his slacks, and your mouth runs dry when you hear the slow drag of his zipper.

He slides them down, unhurried, the material catching on the curve of his hips before pooling at his ankles. His black boxers cling to him, the outline of his cock so thick and perfect it makes your head spin.

When he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down, your breath hitches.

He’s big. Hard. Veins prominent, tip flushed and glistening, his cock bobbing slightly as it’s freed.

He strokes himself once, just enough to make your thighs press together, and then rips the condom wrapper open between his teeth, a soft hiss escaping as he rolls it on with expert ease.

“Been dying to fuck you properly.”

And then he’s back, one hand braced on your hip, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

You’re still soaked, still aching from the way his tongue worshiped you minutes ago, and when he pushes in, your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“Shit,” he groans. “You’re so tight…”

He gives you time to adjust. Every inch deeper comes with a slow grind of his hips, his lips brushing your neck, his breath warm against your collarbone.

And when he’s finally all the way in, bottomed out and still holding back, you swear you’ve never felt so full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulders. “You can move.”

He starts slow. Each thrust is measured, his hips pressing into yours like he’s savoring the stretch, like he’s mapping out every gasp he can pull from you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking softly, tongue dragging over your pulse.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know.”

You moan, your hips arching into his, chasing more friction. But it’s not enough, not yet. He’s still holding back, still careful. Still too gentle.

“Jungkook,” you breathe, voice cracking.

He pulls back enough to look at you. “Yeah?”

Your eyes burn into his. “Don’t hold back. Please.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, something primal that’s barely been caged.

“You sure?” His voice is lower now. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You shake your head, breathless. “I need it.”

And that’s all it takes. He slams back into you, hard enough to make the headboard knock. He sets a rhythm that’s filthy and perfect, each thrust hitting a spot that makes your toes curl.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he pants, driving into you with rough, perfect thrusts. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”

He catches your gaze, and your breath catches. You’re not sure if it’s the pace, or the way he sees you like this, but it’s too much, too good.

Your legs tremble, tightening around his waist, and you arch into him with a breathless cry.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

You moan his name like a prayer and a curse, your body burning at the edges.

He leans down, mouth grazing your ear, voice rough silk. “Feel how deep I am, baby?” He grinds his hips, rolling them just right. “Right where you need me.”

You can’t even answer, only whimper, nails dragging across his back. He groans at that, dark and wrecked.

Then suddenly, he pulls out. You gasp, dazed and blinking up at him, but he’s already grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your stomach in one smooth motion.

“Up,” he commands, voice thick and ragged. “On your knees.”

You obey without thinking, and his hands immediately grab your hips, pulling you back until you feel his cock drag between your folds.

He gives you one slow thrust, then pulls back, teasing. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, sliding back in, this time hard and deep. “You’re dripping so much for me.”

He snaps his hips, and you cry out, bracing yourself as he fucks you from behind, rough and fast, a hand sliding around your throat as he pulls you back against him. His other hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit with ease.

“Come on,” he growls. “One more. I wanna feel you clench around me while I fuck you.”

You’re already so close. Your moans turn frantic, eyes fluttering as his fingers work you faster, his thrusts unrelenting.

“That’s it, baby. Let me ruin you.”

You come with a scream, your body shaking, thighs trembling. You collapse forward, but he doesn’t stop, rides you through it until your body’s boneless, twitching under him.

“Shit—” he groans, and with one final deep thrust, he spills inside the condom, body tensing over yours.

Silence follows, charged and intimate. You feel his weight shift slightly, one arm wrapping around your waist as he lowers both of you to the bed gently.

For a second, neither of you says a word. His breath is hot against your shoulder, lips brushing skin like an apology and a promise all at once.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you to his chest.

You let him. Heart pounding, skin flushed, body aching in the best way. You don’t know what this is, what it’ll become, but tonight, you don’t care.

And in the quiet that follows, with his fingers stroking lazy circles into your spine and his breath steady beside yours, you realize, maybe for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

Even if it’s just for tonight.

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝑀𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝐵𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Genre- Smut, Fluff

Word count- 3718

Warnings- 18+ interactions only, public teasing, rough sex, fingering, creampie, light choking, overstimulation, g!p Jimin, mean Jimin, dom Jimin, sub reader, oral, size kink, NSFW

The first thing you notice when you step into the halls of Kwanga Academy isn’t the marble floors or the gold-plated lockers — it’s the way people move. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line. Like the air itself is policed.

You don’t belong here.

You knew that the second you got the acceptance email. Scholarship kid. Public school transfer. A nobody in a sea of old money and perfect teeth. You keep your head down and your voice lower.

It works — for a week.

Then she notices you.

Yu Jimin. They call her “Queen Jimin” — not to her face, because she’d hate that. No one dares pretend she needs a crown. She already rules everything.

She’s cruel without lifting a finger, devastatingly beautiful, and always flanked by her three lieutenants:

• Minjeong, cold and clever with a permanent eye-roll.

• Aeri, sharp-tongued and observant, always whispering things into Jimin’s ear.

• Yizhou, the loud, glittering one — deceptively sweet until she isn’t.

They don’t walk through the halls. They stalk.

And somehow, for some reason, their leader’s eyes land on you one morning before homeroom.

You feel it before you see it — that hot prickle of being watched. You look up from your book, and she’s standing there, twenty feet away, one arm hooked around Aeri’s shoulder, her head tilted just slightly as she stares.

Right at you.

You look away.

Mistake.

A chair scrapes loudly in front of you. You flinch, your book slipping halfway off the desk.

“Hi, new girl,” Jimin says, sliding into the seat across from yours like she owns it — because she does.

You blink. “…Hi?”

Her smirk is slow, like she’s already bored. “You don’t talk much.”

You fumble for words. “I—I just don’t know anyone yet.”

“Aw,” she coos, falsely sweet. “Maybe you’re just not very interesting.”

Minjeong snickers behind her. Yizhou leans over your shoulder to glance at your book. “What even is that? Shakespeare?”

You don’t respond. You wish the floor would eat you.

But Jimin leans in closer — enough for you to catch the expensive perfume she wears. Sharp, elegant. Like danger wrapped in silk.

“Here’s the thing,” she whispers, and only you can hear it: “I don’t like girls who hide. It’s creepy.”

Your cheeks burn. You try to look down, but her hand is suddenly on your chin — manicured fingers tilted just enough to make you face her.

“Look at me when I’m talking,” she says, tone low and ice-smooth. “You want to stay invisible? Too late.”

Then she pulls away like nothing happened, brushing a strand of hair over her shoulder.

“See you around, nerd.”

They’re gone before you can breathe again.

You sit frozen, fingers clenched around the edge of your book.

What just happened?

_____

You try to ignore her.

You stop reading in the courtyard and move to the back stairwell between classes. You eat lunch in the library, pretending to study, pretending you’re not afraid of what might happen if she corners you again.

But it doesn’t matter where you go.

She finds you.

It starts small.

Your locker, one morning, is wide open. Your books rearranged. Nothing stolen — but tucked neatly in the middle is a folded note on thick, expensive paper.

Just one word, in perfect handwriting:

Cute.

Your breath catches.

Later, in the library, you reach for a book — and a hand gets there first. Long fingers brush yours. You look up. She’s there.

Yu Jimin.

Glassy eyes, lips barely curved, chewing a piece of gum slowly.

��I liked that quote you underlined in English today,” she murmurs, pulling the book off the shelf. “The one about monsters wearing pretty faces.”

You didn’t even know she was paying attention.

You catch her watching you in class, phone hidden under her desk, angled just right.

Taking pictures.

She doesn’t stop when you notice.

She just grins.

You try to tell yourself she’s just messing with you. Some cruel game. That’s what mean girls do, right? Pick a loser and string them along until they snap?

But there’s something in the way she looks at you — not just amusement.

Possession.

Like she already owns you. Like she’s waiting for you to figure it out.

_____

Friday.

Someone shoves a glittering black envelope into your hand during last period.

No name. Just an address. A party. Tonight.

You’re not invited — you’re summoned.

You don’t want to go.

But you know you will.

_____

That Night

It’s loud.

Music rattles the walls, neon lights flashing in time with your heartbeat. You’re out of place — too sober, too anxious, too alone. But you catch sight of her upstairs, leaning over a balcony, a red solo cup in hand.

She sees you instantly.

Jimin smiles like a cat that’s been waiting all day to play with its food.

She doesn’t wave. She just tilts her head.

Come here.

You don’t remember deciding to climb the stairs, but your legs move anyway.

People part for you. Like they know better than to get between Jimin and her newest game.

You follow her down a hallway. Past closed doors, muffled laughter, the occasional moan.

She opens a door, steps in — doesn’t look back.

You hesitate.

Then enter.

She shuts it behind you.

Locks it.

Turns.

You realize then that you’re not afraid of her hurting you.

You’re afraid of how much you want her to.

_____

The door clicks shut behind you.

Jimin doesn’t speak.

She leans against it, arms crossed, the red solo cup abandoned somewhere in the hallway. Her eyes rake over you, slow and hot, like she’s undressing you with her gaze.

You stand frozen.

The bass thuds below your feet. But in this room, it’s silent — thick with something heavier than noise.

“I was wondering if you’d show,” she says finally, voice low. “I don’t like chasing people. Makes me…aggressive.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“I don’t care what you asked,” she cuts in smoothly, stepping closer. “You don’t get it yet, do you?”

She’s in front of you now. Close. Too close.

“I want you,” she whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “That means I get you.”

You try to back away, but your knees hit the bed.

She follows.

Her hand slides under your chin again — that same arrogant grip from before. She tilts your head up. “You keep running,” she says, tone like silk over steel. “But you want this. I see the way you shake when I touch you.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that you’re throbbing already. That her voice alone makes you weak.

Jimin smirks. “Say stop.”

Silence.

She waits.

You don’t say it.

“Good girl,” she breathes, and then she’s on you — lips crushing yours, hot and rough. Her tongue pushes past your lips like she owns your mouth, and maybe she does. You’re too stunned to fight. Too turned on to care.

Her hands are fast — under your shirt, over your bra, squeezing your breast like she’s been imagining it for weeks. You gasp, and she swallows it, grinding her hips into yours.

You feel it then.

Hard.

Strained beneath her jeans. Thick and real.

You freeze.

She feels you tense — pulls back, eyes gleaming with a wicked smile.

“Mm. Didn’t expect that?”

You don’t answer. You’re panting, red-faced, confused and aroused and overwhelmed.

Jimin bites your lower lip gently, then drags her mouth to your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you,” she whispers. “Right here. Right now. And everyone downstairs is going to keep partying while I ruin you.”

You whimper.

She laughs — low and dark. “Oh, now you’re being honest.”

She pushes you back onto the bed.

Your shirt is gone in seconds. Bra too. She doesn’t even pretend to be gentle — her mouth is on your chest, her hands everywhere. You try to cover yourself. She pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other tugging your skirt up.

She grinds into you again — and you moan.

“Feel that?” she pants. “That’s all for you.”

The friction is too much — she’s thick, hard, pressing between your legs like she’s already inside.

“I could take you like this,” she murmurs. “Dry. Fast. You’d cry, wouldn’t you? You’d beg.”

She kisses your throat. Then lower.

“But I want you wet. I want you desperate.”

She slides down your body. Pulls your panties off like she’s unwrapping a present.

And then her mouth is there — hot, slow, devastating.

You moan, thighs trembling, back arching. She doesn’t let go of your wrists.

She eats like she’s starved. Like she wants to taste your soul. You can’t think — you’re just gasps and stuttering breath, broken words, her name falling from your lips like a prayer.

She doesn’t stop until you’re soaked and shaking.

And then — she unbuckles her jeans.

You see it. Thick, flushed, veiny. Her cock, real enough it makes your legs go numb.

She strokes it once. Twice. Eyes locked on you.

“You’re mine now,” she says softly. “Say it.”

You hesitate.

She taps the head of her cock against your entrance.

“Say it,” she repeats, firmer.

“…I’m yours.”

Her smile is dangerous.

And then she thrusts in.

She thrusts in—slow, but deep.

You gasp, nearly choke on it. She’s so big.

It stretches more than you expected, her body pressed flush against yours. Jimin doesn’t move right away. She just leans in, forehead brushing yours, watching every twitch of your face as you try to adjust.

“You feel that?” she whispers. “So tight. You’re barely taking me.”

Your fingers dig into her arms. She’s hot, solid, the smell of her skin — perfume and sweat — making your head spin.

Then she moves.

Not gentle.

A sharp, slow pull and a hard snap of her hips forward that punches the breath out of your lungs. You cry out, and she groans low, voice dark and shaky with restraint.

“Fucking perfect.”

Her pace builds fast. Deep strokes, unrelenting, her hips slamming against yours like she’s trying to bury herself even deeper. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, muffled only by your moans.

She leans up to see it — watches her cock disappear inside you again and again. Her jaw tightens. “You’re taking it so well now. I knew you’d be a good girl underneath all that shy little shit.”

You try to bite back your sounds, try to stay quiet, but she notices. Of course she does.

“No,” she growls. “Let them hear you.”

She grabs your throat — not enough to choke, just enough to make you feel her there, claiming every part of you.

“Moan for me. You’re mine. Let them fucking hear it.”

You cry out when she angles her hips — just right. That spot. Again and again. You’re already close and she knows it.

“That’s it,” she pants, her free hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “Come on this cock. Soak it. I want you dripping down my legs.”

You fall apart — back arching, toes curling, your body shaking underneath her. You come hard, clenching around her, and Jimin moans like it’s her own release.

But she doesn’t stop.

She fucks you through it — faster, rougher, chasing her own high. She pulls out just enough to slam back in harder, your walls overstimulated and soaked.

“I should fill you,” she growls against your neck. “Should fuck a mess into you and make you walk home dripping with it.”

Your legs tremble. You’re begging now — you don’t even know for what.

“Shh,” she murmurs. “I know. I know, baby.”

She gives one more brutal thrust — then stills, groaning deep in her throat as she presses all the way in, holding you there, pulsing.

You feel the warmth flood inside.

You didn’t expect her to actually—

You gasp. “Jimin—”

Her hand slides over your mouth.

“I told you,” she says darkly, lips brushing your ear. “You’re mine now.”

You lie there — wrecked.

Legs spread, throat sore, skin flushed. Your clothes are bunched at your waist, Jimin still inside you, her weight braced above you on one arm, eyes burning into yours.

Neither of you speaks for a moment.

Then she pulls out.

Slow. Deliberate.

You hiss at the emptiness, the way your body clenches around nothing now, sore and too sensitive. You expect her to just leave — like she got what she wanted.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, Jimin sits back on her knees between your legs and drags her fingers through the mess she made. Her cum dripping from you, slick and warm on her fingertips.

She watches it drip out like it’s art. Then, without a word, she pushes two fingers back in.

You moan weakly, thighs twitching.

“You’re still open,” she murmurs. “So pretty like this. All ruined.”

Her voice is softer now. A little dazed. Like she can’t believe what she’s done — and can’t stop staring at it either.

She leans down again, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. Gentle. Too gentle. It makes your chest ache.

You try to sit up, but she pushes you back down with a firm hand.

“Relax. You’re not going anywhere.”

Her eyes meet yours. Dark. Hungry. Almost…affectionate.

“I should’ve done this the first day,��� she says. “Marked you before anyone else got ideas.”

You blink, still catching your breath. “You act like I’m yours to own.”

She smirks. “You are.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Jimin leans in again, brushing her nose along your cheek. “I know enough. You blush when I talk. You flinch when I touch. You melt when I fuck you.”

Her lips ghost over yours. Not a kiss — a warning.

“You want to be owned. Don’t lie.”

You say nothing.

You should hate her.

You should be disgusted, furious, afraid.

But you’re not.

You’re addicted.

She helps you clean up, oddly careful — tugging your skirt back down, finding your shirt, helping you sit up. She doesn’t let anyone see you leave.

Her arm stays around your waist like a leash the entire way downstairs.

And when Minjeong raises an eyebrow, when Yizhou smirks and whispers something to Aeri, Jimin doesn’t speak — she just tightens her hold on you.

Daring them to look too long.

_____

Outside, you stop near the gate. You want to leave. To think. To breathe.

But Jimin steps in front of you, hand on your face again. Her thumb strokes your cheek, almost tender.

“Don’t talk to anyone else next week,” she says calmly. “Don’t look at anyone. Don’t let them look at you.”

You swallow. “Or what?”

She smiles, brushing your lips with hers — a mockery of sweetness.

“I won’t be gentle next time.”

Then she turns and walks back into the party.

Leaving you outside, weak-kneed, heart pounding, the ghost of her mouth still on yours.

You realize something then.

You’re not afraid she’ll do it again.

You’re afraid of how much you want her to.

_____

Kwanga’s cafeteria isn’t a place for food.

It’s a battlefield.

And you usually survive by staying quiet, sitting alone in the back corner, eyes low, avoiding the stares and whispers.

But today — it’s different.

You can feel them watching you the second you walk in.

Especially her.

Yu Jimin sits at the center table like a queen on her throne, legs crossed, iced coffee untouched beside her. Minjeong’s next to her, lazily scrolling her phone. Aeri’s laughing at something Yizhou just whispered — but all of them turn their eyes on you when you pass.

You clutch your tray tighter. Head down. Pretend you don’t see her.

You barely make it two steps past their table before—

A hand grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

And then you’re yanked.

Your tray clatters to the ground — forgotten — as Jimin pulls you into her lap like you’re nothing but a doll. Your knees hit the bench, legs straddling hers before you can think, before you can breathe.

Gasps around the room. Stares. Phones lifted, already recording.

Jimin doesn’t care.

She’s too busy pulling your face down close to hers, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced on your thigh — high on your thigh.

You try to squirm, red-faced. “Jimin—what are you—”

“Shh,” she murmurs, her voice low enough for only you to hear. “This is mine. I’m showing them.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

“Smile,” she adds, smug. “Or I’ll make you.”

Minjeong watches with that unreadable, amused stare. Yizhou giggles. Aeri leans in closer like she’s studying an art piece.

“You’re so tense,” Jimin purrs, dragging her nails slowly up your thigh. “Should I help you relax? Right here?”

You jolt. “Don’t.”

She tilts her head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t embarrass me,” you whisper.

She smirks. “Sweetheart, I own you. Being on my lap is the least embarrassing thing I could do to you.”

You bite your lip.

Your body shouldn’t want this — shouldn’t pulse with need when she touches you like this, holds you like this, stares at you like you’re hers.

But you do.

And she knows.

Her fingers shift slightly — just enough to press between your legs. Not hard. Not obvious. But intimate. Enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?” she whispers in your ear. “Right here in front of everyone.”

You shut your eyes. Her friends are watching. The whole school is watching.

And Jimin couldn’t look more proud.

You’re hers now.

And she’s never letting go.

Your skin is on fire.

Everyone’s watching. You can feel it — the weight of stares, the buzz of whispers, the sound of a phone clicking a photo from somewhere nearby.

You should pull away.

But instead, your body betrays you.

You tuck your face against Jimin’s neck.

Hide.

Your breath fans against her skin as you bury yourself there, cheek flushed, arms curling instinctively around her shoulders like you need her to shield you.

And for a moment — just a moment — she goes still.

You feel it in the way her hand pauses on your thigh, the way her posture shifts slightly, chest rising against yours in something almost like surprise.

Then her grip tightens.

Not possessive this time — but firm. Like she’s grounding you. Claiming you in a new way.

“Oh?” she breathes, lips brushing your temple. “You’re shy now?”

You don’t answer.

You just nod — tiny, barely noticeable.

Jimin exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s no mockery in it. No cruelty.

Only satisfaction.

And something else.

Something warmer.

She adjusts you slightly in her lap, pulling your legs to one side, your whole body curling against her like you fit there. Like you belong there.

“Look at you,” she murmurs against your ear, voice soft and smug. “Hiding in me like you haven’t been running all week.”

You close your eyes, face still hidden in her neck. Her perfume surrounds you — expensive, heady, familiar now. Your fingers twitch on her jacket sleeve.

“Don’t like them staring,” you whisper.

Her jaw flexes. You feel it against your cheek.

She doesn’t like that.

You’re hers. No one should be allowed to look.

She kisses the side of your head — once. Brief. Gentle.

“They can stare all they want,” she says, low. “Just means they know who you belong to.”

You don’t reply. You just let yourself stay there, pressed against her, melting a little deeper into the twisted warmth she gives — attention and danger all at once.

And Jimin…

She holds you tighter than she ever has before.

_____

The cafeteria buzzes back to life.

Eventually, the whispers fade, and everyone returns to their own drama, gossip, and half-eaten lunches. But you’re still in her lap — curled into her like she’s home, like you’ve finally stopped fighting whatever this is.

No one questions it now.

Because Jimin made it clear.

You’re hers.

She’s still talking to Minjeong and the others like nothing’s changed — like you’re not tucked into her, arms around her neck, your head resting just under her jaw. Her tone is light, a little bored, like she’s forgotten how aggressively she claimed you ten minutes ago.

But her hand never stops moving.

She’s tracing soft, absentminded circles on your bare thigh. Fingertips under your skirt, but it’s not dirty. Not this time. It’s… comfort. It’s hers, and you’re letting her have it.

You barely react when she plucks a grape from her tray and lifts it to your mouth.

“Eat,” she says gently, not even looking at you.

You part your lips without a word.

She feeds you one, then another — all while discussing weekend plans with Aeri, lazily dodging questions about where she disappeared during the party last week. Yizhou laughs and tosses a crumpled napkin at her. Jimin swats it away with a scoff, arm tightening around your waist as she shifts you slightly in her lap.

You don’t resist. You nestle closer.

“God,” Minjeong mutters, sipping her drink. “She’s finally gone full cling.”

“Shut up,” Jimin replies, but she’s smiling.

She dips her fingers into the side of her iced coffee, scoops a bit of whipped cream, and taps it on your lower lip.

You blink at her.

“Lick,” she says.

You obey.

The corner of her mouth lifts just a little.

“You see that?” she says, half-laughing, turning to the girls. “Didn’t even have to say please.”

“Whipped,” Aeri mutters under her breath.

“Obsessed,” Yizhou adds, biting into a cookie.

Jimin rolls her eyes — but her hand comes up and strokes your hair gently, thumb brushing your cheek, her fingers threading lazily through the strands like you’re something fragile she doesn’t want to break yet.

You can feel it now. All of it.

You’re hers. Fully.

But maybe…

Maybe she’s a little bit yours too.

And when the bell rings — loud and shrill — Jimin doesn’t let you move.

She just kisses your temple, smooth and unbothered, like this is routine now.

Like this is where you’ll always be.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

let your body loose | ot7 🔞

pairing: enhypen x reader

— where tension lingers, breath catches, and one look is all it takes

Almost touching. Almost not.

It’s a game of restraint — until someone breaks. From stolen glances to heat behind closed doors, these stories explore the line between control and craving.

You feel it too, don’t you?

Let your body loose.

lhs - two steps closer

It starts with a glance.

Heeseung’s voice plays softly from the studio speakers — a rough demo track looping as you sit cross-legged on the floor, reviewing choreography notes. You’re not even moving anymore. Not really. Just pretending to be focused.

Because he’s watching you again.

From his seat near the soundboard, Heeseung’s gaze drags across your body like a slow current. Not obvious. Not bold. But undeniably there — and it’s not the first time tonight. Or the first time this week.

“You okay?” he asks, voice smooth but a little too low to be casual.“Yeah,” you lie. Your throat is dry. “Just tired.”His eyes flick to your water bottle, untouched. He says nothing, but his jaw tightens like he knows you’re not being honest.You turn back to your notes, but you feel it: the shift in the air when he stands up. Footsteps, soft against the hardwood. He doesn’t stop until he’s in front of you — two steps away, close enough to make your skin prickle.

“You sure that’s all it is?” he murmurs.

You glance up. And there it is — that heat again. Simmering in his eyes, that gaze that always lingers one second too long. It pins you in place.

Your mouth parts before you can stop it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you haven’t stopped looking at me.”

Silence stretches.

Your ponytail is loose, strands sticking to your damp neck. You move to fix it.

“Don’t,” he says, almost too quickly.

“What?”

“I like it messy.”

Your heart trips over itself. He’s never flirted like this before. Not directly.

Heeseung crouches in front of you, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t touch you — doesn’t need to. His eyes do all the work.

“You’ve been pulling on that string for weeks,” he murmurs. “You just haven’t tugged.”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

He laughs, breathless. Then? He touches you.

A hand slides under your jaw, fingers curling just beneath your ear as he tips your face up. His thumb brushes your lower lip.

“Then don’t stop now.”

You don’t.

The kiss is slow at first. Testing. But it doesn’t stay that way.

Heeseung deepens it with a groan against your mouth, dragging you up into his lap in one seamless motion. You straddle him without hesitation, thighs tightening around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.

He smells like sweat and vanilla and adrenaline — and when he pulls back, pupils blown, his voice is pure gravel.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then show me.”

He lifts you without warning, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing. You feel the strength in his arms — years of dance, rehearsals, stamina. He sets you down in front of the mirror wall, crowding behind you.

You gasp when his hand slides beneath your shirt, fingertips grazing up your spine. Heeseung kisses the side of your neck, lips hot and teasing.

“Look,” he whispers, pressing his chest to your back. “You’re so tense. But your body’s already begging to be touched.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. Your shirt is riding up, his hands now spread low on your waist. His eyes — dark, possessive — lock with yours.

“Let it go,” he whispers. “Just for me.”

And you do.

Your shirt is the first to go. Then his. Your back arches as he sucks a bruise beneath your collarbone, one hand holding your waist while the other cups your breast. He plays with your nipple, pinching just hard enough to make your knees buckle.

“So sensitive,” he hums, smug. “I barely touched you.”

“Heeseung—”

“Say it again.”

“Heeseung.”

His name sounds like a prayer on your lips — one he’s desperate to answer.

He drops to his knees behind you, tugging down your leggings in one smooth motion. Your underwear goes next. He presses a kiss to the swell of your ass, then bites — a sharp nip that makes you jolt.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admits, tongue darting out. “So many times. You, in front of this mirror. Falling apart because of me.”

And then he proves it.

His mouth is relentless, tongue flicking over your clit as his fingers grip your thighs. You bite down a moan, hands braced against the mirror. But he doesn’t let you stay quiet.

“Let them hear,” he mutters. “Let them know who’s making you feel this good.” Your moan echoes in the studio — breathy, high, desperate.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, adding a finger. “Loose now, baby. I’ve got you.” When he finally pushes inside you, it’s unbearable. He guides you back against his chest, his cock filling you slow, deep. Your legs shake, but his hands hold you steady.

“Look how pretty you are like this,” he groans. “Wrapped around me, dripping. You were made for this.”You watch in the mirror — the way your body takes him, the way his lips brush your shoulder with every thrust. His eyes never leave yours in the reflection.

The sounds—skin on skin, your whimpers, his grunts—fill the room.

“More,” you beg. “Faster—”

“Not yet,” he growls. “I want to feel everything.”

So he takes his time.

Drives you to the edge over and over, holding you there, until you’re sobbing his name into the glass. Until you finally shatter around him.

“That’s it,” he moans, hips stuttering. “Fuck—just like that—”

His release hits with a low groan, arms tightening around you as he spills inside, hips still twitching.

You’re tangled on the studio floor, still half-naked, catching your breath. He brushes your messy hair from your forehead, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Told you I liked it better like this.”

You laugh, weakly.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

pjs - just a sign

You knew the tension would snap eventually.

You just didn’t know it would happen like this.

The night had been a blur of glances and grazing touches — a charity gala you both attended for the company, him in an all-black suit and that sharp gaze that always felt like it could see through you.

He didn’t even have to try. Jay was magnetic — cold to most, but devastatingly warm when his eyes locked on yours.

And now you’re in his penthouse.

Lights low. Music off. The city glittering behind him.

And he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he wants to ruin.

“Do you know what you’ve been doing all night?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You lean against the glass window, the night pressing coolly against your back.

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

His jaw flexes. He moves closer.

“That’s the problem.”

He walks toward you slowly — one step at a time — like a predator cornering something precious. Two steps away. Almost touching. Almost not.

“You kept looking at me like you wanted me to do something. But you didn’t say a word.”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

That’s all it takes.

Jay’s hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You feel how hard he already is — even through his tailored slacks.

“You didn’t,” he says. “But next time, don’t pretend you weren’t pulling the string.”

The kiss is fire. Jay kisses like he owns your mouth — deep, commanding, greedy. He kisses like he waited too long. And he did.

His hands slide down, gripping under your thighs. You gasp when he lifts you, pinning you to the glass with practiced ease.

The city watches, but Jay doesn’t care. His lips move to your jaw, your neck, sucking a bruise just beneath your ear. “You wore this dress on purpose,” he mutters, tugging the zipper down slowly. “Backless. Tight. No panties. Don’t lie.”

“I didn’t—”

“Then why do you taste like sin, sweetheart?”He drops you on his massive leather couch, dark eyes gleaming. He shrugs off his blazer, his tie, buttons undone one by one. You stare. He smirks.

“Breathe,” he teases, crawling over you. “You’ll need the air.”

Jay knows exactly what he’s doing.

His fingers trail down your thighs, spreading them with a slow firmness that makes you whimper.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “But we haven’t even started.” He teases you with the barest touches — his breath ghosting over your core, his fingers drawing soft, slow circles that never quite give you enough.

“Jay, please—“

“Please what?” he asks, lazily. “Use your words, baby.”

“Touch me.”

“I am.”

“Properly.”

That gets a low laugh out of him.

“I like it when you beg,” he admits, finally pressing his mouth to your center.

You cry out, hips jerking. He doesn’t stop.He eats you like it’s a job. Like it’s his job — and you’re the reward he’s been denied for far too long. Tongue, fingers, lips — it’s overwhelming. You’re already close.

“Come for me,” he whispers, two fingers curling just right. “I know you want to.” You fall apart with a loud moan, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jay doesn’t even pause. Just licks you through it — then again.

“One’s not enough,” he growls. “Not after tonight.”

When he finally fucks you, it’s with intention. He strips you slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something expensive. Then he flips you around, pressing your chest into the couch, back arched, ass up.

“Look at you,” he says, voice darker now. “Messy. Open. Ready for me.” And then he pushes in.

All of him. Slow. Deep. Measured. You gasp — he’s thick, heavy, stretching you inch by inch.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Take it, baby. All of it.” His rhythm starts slow, deliberate — hips rolling in lazy thrusts that hit just right. But when your moans turn breathless, he grips your hips harder.

“Tell me,” he pants. “Who’s making you feel this good?”

“You—fuck, Jay, you—”

“Say it louder.”

He fucks you harder.

“You, Jay. Only you.”

His palm slides between your legs again, fingers circling your clit. The extra pressure sends you spiraling again — overstimulated, undone, dizzy from the sensation of his name falling from your lips like worship.

Jay groans low and deep, hips stuttering.

“Fuck—you’re so tight—gonna come inside you—take it, baby—take all of me—” You moan louder as he thrusts once, twice more before spilling into you, hips grinding down as he rides it out.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there — still buried inside, chest to your back, both of you trembling.

“You okay?” he asks softly, lips at your shoulder.

You nod. Barely.

“Good,” he says, voice smug again. “Because I’m not done yet.”

sjy - close enough to break

The silence in the rehearsal studio is heavy.

Jake’s usually loud and alive with energy, but tonight he’s quiet. Focused. His gaze lingers on you longer than usual — like he’s trying to memorize every detail before something changes.

You can feel it — this tight, buzzing electricity between you. A tension so subtle it sneaks under your skin.

He’s pacing, but you’re standing still, watching the way his jaw tightens whenever you meet his eyes. Sweat beads on his neck from the lingering heat of practice. “You’re watching me like you want to say something,” he finally says, voice rough and low.

“Say it.”

Your throat goes dry. You swallow.

“I don’t know if I should.”

He laughs — sharp and sudden — then stops.

“I’m waiting.”

Jake steps closer — just two steps — and then stops.

Almost touching. Almost not.

You want to reach out, to close the distance yourself. But your hands freeze at your sides.

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“You’re so damn close,” he murmurs.

“Close enough to break.”

Your heartbeat accelerates — the kind of fast that buzzes in your ears and makes your skin crawl.

He reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger too long, tracing a path down your jaw to your neck

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers. “Just give me a sign.”

You bite your lip. A heat spreads in your chest.

The first touch is electric.

His hand slides down your arm, fingers curling around your wrist. He pulls you forward — no need for words now.

“Let me show you,” he breathes.

His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. But the heat beneath it is undeniable — the hunger barely restrained.

Your body responds instantly. Your hands find his neck, tugging him closer, as his hips press flush against yours. “You’re driving me crazy,” he admits, voice rough between kisses.

His hands roam down your back, pulling your body flush against his. You can feel his pulse racing under his skin, matching your own. Jake’s lips trail down your neck, his breath hot and uneven. He nips gently at your skin, making you shiver. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers trailing fire as they explore.

“You like when I do this, don’t you?” he teases.

You can barely nod, unable to form words. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, then pulls back, eyes dark with promise.

“Then I’m not stopping.”

His hands grip your hips as he lowers you onto the floor of the studio — soft carpet, cool beneath your bare skin.

“I want you loose,” he growls, voice low and intense. You arch up, wanting more, needing to feel his touch everywhere.

His hands move expertly, undoing buttons, pulling fabric away.

“Almost touching, almost not,” he whispers. “But now, no more games.”

He kisses his way down your body, mouth trailing fire and promise, making your skin flush and pulse with desire.

When he finally enters you, it’s slow and measured — a contrast to the wild heat burning inside both of you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, hips moving with steady rhythm.

His hands grip your thighs, pulling you tighter to him.

“I want to hear you say it,” he demands.

“I’m yours,” you gasp. The sound of your breathless confession seems to fuel his fire, and his pace quickens.

“Good,” he pants. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

Afterward, you lie tangled together — sweat-slicked and breathless — the tension between you dissolved, replaced with something softer and deeper. Jake’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your back.

“You and me,” he says, voice gentle. “We’re close enough to break — but maybe, that’s what makes it perfect.” You smile, heart still racing, knowing this night was just the beginning.

psh - behind closed blinds

Every day, you sit just outside his door.

Park Sunghoon. CEO. Young, brilliant, unreadable.

He’s the kind of man people tiptoe around — all sharp suits, sharper eyes, and a voice that turns low and deadly when disappointed. But he never speaks to you like that. No. With you, it’s always…

“Y/N, come into my office.”

“I only trust you to handle this.”

“You know what I like.”

The way his words sit heavy in your chest shouldn’t be legal.

You’ve kept it professional for months. Buttoned-up blouses, tight-lipped answers, controlled gazes — both of you pretending like you don’t feel it.

But his eyes always linger.

Your fingers always tremble — just a little — when you hand him his coffee.

The air between you is always just… too close.

Tonight, it breaks.

You’re working overtime — again. Everyone else has gone home.

The office is dark except for the amber lamp on his desk.

“Y/N,” he says, standing by the window with a drink in hand. “Why are you still here?”

You blink. “Finishing your contracts. Unless you’d rather I didn’t…”

His voice drops a note. “You always stay late for me.”

Your breath catches. Something shifts in his tone — in the way he turns to face you fully now.

“Always working hard. Always so obedient. Like you’re waiting for something.”

He crosses the room slowly. Two steps. Close — almost touching.

You should step back, but you don’t. Your body’s too hot, too ready.

“Say the word,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “And I’ll stop pretending I don’t want to ruin the neat little image you’ve kept up around me.”

You whisper, “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

Sunghoon grabs your waist, lips crashing into yours with months of tension behind them. It’s messy, deep, possessive. His tongue tastes like whisky and control lost.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growls against your mouth.

“Parading around in pencil skirts like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You gasp as he lifts you effortlessly onto his desk, sweeping paperwork to the floor.

“Been watching those legs cross every day. Thinking about how you’d sound begging under me.”

His hands slide under your skirt, fingers tracing the line of your thighs.

He smirks when he finds your panties soaked.

“So wet for your boss, huh?” he whispers. “You like being good for me?”

“Yes—Sunghoon—please.”

His fingers slip beneath the lace. One, then two. Deep. Slow.

Your head falls back as he curls them just right, working you open, watching every twitch of your body.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Falling apart on my desk.”

His thumb circles your clit with agonizing precision. He brings you to the edge and stops — again and again — until you’re trembling. Whimpering.

“Beg.”

“Please, I need more—need you inside me—”

He unbuckles his belt with a dark chuckle, pulling himself free.

“You’re mine now, Y/N. No more rules.”

He pushes into you in one, deep thrust.

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as he begins to move — steady, punishing, addictive. Every snap of his hips drives you higher, deeper into bliss.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, mouth hot against your ear. “You were made for me.”

His hand finds your throat — not tight, just resting. His control. His possession. You fall apart for him with a cry, body convulsing around him.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let go. Get loose for me.”

He thrusts harder, chasing his own release, eyes locked on yours. And when he finishes, it’s with a deep, broken groan, burying himself fully inside you.

After, you’re breathless. Shaking. Drunk on him.

He doesn’t move. Just holds your hips, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy.

“I’m not sorry,” he whispers. “I’m not pretending anymore.”

You smirk, lips brushing his. “Then don’t.”

His smile is slow. Dangerous.

“From now on,” he says, “close the blinds when you stay late.”

ksn - tension in the copy room

You and Sunoo have never gotten along.

From the very first day he walked into the office — dressed too well, smirking too confidently, voice too sweet — he’s been your biggest problem.

Every meeting? A debate.

Every project? A competition.

Every shared glance? Laced with fire.

The tension isn’t subtle.

Your coworkers know. Hell, even HR probably knows.

But nobody dares to say a thing — because deep down, everyone knows it’s not hatred. Not really. It’s something else.

Something tighter. Hotter. About to snap.

It happens on a Friday night.

You’re both stuck late, finishing a joint proposal.

The office is quiet. The lights are low. And Sunoo is… annoying. As usual. “You really can’t finish a sentence without being right, can you?” you snap, scribbling edits on the printout.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he says coolly, walking up behind you. “You’re not mad because I’m wrong. You’re mad because I’m winning.”

You whirl around, face inches from his — eyes blazing.

“You think this is a game?”

“With you? Always.”

There’s a long pause.

Your breathing is shallow.

His eyes flick to your lips. Yours to his.

“You should be careful,” you murmur, voice lower now. “All that smugness might get you into trouble.”

He leans in just a little. Smirking.

“Baby, I am trouble.”

You don’t know who moves first.

One second you’re glaring — the next, your back’s pressed to the copy room door as his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tension. His hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s waited years.

“You’re so goddamn frustrating,” he growls, lips moving down your neck.

“Always walking around like you’re better than me—”

“Maybe I am,” you whisper, breath hitching as his hands slide up your thighs.

“Then prove it. Let’s see how long you last when I touch you.”

He spins you around, pressing you into the copy machine.

You gasp as his hands slide beneath your skirt, fingers teasing the edge of your panties — slow, deliberate.

“Already wet?” he whispers, smirking against your ear. “Didn’t know arguing turned you on.”

“Shut up and do something about it.”

He chuckles darkly and slips two fingers inside you — deep and perfect — making your legs tremble. His free hand covers your mouth, muffling your moan.

You grind against his fingers, desperate and reckless, the fire in your stomach building fast.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Get loose for me. Let go, just once. I won’t tell a soul.”

You come hard — right there, right then.

His fingers work you through it, dragging out every tremble.

He holds you while you catch your breath, the tension between you broken, remade into something rawer.

He finally speaks — softer now.

“You’re still a pain in the ass.”

“So are you,” you shoot back, adjusting your blouse.

“But I like you like this,” he says with a wink. “A little less polished. A little more undone.”

The next Monday?

You two are bickering again. Of course. But now? Your knees go weak every time he passes by and whispers,

“Loose yet, baby?”

yjw - beneath the surface

You don’t notice him right away.

But everyone else does.

Yang Jungwon — fresh hire, straight out of grad school, young, soft-spoken, a little too clean-cut for the sharks in this building. Still, there’s something behind those polite smiles — something unshakably composed. Calculated.

And he’s been watching you.

From day one, he sits across the room, glancing up from reports, asking sharp questions during meetings. He waits by the elevator when you’re leaving. Offers help when you don’t ask for it. Stays late when he sees your light still on.

“You don’t have to wait,” you tell him once, half-playful.

“I want to,” he answers. Calm. Steady. Like he knows something you don’t.

You’re older, higher-ranked, seasoned. You should know better.

But the way his gaze lingers on your lips when you talk…

You’re not sure who’s in control anymore.

One night, it breaks.

You’re staying late, again. Finishing reports. Filing invoices.

He’s the only one left — again.

“You always stay so late?” you ask, glancing over.

He shrugs, eyes meeting yours. “You do.”

He stands. Walks over to your desk. No hesitation.

“You don’t see it, do you?” he says softly.

You blink. “See what?”

“How hard it is not to touch you.”

Your breath catches.

He’s still Jungwon — calm, clean-cut, all manners and soft eyes — but there’s something new now. A heat in his stare. A sharpness in his jaw.

He steps closer. One hand lands on the desk beside you. His voice drops.

“You’re older. More experienced. But every time you look at me like you don’t notice what this is…”

“I do,” you whisper. “I just don’t act on it.”

“Then let me.”

You shouldn’t say yes.

But you do. With just one nod.

Jungwon’s mouth is on yours before you can overthink it — warm, open, hungry. His hands grip your waist, dragging you to the edge of your desk.

“Can I—?” he breathes.

“Anything,” you whisper. “Touch me. Please.”

His inexperience shows at first.

A little shaky. But what he lacks in technique, he makes up for in desperation.

He kisses you like he’s drowning in you — like this is something he’s dreamed about over and over, alone in his apartment, hand fisting his sheets thinking of the curve of your hips, the click of your heels, the way you say his name in meetings.

“Been thinking about you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Ever since day one.”

Your hands slide under his shirt, feeling taut muscle. He’s lean, hard in all the right places, and his hips grind against yours — fast, needily — still clothed but making you feel everything.

“Jungwon—”

“Tell me if I’m going too far.”

“You’re not.”

He bites your lip. “Then I’m not stopping”

The desk creaks. The air is thick with heat.

He pulls your blouse open, breath catching when he sees your bra.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, like a confession.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

“Beautiful.”

“Again.”

“Beautiful. So beautiful. So fucking perfect for me.”

He slips a hand under your skirt, fingers brushing against your soaked underwear, and groans deep in his chest.

“Wet for me already? No wonder you’ve been avoiding being alone with me.”

You grin, pulling his belt loose. “You were never that subtle, baby.”

You guide his hand. He finds your spot, eager, fast.

“Let me learn,” he whispers, working you open with fingers as you writhe beneath him. “Let me be good for you.”

You come hard — stars bursting behind your eyes — gripping his hair, legs wrapped around him as your body shudders.

He watches in awe, still stroking you through the aftershocks.

“God, I want to do that every day,” he breathes.

“Then start setting earlier meetings,” you say, breathless.

The next day, you’re all business again.

He walks in, suit sharp, eyes calm.

But when he passes your desk, he drops a file and murmurs, low and sinful:

“Still wet from last night, noona?”

You nearly drop your pen.

And Jungwon just smiles — wolfish. Knowing.

That soft boy you thought you had power over? Gone.

Now he’s loose too.

nrk- steps next to you

You and Riki joined the same internship program three months ago.

Same age, same title, same level.

And from day one — it’s been this.

That quiet, magnetic push and pull.

He’s not loud about it — no, Riki’s too composed for that. But he’s always watching you. Always a little too close. Always challenging your answers in team meetings just to see the way your mouth tightens and your brows raise.

“You think I’m wrong?”

“No,” he smirks, “I think you like it when I am.”

He says it low, near your ear, when no one else can hear. You roll your eyes.But your heart skips. Every time.

You hate how aware you are of him.

The way he walks into a room — lazy stride, crisp shirt sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins on his forearms. The way his gaze lingers when you speak.

There’s this spark between you two.

A thread, electric and invisible. Almost touching. Almost not.

Two steps next to each other in the hallway.

In the elevator.

Sitting side by side in meeting rooms.

One move and it would snap. But neither of you makes it.

Not yet.

Then he starts talking to another intern.

Some girl from finance. Pretty, smart, obvious about the way she tucks her hair back and leans too close.

You shouldn’t care. You’re not his. He’s not yours.

But suddenly, everything grates.

The sound of her laugh.

The way Riki leans in with that charming grin.

The way she reaches for his arm like she’s got some claim over it.

You’re not watching. Not really.

Just…noticing.

Until he glances across the office —

catches your stare —

and his smile shifts.

“Jealous?”

“Of what?” you bite back.

“You tell me.”

That night, you’re both stuck late.

The others have gone. It’s quiet. Dim.

You’re at your desk, pretending to work.

Riki walks by. Slowly. Casually. Stops behind your chair.

“So…”

You don’t look at him. “So?”

“You glared at me earlier.”

“Did not.”

“You totally did.”

He leans down — voice right by your ear.

“If you want my attention that bad… just ask, you know.”

Your breath catches.

You can feel the heat from his body.

The way his fingers graze the back of your chair.

“I don’t want your attention,” you whisper.

“Liar,” he hums. “Your cheeks are red.”

You finally turn to face him.

He’s close. Too close.

Eyes heavy-lidded.

Mouth parted just a little.

Your legs brush. You don’t pull away.

“If I kiss you,” he says lowly, “are you going to pretend it didn’t happen tomorrow?” You stare back. Defiant.

“Are you going to kiss me or not?”

He smirks. Leans in — close enough that your noses almost brush —

and then pulls back, lips just out of reach.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

“Want you loose first.”

He walks away, leaving you breathless and burning.

Your thoughts a mess.

Your skin still tingling.

The next morning?

He slides into the seat next to you in the break room.

Grinning like he didn’t just ruin you with nothing but a look.

“Still mad?” he asks, biting into an apple.

“Still cocky?”

“Only when you look at me like that.”

And the worst part?

You know this is far from over.

Because now, the string between you is fraying.

One more pull, one more jealous look — and it’ll snap completely.

And neither of you will pretend it was just tension anymore.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife

[itoshiierae]

bonten men when they get jealous (aka feral) ࣪𖤐.ᐟ

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: manjiro sano (mikey), sanzu haruchiyo, kakucho hitto, takeomi akashi, ran haitani, rindou haitani, kokonoi hajime & kanji mochizuki (mochi)

ᡣ𐭩 notes: sooo apparently… all it takes is one harmless conversation with another guy and the bonten men will turn feral. from silent stares to casual murder threats to 10k transfers like it’s foreplay — they’re all unhinged in their own deliciously toxic ways 🥵🤭 anywayyy, this is my first tokyo rev post in this blog lmao

ᡣ𐭩 cw: jealousy, possessiveness, territorial behavior, suggestive themes, toxic love energy, subtle threats, obsession-coded, emotional tension, not always healthy but always hot

✮ MANJIRO SANO ( MIKEY ) ✮

he doesn’t react right away — at least, not visibly. but the shift is unmistakable. one glance and suddenly the air feels heavier, like the room itself is holding its breath. no words. no expression. just a silent tension that warns: something’s changed. mikey won’t speak of it until later, when it’s quiet, just the two of you. and even then, his voice is low, unreadable. “…who was he?” he asks, not out of jealousy, but with the cold precision of someone already deciding what comes next. he doesn’t act unless someone crosses the line — touches you or their gaze lingers wayyy too long for his liking. then he makes his move without any hesitation. after that, he’s different… he’s clingier, always within reach your reach, a hand resting at your lower back, his fingers brushing your wrist. the weight of his presence pressed into your skin like a warning — “stay where I can see you,” he murmurs. and it’s not a request.

✮ SANZU HARUCHIYO ✮

subtlety??? oh that’s not in his vocabulary. especially not when it comes to you. the moment someone else laughs a little too loud at something you said or worse, leans in like they’ve earned the right — sanzu’s already flipping his blade between his fingers, twirling it like a game piece he’s seconds from using. “…babe, you’re getting cozy with other men now?” he asks, grinning — almost amused. but his eyes??? they burn. he doesn’t care who hears him. in fact, he wants them to. he wants everyone to know exactly what kind of chaos he’s capable of, if anyone so much as imagines you’re free for the taking. and when you try to calm him down, he only leans in closer, his voice sharp against your skin. “you’re mine, baby… don’t make me remind them.” the wildness doesn’t leave his gaze, but when it’s over, he holds your face with a tenderness that feels almost out of place. his fingers brushing your cheek with a soft kiss to your temple.

✮ KAKUCHO HITTO ✮

he wants to be above it — the jealousy, the possessiveness, the insecurity. he tells himself he trusts you. that he doesn’t need to worry. but the second he sees someone else making you laugh, sees your shoulders relax in a way he thought only he could manage, something sharp and ugly coils in his chest. he doesn’t cause a scene. doesn’t confront you in the moment, he just watches silently as he tries to convince himself that it doesn’t matter. it’s only later when it’s just the two of you, that he lets the truth slip through the cracks. his voice is soft, almost too soft when he asks, “..do you like him?” just afraid of the thought of you not wanting him anymore. if you tease him, try to play it off like it’s nothing, he doesn’t smile. he just pulls you into his arms, breath warm against your skin, and presses his forehead to yours with a tension that betrays everything he’s holding back. “don’t make me act like them,” he whispers, and you know exactly what he means.

✮ TAKEOMI AKASHI ✮

he doesn’t raise his voice. he’s careful with his words; calm & calculated, the kind that don’t leave marks on your skin, but settle just beneath it where they sting longer. it comes as a low murmur near your ear, barely audible beneath the sound of clinking glasses and laughter: “getting generous with your attention lately, aren’t you?” the cigarette between his fingers burns slow, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth like apathy but you can see it. the twitch in his jaw. the flicker in his eyes. jealousy doesn’t unravel him, it calcifies him. takeomi doesn’t confront, he retreats, pulling away before the bitterness turns sharp enough to cut. and by the time morning comes, he won’t speak of it. instead, he drops a designer bag on the bed without explanation, with the receipt still inside. “wear this,” he says, already turning toward the door. “remind them who you belong to.” you don’t ask what he means, because he already said it. just not out loud.

✮ RAN HAITANI ✮

he plays it cool. his jealousy is laced with mockery, wrapped in sarcasm and threat. he doesn’t interrupt you when you’re mid-conversation with the other guy. no — he waits until justtt the right moment, sliding in behind you like smoke, his hand settling lazily on your waist. the smile he sends the guy is all teeth and menace, like he’s seconds from sinking his teeth in. “awww he made you laugh?? that’s cute... now should I kill him, or let him live??” and when you roll your eyes already used to his dramatics, he just whispers against your neck, “just don’t forget who makes you moan.” that night, he leaves a map of you in bruises — hickeys pressed into your collarbone like he’s writing his name in code. he doesn’t need to say anything because when you see yourself in the mirror the next morning, every mark on your skin says it for him. “you’re mine. always.” and the worst part??? you kind of like it.

✮ RINDOU HAITANI ✮

passive-aggressive king. he won’t make a scene — but you’ll feel it. “oh, he’s into crypto?? groundbreaking.” he scoffs, mutters under his breath, and side-eyes the guy until it’s painfully obvious that he’s disgusted with him. and when the guy walks away???? rindou won’t even hide his grin. later, he gets tactile. possesive in subtle ways — he’ll lean closer, let his fingers skim yours under the table, his thigh brushing against yours like it’s nothing, until it’s not... and if he’s still really bothered, he’ll kiss you right there and then in front of everyone. “…just making sure they know who has your attention,” he’ll murmur against your lips, voice smug but eyes a little too dark. rindou haitani doesn’t need to raise his voice to stake a claim, he just has to touch you like you already chose him. because you did. and he’ll never let you go that easily.

✮ KOKONOI HAJIME ✮

he prefers playing the long game — not just out of strategy, but out of precision. the moment another man lingers too long, kokonoi’s gaze sharpens. you won’t hear a word but you’ll feel it; the shift in the air, the chill crawling up your spine. he doesn’t confront or question you immediately but instead, he just transfers money. “buy something that reminds you of me,” the note reads. “not him.” later that night, you find yourself pulled into his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin. a kiss pressed to your shoulder, voice low against your neck: “…you know I’d give you everything, right?” because he would. he’ll spoil you with all the things you’ve ever wanted — diamonds, dresses, a penthouse with your name on the lease, he’ll give it all. but only if you keep choosing him. and when his grip tightens around your waist, just a little too firm, you understand what he’s really trying to prove.

✮ KANJI MOCHIZUKI ( MOCHI ) ✮

he doesn’t speak — doesn’t need to; he just walks over, plants himself beside you, arms crossed and jaw tight, shoulders squared as he stares down the guy you’re talking to, daring him to try something, his silence louder than any threat. and when the other guy falters and immediately looks away???? good. mochi won’t make a scene, but the message is loud & clear: ‘back off’. later that night when it’s just the two of you, he helps you into the car with a hand on your back, gaze still stormy. “I don’t like people eyeing what already belongs to me,” he mutters — no teasing in his voice, no trace of a smile, not even the usual glint of humor in his eyes. just quiet possession. his hand finds yours on the drive home, and he doesn’t let go. not once. because when it comes to you, mochi doesn’t share.

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[wendichester]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ two winchesters walk into a bar²,

summary. making a quick stop at harvelle’s has never been more fun

pairing. dean winchester x jo's cousin!reader genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1888

notes / warnings. needless to say we're the worst cousins in the world // explicit sexual content, exhibitionism, teasing, dirty talk, power play, alcohol, mild possessiveness, dean being the cockiest little shit

ᯓ★ read part 1

You should’ve left this morning.

Packed up your things, kissed Jo on the cheek, and peeled off down the highway like you always do — wind in your hair, music too loud, heart untouchable.

But instead? You’re here.

Back at Harvelle’s. Same stool. Different outfit. Lower neckline.

You claim it’s just another whiskey before the road. But the truth? You’re here because Dean said don’t be a stranger — and your spine’s still tingling from the way he looked at you when he said it.

He’s already there when you walk in. Feet up on the booth across from him, arms spread wide like he’s posing for sin itself. He spots you, and that smug little smirk curls up slow.

“Back so soon?” he drawls, voice like warm gravel.

“Jo owes me a burger,” you lie.

He doesn't buy it for a second.

“You sure that’s all you came back for?” he asks, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s checking for hidden weapons. Or weakness.

“Depends,” you say, sliding into the booth beside him. “You still being friendly?”

He hums low. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Dean leans in just a bit — his shoulder brushing yours. “How well you can handle your cousin being jealous when she sees you sitting here.”

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “You want to mess with the girl that fixes your drinks?”

He doesn’t answer. He just tilts his beer to his lips and lets the silence burn between you like a slow fuse.

Jo’s behind the bar when she spots you two — and her expression instantly flattens. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean grins. “She missed me.”

You wink. “He’s a bad influence.”

“No shit,” Jo mutters, slamming a glass down a little too hard.

Suddenly, you're having way too much fun.

It starts small.

Dean orders you a drink before you can. Slides it across the table like it’s a peace offering laced with something illicit. His hand lingers too long when your fingers brush. He leans in to whisper something snarky — and doesn’t pull away.

He’s warm. Smells like smoke and soap and the kind of laundry detergent that makes you think of motel rooms and leather seats. His thigh brushes yours. Once. Twice. Then it just stays there.

You shift. He doesn’t.

Jo’s watching like she wants to throw a holy water bottle at both of you.

Dean catches her glare and leans closer, voice low. “She’s gonna kill me.”

You smile, all teeth. “Maybe you deserve it.”

He chuckles — and it’s dangerous, that sound. Makes your chest tight.

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs.

“You like it.”

You should’ve left. You really should’ve left.

An hour in, you’re on his lap.

Not intentionally. Not… not intentionally, either.

The booth’s too small, the group’s grown — someone brought cards and a second round of drinks. Jo has retreated to the bar like a defeated general. And Dean? Dean just patted his thigh and said, "You want room or not, sweetheart?"

So yeah. You slid in.

Now you're perched sideways across his lap, one leg crossed over the other, dress riding high and a little wicked.

And Dean?

Dean’s hand is on your thigh.

At first it’s harmless. Friendly. Maybe even gentlemanly, if you squint hard enough and lie to yourself.

But then his thumb moves.

Just a stroke. Absent-minded, casual — if casual felt like a live wire.

You shift slightly, pretending to adjust your dress. His hand follows.

Higher.

A little higher.

Your breath catches.

He doesn't look at you — just keeps talking to Ash and sipping his beer like he’s not drawing invisible circles on the sensitive skin of your leg.

And when his fingers creep even closer to the line where your thigh meets heat?

You squeeze his arm.

Hard.

He grins against his glass.

"You okay there?" he murmurs, voice like silk over sin.

You hum sweetly, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Touch me like that again and we’ll be the reason Jo torches this place down.”

He makes a noise — low and rough — like you just threatened him and turned him on.

“Wanna test her patience?” he asks.

You pause. Smile.

“Dean,” you whisper, voice like a dare, “I am.”

Jo storms over ten minutes later like she’s had enough of the flirting and the smug and the thigh-touching that isn’t subtle at all anymore.

She slaps down a plate of fries in front of you like she’s trying not to aim for your head.

“You,” she points at Dean. “Out.”

Dean blinks. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh.

“You think I don’t see what’s going on over here?” Jo hisses.

“I’m just sitting here.” Dean grins, hand now completely still on your thigh, a picture of innocent corruption. “She’s the one in my lap.”

You raise your hand. “Guilty.”

“Jesus,” Jo mutters, glaring between you both. “You’re like gasoline and a goddamn match.”

Dean leans forward, still grinning. “Yeah, but you’ve gotta admit — we make a hell of a fire.”

Jo throws her hands up. “I hate both of you.”

You sip your drink, smirking. “Love you too, Jo.”

She storms off.

Dean chuckles, soft and satisfied. His fingers trace one last teasing line just under the hem of your dress, and this time? You don’t stop him.

“You always this much trouble?” he murmurs.

You glance at him, eyes dark. “Only when it’s fun.”

He raises his brows. “And this is fun?”

“Dean,” you murmur, words syrupy slow, “this is so much fun.”

His grin goes full wolf.

“Can I make it even more?”

You barely have time to blink before his hand is on the move — slow, deliberate, fingers skimming up the inside of your thigh like he’s reading Braille in a dirty novel. You jerk, instinctively, but it’s too late — the dress doesn’t stop him. Nothing does.

And suddenly, he’s touching you.

There. Right there.

Skin to skin under the hem, where no one can see but you feel everything — the graze of his knuckles, the unmistakable slide of fingers stroking over your panties, testing the dampness like it’s a damn compliment.

You choke on your breath.

The table bursts into laughter at something Ash says. Dean just chuckles — all cool and casual, like he isn’t two seconds from breaking every decency law in the zip code.

You shoot him a look. Sharp. Wide-eyed.

His eyes flick to you for the briefest second, lazy and smug, like he knows.

He presses his fingers in.

Just slightly.

And oh — oh you’re wet. Already. Your cheeks go scarlet.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he mutters under his breath, lips brushing your ear like it’s an inside joke. “No one’s got a clue.”

They don’t.

Jo’s still at the bar, but she’s watching you like she’s waiting for Dean to try something. She has no idea it already started.

And Dean? He’s playing it cool — talking to Ellen now about hunting routes and some crap you can’t even hear because all the blood’s rushed between your legs.

You shift on his lap, trying to breathe, trying not to grind down, because his fingers are back — two of them now, stroking slow over the soaked fabric like he’s savoring it.

“Keep that poker face,” he murmurs. “Or they’ll all know how bad you want it.”

You squeeze your thighs around his hand, but it does nothing. If anything, it traps him tighter. His knuckle drags against your clothed clit and you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper.

“Dean—”

“Hm?” He’s sipping his drink again, calm as a cat in the sun.

“You’re such a fucking—”

“A gentleman?” he offers sweetly. Then dips a finger under the edge of your underwear. Just enough to make you jolt.

You gasp — and laugh immediately after, high-pitched and breathless, covering your mouth like Ash just told a really inappropriate joke.

No one questions it.

Dean’s fingers dip again.

Lower.

Skin to slick skin now, fingertips barely ghosting your folds. He doesn’t even move much — just rests there, warm and teasing, a whisper away from slipping inside.

You shiver. You want to grind against him. Instead, you sit stock still like a statue carved by lust itself.

Jo glances over.

You smile. Pink-faced. Shaking a fry like it’s your new personality.

“Everything okay?” she calls, suspicion laced into every word.

Dean’s the one who answers.

“Peachy,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “She’s just a little warm.”

You swear you’ll kill him later.

He slides one finger inside you.

You nearly drop your drink.

The heat between your legs is electric. He doesn’t go fast — just enough to remind you he’s there. Inside. Real. And you’re on his lap, legs spread, heart pounding like a war drum while he finger-fucks you in a goddamn bar booth.

No one knows.

No one.

Dean's hand stays hidden, his body blocking any curious eyes. He murmurs something about cars to Ash, never missing a beat, while his finger curls — just so — and your eyes roll back for half a second before you blink them wide again.

You’re breathing through your nose like you’re in labor. Every shift, every twitch of his hand sends a wave of ohmygod rolling up your spine.

And the worst part?

You're close.

So close.

You clench around him without meaning to.

Dean exhales — low, dark, impressed.

“You’re filthy,” he whispers. “I fuckin’ love it.”

You fist the edge of the table, lips pressed shut in a fake smile.

And then—

He adds another finger.

That’s it.

Your hips jerk just slightly. Barely a twitch. But enough that you know you’re not gonna last. Not like this.

“I need air,” you gasp suddenly, rising so fast you nearly knock over your drink.

Dean lets you go with an amused little smirk.

“Want company?”

You glare at him, flushed and trembling. “I swear to god—”

But he’s already standing.

You don’t wait for approval. You bolt toward the back door of Harvelle’s like a sinner sprinting from church.

Dean follows.

The door swings open and slams behind you — the back lot bathed in silver moonlight and shadows. The cicadas are loud. Your heart’s louder.

You don’t speak.

Dean grabs your wrist, turns you — slams you gently against the Impala’s side with a thud and a dark, dangerous smile.

“You’re soaked,” he says, mouth brushing yours.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

His hands are on you again before you can finish — shoving your dress up, dragging your panties down just enough.

“I could’ve made you come in there,” he murmurs. “Right on my fingers. Bet no one would’ve even noticed.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” His mouth moves to your neck. “But you’re the one who sat on my lap.”

You kiss him then — hard, desperate, filthy. His hips pin you to the car, and the metal’s cold but his body’s burning. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans and it only makes you wetter.

He drags a hand between your legs again.

“You want me to finish what I started?” he growls.

You nod, breathless. “Please.”

And he does.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[dxckgrxsonx]

ella. beloved. #4 i beg. your pick on who with 💛

Title: You - 0. Shitty Motel Bathroom - 1. Pairing: Jason Todd x (F) Reader. Words: 1.4k Warnings: SMUT 18+ - Mentions of Violence & Injuries. Prompt: 4) slow sex while one or both are injured (bonus points if it’s after a battle or after they’ve patched up each other’s wounds). Notes: Mags!! hi my love. this one got away with me and i only realised when i was 700+ words in and hadn't gotten to the smut part. whoops! hope you enjoy <3

****

You can’t scrub the dust out of your tactical suit.

Water sloshes up your wrists and you flinch, the long, thin gash spreading up your forearm stinging something fierce and annoying. If Alfred knew you were washing both yours and Jason’s suits in a fucking motel bathtub he’d string you up in Wayne Manor as a warning to others.

Sucks to be you, Alfred, you’ll never find out.

The second you submerged the rough fabric in the tub the colour changed. Clear, to murky, to downright swamp water; three days worth of blood and dirt and grime hooked into the fabric and refusing to come free. If your throat wasn’t bruised from a strangulation attempt hours earlier you’d tip your head back and scream.

Sprawled out on the shitty motel bed Jason naps.

Digging bullets from his body turns consciousness headlong into drowsiness. Or maybe it was blood-loss. You’re no stranger to patching up Hood when things deviate from his carefully calculated plans, and as such, you’re scarily aware of his tolerance to pain.

He says its a side-effect of the Lazarus Pit–his body deadening the nerves in response to physical trauma–you say he’s full of fucking shit because no one can sit through hours of forceps pulling bullet spliters from three different layers of skin, fat, and muscle before his souped up body knits closed the wounds.

Jason just grinned, eyes glowing such a vibrant green you’d asked if he was actually a Lantern.

The smile dropped off his face so fast you ended up with whiplash and you had to move even faster to avoid a furious headbutt. But you couldn’t escape his forty-seven minute rant about how Green Lantern is a stupid bitch.

Now, Jason lays silent like the grave, although you’ve caught his trigger finger flexing in his sleep. You hope whatever he’s dreaming about isn’t nasty enough to follow him back into wakefulness.

You give up trying to clean your suits, instead planning to fire them off into space to hide the evidence of your bathtub wash failure; in your head, you’re pretty sure Roy could invent something close to a cannon strong enough to launch things into the stratosphere, although he’d call it something stupid like: GCPD’s outstanding response to finding evidence.

Stepping back into the room you move to check on Jason and pause.

It’s a thin sheet covering his lower half–so far from the colour white you don’t want to think about it–and he’s hard.

Desire blooms against the palms of your hands at the way his cock tents the fabric.

At your staring, Jason wakes with an annoyed huff.

“Can you not stare at me?”

“I don’t know, can you not get a hard on and distract me?”

Jason locks up, then tries to sit up, but his body fails immediately, giving right out from under him. His hand tries to cover where he presses up against the sheets but it doesn’t make much of a difference. All you can focus on now is the thickness of him, of how part of his length still spills out around his hand.

You swallow and it hurts.

“You’re not helping.” Jason states when you don’t look away. “So unless you’re going to help, leave so I can get things under control.”

Your eyebrow climbs up, “Get things under control how? Your dominant arm is fucked and I clearly remember pulling a bullet from your hip, and thigh. The only thing you should be getting under control is your shitty reflexes.”

Memory surges, Jason’s body curling in on itself, leg dragging heavy and limp behind him. His helmet hid the look on his face, but you’ve been fighting beside him enough times now to read other parts of him. He was hurt, in pain, and he still tackled the body pressing you into the dirt, hands clamped tight around your neck.

“I should’ve let them choke you to death.” He says, still hard.

Your mouth quirks up, “Too late for that now. Want some help with that? I could use a stress reliever.”

Jason’s eyes search your face, the weight of his attention something physical, “You’d be doing most of the work.”

“Yeah but I’ll be on top for once.”

He sighs, settling back against the thin pillows, “If this bed breaks, you’re the one telling reception.”

“Bet.”

****

Jason pants desperately underneath you, sweat clinging to the strands of hair falling over his forehead. He won’t take his eyes off the way your pussy swallows his cock, inches sinking into your perfect wet heat and twitching.

Planting your feet, you feel the fierce burn in your thighs and fuck yourself on his length.

Beneath you, Jason moans, abdomen flexing. His hands reach for your hips on reflex and he whips back with a flinch when his wound splits and pulls, displeasure detonating across his face so quick you want to laugh.

“Fuck.” He whines. “I want to touch you so bad.”

Smoothing a palm across his chest you pinch at his nipple, “Only you wouldn’t be happy with being asked to lay there and let me fuck myself on your dick.

Your pace slows to a gentle rock of your hips, clit grinding at the base of his cock. Your own wetness gathers there, and you can feel the swell of Jason’s chest whilst he watches you smear your own juices across your swollen bundle of nerves.

“Ugh. So fucking pretty.” He says. “You’re beautiful.”

The praise has heat splashing wild, near uncontrollable, up your throat, and you lean down to kiss Jason. As soon as your lips brush he tips his head in such a way you sigh softly, the pressure of his mouth making your head spin. Your lips part ever-so-slightly and Jason–never one to waste an opportunity–licks into your mouth.

Pulling back you rest your foreheads together and despite his injuries, Jason raises his hips and fucks up into you.

“Shit.” You breathe. “Be careful, Jay. Last thing I want is you fucking up your stitches.”

Being as close together as you are, Jason shifts a free hand and uses it to trace the finger shaped bruises around your throat. Fury flashes bright and brilliant in his eyes, mouth pressing into a frown the longer he stares; the longer he watches you wince at the mere pressure of his hand.

“I’m sorry you got hurt.” He whispers, voice so low you barely catch the undertow of guilt. But you sink your fingers into the meat of it and want to weep. “I hate it when you get hurt.”

The rock of your hips falters, emotion slipping heavy across your shoulders, you cave inwards, unable to fully hold its weight. If you had been paying more attention, it never would have happened anyway and the knowledge that Jason–your perfect Jason–so full of emotion, blames himself for it?

You could start to cry and never quite stop.

“Don’t do that.” You try to say, but your voice is so swollen with emotion it hardly makes sense, “It’s not your fault. Please, Jason.”

His head shakes, hips picking up a gentle rhythm, setting the pace where you left off despite the pull at his body. Pleasure flares in your cunt, over your heart. Jason invokes such a strong sense of fondness at the middle of your chest it drives you near mad.

You’re so close to falling. Nerves strung taut, maybe a little frayed at the softness of him, but you’re ready for it; ready to tip off the edge and tumble into his capable hands.

“You’re everything.” Jason says, and he closes his eyes so you can’t see him. Something critical inside you revolts at the fact you can’t look him in the eye. “You mean everything.”

“Can you look at me?” You ask, trembling and holding yourself at the precipice of bliss. “Please can I see you, Jason.”

His eyes flutter open, a raw, violent kind of devotion curling around that mesmerizing green and you snap, shaking and squeezing at his cock, hand desperately flying to your clit to rub at it, feel it twitch fat against the pads of your fingers.

Jason watches you so carefully and you call his name, beg him to come with you, and he wouldn’t dream of denying you a damn thing.

****

[vroomvroomcircuit]

Your lipstick stain is a work of art

Summary: Lando wants to do something nice for his girlfriend on international women's day. He just can't figure out the correct lipstick shade.

Warnings: very vague sexual reference at the very end, otherwise very fluffy. Lando being the best bf

Wordcount: 1k

🏎Masterlist🏎 _____________________ It’s international women’s day. Today Lando planned to do something small and nice for all the women close to him. His mom got the biggest bouquet of flowers one can barely hold with both hands. His sisters a basket of sweets from spots all over the world. The women in his managing team got a little spa coupon, because everyone knows you sometimes need a break and get pampered when you work closely with him.

For his girlfriend, Lando prides himself, he wants to get something she talked about in passing. (Y/N) told him a few days ago that she is running low on her favorite lipstick. Unfortunately, her taste in makeup is expensive. Growing up in lower middle class, (Y/N) is money conscious.

A lipstick like that one? That’s something the young woman only gets for herself as a treat. Or one of those purchases you need to stay happy in a capitalistic system. It’s something that warrants a good reason to be bought with her hard earned money.

And Lando? He listened to her mentioning it. Made a mental note. Get that lipstick for (Y/N). Make her happy. Show her you are unlike other red-flag-boyfriends. You listen to your love.

The problem? The Brit stands in front of the seemingly endlessly long shelf, the range of shades so large and in their individualistic colors so similar, he actually doesn’t know which one to get.

How can a company get away with selling the same product marketed as something slightly different so many times? He should organize a protest about this, maybe this is a better grant gesture than the lipstick itself?

With his head hung low, Lando returns to their shared apartment, cursing, because he has no way to get his hands on the original lipstick. (Y/N) carries that one everywhere with her to be able to touch up on her makeup on the go.

Lando walks into the kitchen, wanting to at least tidy up from today’s breakfast they had together before sulking some more and thinking about an alternative. As he works filling the dishwasher, he spots the mug (Y/N) used for her coffee this morning. “Perfect!” He mutters, finding a nearly perfect imprint of his girlfriend’s lips on the rim of the otherwise pristine white cup. Pristine except for the leftover coffee marks, of course.

Quickly, Lando takes the cup as well as his other things and leaves the house again, making his way back to the boutique that sells the so desired lipstick. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed to see that the store workers recognize him from his early, failed quest. After all, Lando got back his hope.

Like he did approximately an hour earlier, Lando stands in front of the lipstick shelf, looking between the cup and the different shades. Unfortunately, he still is as lost as before too. To him, all the shades look the same. He lost his hope all over again.

In his desperation, Lando sneaks through the isles of the shop, looking for some staff that could help him. In a timid voice, he asks another young woman if she can identify the shade on the cup for him, pointing at the discolored rim to highlight his struggle.

She smiles at him, assuring the Brit that they will find the correct shade together. Easily. That this is what she has been trained for after all. The female is sure they can work out what kind of product his girlfriend favors. Lando isn’t the last man that has come to her with a request like this, nor will he be the last one.

Turns out that finding the desired lipstick between seemingly 1273 different shades of the same color takes longer than someone, especially a trained store worker, who knows their products in and out.

Over 20 minutes later, Lando had applied six different kinds of lipstick onto his own lips and pressed them to the cup. With the help of the employee, they can determine with a 99.98 % certainty that they found the exact shade (Y/N) used. The once white mug is now littered with several perfect prints of his set of lips, all in the same color, but very little variety regarding the shade.

A little bit later Lando finally leaves the store with a nicely packaged bag, that not only has the lipstick he searched for, but also with a bunch of goodies and other small products as an apology for his red lips, abused by taking off the different products several times.

But his tingly lips are worth the light in (Y/N)’s eyes as she opens the bag when she comes home from work. To see that giving Lando her heart and her trust was the right decision. That he is the kind of boyfriend her girl friends are jealous over. He is the green-flag-guy that listens to his girlfriend and remembers the little things she tells him, committing it to his memory.

As Lando retells the tale of finding the exact shade (Y/N) is using, she opens the tube of the new lipstick, admiring its perfection. While he waves his arms around, still talking animatedly, she reaches for her little cosmetic mirror. Slowly, nearly sensually, she applies the product to her lips. Making sure it’s even and filling her lips perfectly.

Lando stops his story mid-sentence, mesmerized by her precision. Seeing (Y/N) swipe the stick softly over her lips. He just watches her work. The unhurried movements, something so opposite of their usual everyday life, does something to Lando.

Her sensual movements, peeking at him through her lashes. And that color, that godforsaken shade of her lips, is the only thing Lando can concentrate on. He wants to drown in it, knowing it’s her color.

He gets his wish. Because not even an hour later, perfect lipstick stains cover his body like a work art.

[syluses]

june seems too late

caleb (xia yizhou) x female reader (mc)

for your graduation, caleb takes two weeks off to visit. things don’t go like they should.

▻ cw. noncon elements, pseudo-cest, light smut/nsfw, dark themes, caleb is a yandere what’s new, lots of pining and unrequited love, characters are 18+

▻ notes. hey yall so caleb’s mullet is actually killing me in catch-22. anyways heed the warnings & do enjoy 🤍 you can read this on ao3 (username caked) if you prefer that :3 homeboy is actually insane but i love him he’s precious . 10k words slowburn buckle up. im planning to post lotssss of caleb, raf, and sylus stuff so keep an eye peeled!! :P

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 (๑´ `๑)♡

June comes at a breakneck speed.

Before they step out the door, she’s fussing all over the wrinkle in her robe and worrying that the cap will sit weirdly on her head.

In the car, on the way there, she doesn’t voice any more of her fears lest they intensify, but Caleb spots them all as if they’re written on her face. She fidgets and does not notice the way he looks at her.

Probably for the better, he thinks.

When they part, he gives her a pat on the shoulder (as opposed to rustling her meticulously-styled hair) and tells her not to worry. She’ll do great. This is a big day for her; he pleasantly remembers his own ceremony and urges that hers will be just as smooth.

It seems good enough for her. She’s dragged off by her friend, skipping hand-in-hand, and her nervous giggles ring in his head in a building full of noisy people. It might as well be a little pin dropping in a quiet room.

Sometimes Caleb almost forgets just how much stock that girl- his precious little meimei- puts into him and his words. It stirs something tender in his heart, and then he recalls his true feelings and it twists. Twists like a knife or the bitter truth.

There’s only a couple years between them, and yet during her graduation, Caleb can’t help but feel a sense of pride tug in his chest alongside something deeply bittersweet.

She’ll for sure be spreading her wings now. She’ll for sure be leavin’ him behind.

And he’ll have to say yes to it, that it’s fine with him. Pretend like he doesn’t care. He’s got a natural talent at dissimulating his intriciate, troublesome feelings, but it doesn’t mean he enjoys it. No, sometimes he just wishes she’d… see him. See him for what he truly is and not run in the other direction screaming, who are you and what did you do to my gege?

But that’s selfish, isn’t it? He huffs with a small, wry smile.

While waiting for the event to commence, Gran eagerly watches the stage, and Caleb lowers his head.

She’ll be spreading her wings for real, an inner voice murmurs again, rubbing it in his face. And then she’ll fly away. Never come back to you. Leave our nest to make a new one.

That, oh, that thought— Caleb’s not a generally angry person, but that has choler flaring in his chest... Imagining somebody standing by her side that isn’t him fills him with a darkness he cannot label. But he’s trying to be good, a good older brother. He’s been… trying for so long, and…

Even if he knows deep down that if he doesn’t do something, she’ll fly away—

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Gran says beside him. She tucks her hand in the crook of his strong arm and he returns half the dimpled smile on her face.

Her words cannot be truer. His little sister is breathtaking; it’s the kind of beauty that will bring a man to his knees and plant soft longing in his heart. Evidently, though, it’s not the kind of beauty to bring a dog to heel…: she’s like a bowl of kibble and something rotten in him salivates at the smell of it.

It’s funny, you know, how much of a hypocrite he is. He gives her the saddest puppy eyes to get what he wants but there’s a big mean dog hiding in his heart. Barking and wanting.

Caleb curses himself. On the outside, he hums fondly. “Always. Hm… To be able to say I’m her big brother feels like an accomplishment in itself. I’m real proud’a her.”

Gran’s not looking at him; all eyes in the auditorium, including his, are leveled towards the stage and the spotlight raining over students shuffling in gowns. Caleb is thankful for that. Caleb has had a distinct self awareness since middle school, and he knows better than to let the love in his eyes- the kind that’s not entirely brotherly- reveal itself to any onlookers.

He’s kept on his toes by all the secrets he walks with. He’s kept on his toes by her.

“I can’t believe this day has come,” the elderly woman beside him (not tied to him by any biological means, but he loves her regardless) holds a tissue to her eyes and fights a teary smile. Caleb, utterly entranced by the familiar figure slowly inching closer to the podium and administrator, gives a noncomittal hum to show he’s heard, but his heart is knocking at the sight of his little sister. He can’t stop it. He can’t even slow it.

“Ah, my sweet girl…” (And why her sorrow-tinged, doting words echo some of the ones he keeps to himself, Caleb stopped caring.)

Gran, still not glancing at her adopted boy (albeit, there is close to nothing about Caleb that now resembles a boy), takes his large hand in her wrinkled one. Her free one dabs away an elusive tear.

“It’ll be even harder to see once she moves out and all. I’m sure she’ll want to keep exploring the world. I just… I just hope she visits more than you do, dear,” her voice warbles with sadness, but she’s only teasing him out of love.

A breathy, uneven laugh escapes his pursed lips. Caleb swallows thickly, “Yep. But that’s natural, wantin’ to find new opportunities and such... She’s really coming outta her shell, isn’t she? And… she’d better visit,” he says playfully, “The dinner table would feel awfully quiet without her during the holidays, huh?”

He’s not conscious of half the things he’s saying, operating under autopilot: robotically, he speaks in the voice of a teasing, somewhat protective older brother and nobody bats an eye to it.

On the inside, his feelings experience endless turbulence.

But he’d miss her if she left, that’s for certain. Words could never do him justice. He’s never exactly deserved that, though, has he?

He smiles to himself. Pathetic.

He told a nosey friend, once, that he had lost his marbles long ago. He’d said it with a smile- a genuine one, too- and as if it was no big deal. Because Caleb reconciled with his sin nature long ago.

He’s so proud of his meimei. So caught up by her.

Wants to marry her. Wants to blow all his pilot earnings on a big glittering ring for her precious little finger, wants to make all those childhood games, the ones where he played the dad and she the mom, come to life. Oh, if he’s being perfectly honest, he wants to—

“Caleb, honey, are you coming?”

A papery hand gives his bicep a gentle squeeze beneath his button-up. He’s pulled from his reveries and he blinks, noting the crowd as it begins to thin out and the stage that meimei has stepped off of. “She’ll be waiting for us, I’m sure. And nervous,” she explains with a light laugh, “but I think she’s very excited, too.”

(So excited to start your new life apart from me, huh, sis?)

The lower half of his face reshapes into a small smile as he looks down at Gran and nods with reassurance. He’s so good at providing consolation to others but somehow consistently fails to do so during his lone moments of self-reflection.

“I’d promised her I’d treat her to some ice cream at that new stall that just opened up,” he chuckles, and this time it does harbor some real mirth there, his eyes lighting, “I honestly think she was more excited for a special dessert than her own graduation.”

Gran laughs at that, too.

Then, he’s led away. Led to her and happy as a child.

After the ceremony ends, his very real fears of her suddenly leaving are put to rest for a moment when she leaps into his arms- just as she did when they were younger- and locks him in a hug.

He’ll always be a willing prisoner, in that regard. A slave to her affections and the strange sickness that rears its head in the pit of his stomach even when he tries his best to drown it.

She’s his lifering. The one thing keeping him afloat.

He looks over his shoulder, back at the shore. There’s a striking realization that he’s been dragged so far from it… And then he looks back out to sea.

Sometimes, Caleb thinks he’s closer to the point where the waves converge on the endless horizon than he is to dry land. And that’s fine with him. Because Meimei is holding his hand, doggy-paddling beside him.

He knows he shouldn’t try to drag her under. But sometimes, that’s all he fucking wants. For her to feel this way, too.

What a selfish gege.

✷✷✷

Caleb’s frame is hugged by an intense, golden light. Windchimes tinkle in the breeze and bring a nexus of soothing sounds.

The air is balmy. Unsmistakably summer.

You kick a pebble from your shoe and look over to Caleb with a small smile, his long legs keeping an even pace with you despite your slower one and all the dillydallying. The sun flares off one side of his head and it’s so bright you have to squint.

“It’s nearly time for dinner, you know,” even as he reminds you, he can’t fight off the grin playing at his own lips. It’s not exactly like he wants to truncate this moment with you, but hunger is creeping up on you both just as sundown is, and this brisk walk is urging it out. Your belly has voiced as much. After his laugh had died down, Caleb showed his concern but sighed when you brushed it off.

“It’s fine,” you tell him again. “I’m not fully dependent on snacks, you know,” and a dirty voice in the back of his head, a very dark corner, accuses, then what do you depend on? “We won’t starve if we eat one hour later... I mean, how hungry are you?” You poke.

(A lot. So much, Meimei.)

A casual smile curls his lips. Everything about him is so outwardly relaxed when he’s with you; it’d take some intense scrutiny to pick up on the little tells of restlessness he constantly shoehorns down inside him.

Anything to protect you though, right? Even if that means from himself.

He replies with thought, “Ehh… I guess walking a little farther wouldn’t hurt,” he shrugs with one shoulder, a teasing edge to his voice because those old habits die hard.

“Just don’t tell me to carry you if your feet start to hurt, pipsqueak.”

“Hah. As if! You know, I’ve been training a lot. Those hunter exams might even be harder than the Aviation’s.” Your light banter is rewarded with a small, incredulous laugh and a playful raise of his brow. Right now, he looks so boyish, youth lighting his face even as you pass under the tinsel-like leaves of a shady willow tree. “I’m serious, Caleb! My body’s probably more endurant than yours now.”

A challenge is brewing, and the signs are obvious. The anticipating glint in his eye, the slight posturing in his steps and the downright valorous grin you pin at him— all are suggestive of an upcoming game. He just has to throw his own hat over the wall to officially mark its start.

Of course, he does just that.

“Oh, really now?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle with amusement. He gives his head a tilt. “Are you trying to provoke me, sis? ‘Cause I’ll have you know that these muscles aren’t just for show...”

With a pout, you give his arm, thick and fully exposed under the frayed fabric of his tank, a harmless shove. Caleb’s heart has an anomalistic skip and his bicep tingles. It takes a considerable amount of effort to not snatch your little wrist up and force you to do it again.

“Oh, c’mon, you may be all big and strong now, but all that muscle will just slow you down.” (You’re getting him all sorts of riled up today, aren’t you? It’s good to know you look at him, that you acknowledge the man he’s become.)

“Do you wanna test that theory? We could do a race,” he suggests simply, a fluctuation of excitement in his voice betraying itself. “Because I’m ready to go right now.”

You huff, competitive as ever. “Oh, we’ll see about that!”

You roll your cropped sleeves an inch over your shoulders (as if to replicate his sleeveless tee) and Caleb watches with humor as they unfurl immediately. You dart your head around and land on a streetlamp at the end of the quiet, cobbled path.

”There,” you point, “that light over there will be the finish line. You have to touch it before the other person does or you lose. You’ll be a rotten egg.”

“You’re so childish.”

“You’re racing too, y’know.”

“Alright, alright,” he easily surrenders, lifting his palms up. Truthfully, he has no intentions of backing out now, try as he might to pretend he’s not equally invested in this as you. He sets his feet behind a crack in the paved stone, right beside yours, and nonchalantly prepares himself for liftoff. “But when I win—“

“Your toe’s in front of the line, Gege! Don’t think I didn’t see it!”

“—Don’t go cryin’ to Gran like old times and ignore me for the rest of the day, okay?”

A fleeting pink colors your cheeks, flowering across your face like a bruise at the mention. “Geez,” you deflect bashfully, “You’re so caught up in the past, Caleb.”

The accusation isn’t unwarranted. Your older brother has this strange penchant to keep all your childhood traits like a bag of tokens in his back pocket, forever ready to pull one out on a whim.

His gaze lowers for a moment at your innocuous teasing, and you watch with a mix of confusion and guilt as an offhand sadness weighs in his expression.

You open your mouth, about to find something to remedy the ever so slight shift in the air, but he lifts his head and his eyes are cheerful. Sunny and bottomless.

He looks at you infinitely. It’s as startling as it is endearing.

Your brow relaxes when you give him a once-over and sense no lingering sorrow there, or any evidence that it even appeared to begin with. Maybe it’s just the heat getting to you.

“Well,” he smiles, teasing to a fault. “You ready, or… do you plan on chickenin’ out? I’ll let you if you admit defeat right now. Otherwise, don’t be a sore loser.”

You wave him off and level your eyes forward. “Psssh, sore loser….” Thrill beats in your ears with a rushing current of blood. You plant your hands to the gritty cobblestone and lean forward.

“The moment you agreed,” your little grin sparks back to life, “you lost, Gege.”

Oh, and he is just the rotten egg, isn’t he? The perverted dud and the lying, selfish asshole.

The wormy apple.

✷✷✷

There’s just some things in life you can never quite wipe from your memory.

Here’s one: The first time Caleb was called a sister-fucker.

He remembers that day and how condemning it felt. Like he’d been made the object of some irrevocable curse. It was unwarranted, it was: some stupid playground bullies were mouthing off after he rushed to your rescue for the umpteenth time, and the word flew like a witch would on a broom. Caleb was not prepared for that stab in his little heart.

That was in middle school, and he was angry. Ashamed, too. All sorts of clashing feelings, really. Those little brats said the f-word in front of you, his innocent little meimei, and to make matters worse, Caleb was not sure if the majority of his anger should lie with their accusation or his inability to determine whether it was grounded or not.

He was hardly fourteen, then, and you were twelve. He never laid his hands on you that way. No, never thought about it. He hardly had the capacity to, at that time.

At that time.

But that moment stayed with him,… and that dirty, dirty epithet was one that remained around the block until one day something peaked in him- that shame climbing to its point- and he beat it from their mouths.

It never did end up getting back around to you. For a number of reasons, Caleb is glad for that. Just to name a couple: It saved him from the flaming red ears, and the awkward chat the bird-and-the-bees topic surely would have been.

When it got around to Gran, though…

‘Caleb, dear, is there…’ The elderly woman, for all her experience in fostering children, was not exactly sure how to broach the subject- which was oddly risqué, and downright horrifying it if were to be true- with her young boy.

But she didn’t think it was true: sure, the two were exceptionally close, she trailed him like a lost puppy and he had some underlying impulse to anchor himself beside her at any given time, but they laughed and played and Caleb was always the archetype of a- sometimes cheeky, sometimes clingy- older brother.

Their behavior was considered very normal for their circumstances, she’d thought. They seemed inseparable upon the first meet. With their close bond came the occasional spat and meaningless argument, but that only served as more proof of their strictly sibling dynamic, too.

Gran thought about it for only a moment before finding her peace, and shortly after her words.

‘Why are those boys saying such things? What did you do to make them have it out for you?’ She was gentle but firm with him. Caleb was not afraid of her; just maybe the awful, creeping feeling in his gut that told him he was in the wrong after all.

‘N-Nothin’, Gran… They got upset because I wouldn’t let them pick on Meimei… Don’t worry though, I covered her ears so she wouldn’t hear them.’

But it’s not like he ever imagined actually laying his hands on you— L-Let alone fucking. Even as a boy, he had the sound-enough subconscious to shut away those fleeting, invasive thoughts and put some space between you two when he was feeling… extra confused.

Caleb’s twenty-one now, though. And you’re nineteen and things are different. Those tender, innocent feelings of love from your shared youths- the one-sided romance of your bond- has by now fully realized itself. It’s bled out into ruby-red fingers of desire like watercolor on a page, and they grasp Caleb tight. Refuse to let go. He’s not a boy anymore. And he’s not particularly kind anymore, either. His softness is a luxury that only you’re entitled to but every touch feels like a beatdown because of it.

Yeah he might be overbearing sometimes but you’re just as abrasive. You cut him in ways you could never know.

But Caleb’s not a sister-fucker. He’s not.

And he’s not all the shame associated with that title and the big fat cluster of intricate emotions like guilt, loneliness, and terrible, terrible longing… H-He’s not.

No— He hasn’t even fucked you yet.

✷✷✷

Two weeks. Caleb is allotted two weeks off from his responsibilities at the Aerospace Academy to spend the start of summer with you.

Late June marks your graduation and the beginning of an exciting break the both of you had been planning for months to share. Between a taxing schedule and study papers that pile up if he so much as thinks about holding off on them, Caleb is a bit pressed for free time. He’d been counting down the days until he arrived back in Linkon.

Now that it’s finally here- your mini summer ‘vacation’, as you’d called it- he won’t take any of it for granted.

He’s savored every little moment with you since childhood- no stranger to the sentimental. But as you emerge from your bedroom with a cute bikini with a white frilly skirt that hardly covers your ass, Caleb decides this memory needs to be given a little extra care.

You flutter past him and down the hall, sheepishly nodding for him to follow, and he realizes he’s been staring a little too long without saying anything. He plasters on a nonchalant grin and sticks his hands in the pockets of his swim trousers. “Okay, sis…” He compliments in his tone.

“You, uh… you ready to go now?” He asks, propping himself against the kitchen arch to watch you pour yourself some water. He reminds that there’s juice in the fridge and you quickly forego the tap. He chuckles at that.

You try to hide a shy smile from him, too much energy in your heels to not sway as you move around the kitchen. There’s a small ball of nerves in your belly and you can’t help but feel a bit naked in your two-piece. You bought it because you’d thought it was adorable, but truthfully you feel a bit out of place- under scrutiny, maybe- as you uncap the fruit juice.

“I’m ready,” you announce casually. “But did you see my bathing suit?”

“W-What about it? Yeah, it… looks nice.” He answers a bit breathlessly.

You look over your shoulder before picking up your glass and marching over. His gaze flutters when you do, like he’s bracing himself for something. In stature, he’s nothing like the round-faced kid you grew up with, standing over six feet tall with lean muscle to hug his broad frame, but right now, he looks almost boyish with anticipation.

On the way to him, you stuff down that inexplicable kernel of unease. You pretend your pulse isn’t fastening, too.

A quasi reaction of fight-or-flight stirs in your chest. For the life of you you don’t know why. Maybe you don’t wanna know.

You smile. Gege, solid arms folded over his muscled chest, regards you with a strange look. It disappears under a veneer of brotherly charm— gone like a feverish hot flash of something unreal.

You stop a few inches in front of him. “See?” You chirp, piking your shoulder up for him to observe. “The red polka dots are actually apples. Since you like them so much.”

After a pause- one that seems to stretch infinitely but is actually only brief- you watch Caleb’s cheeks turn to rubies. Heat flares at his ears.

He sets his jaw and lets out a small scoff, eyes flitting everywhere. “W-What are you sayin’, pipsqueak? You got it… just for me?”

“Ugh, no, Caleb!” You giggle with a hint of disbelief. “I just thought it was cute but wanted to show you.”

With an annoyed pout, you spin away from him and head for the island. On top of it, a cooler sits, its lid open. You nurse from your icy drink as you wedge a variety of cold beverages and the sandwiches he made at the bottom.

“Yeah, yeah,” he recollects himself and joins you at the counter, coming to your aid without prompting. “Well, I think it’s cute too. But don’tcha think it’s a little… showy? I’ll be sweating bullets the whole time we’re at the beach.”

You laugh under your breath, only half paying attention. Certainly not to the intense glint in his eye as he watches your profile, anyway. “Why? And you won’t be sweating if we’re in the water.”

“I don’t want any guys gettin’ the wrong idea,” he lilts, but there’s a notable tinge of seriousness there. “Thinkin’ my pipsqueak isn’t off limits.”

A soft pink warms your cheeks this time. “It’s fine, Caleb,” you murmur, dutifully ignoring his gaze- which you are now exceedingly aware of. “Everyone’ll be minding their own business- they’ll hardly be looking at me.”

Wryly, Caleb closes the cooler and raises his brow.

“Doubt it.”

He seems as if he has a lot more to say, but apparently holds off on it.

When you return home, it’s close to five and Gran has finished her errands. She sits in the living room on the lovechair, holding a cushion on her lap as she watches the news.

You hardly have time to greet her on the way down the hall: you bump shoulders and race with Caleb for the bathroom shower. Maybe he’s going a little easy on you (per usual), but you’re too tunneled in on reaching it in time to scold him for it.

“Ladies first!” You say with victory, grinning through the crack in the door as it groans with pressure, halfway open. Caleb crams his elbow in it to show he won’t give up so easily. You’re met with his bunched brow, his sun-dried, messy hair and a grudging smile he can’t quite fight off.

“Be a good gege and wait your turn!” You tell him.

The title weakens him. His hand falters and you manage to shut the door. The lock clicks softly.

“Alright, alright,” his voice sounds muted from the other side. His footsteps, retreating down the hallway after a belated few seconds, emit defeat.

Maybe some frustration, too.

Either that, or his feet have just gotten heavy.

“But if you use up all the hot water,” he warns, “I won’t let you help me with dinner. Just remember that. And let’s be real, I know you’re hungry.”

Well, he has you beat there. Maybe he knows you just as well as you do him.

It’s an endearing thought, actually; as the warm water pours, you slough away the sticky layer of sea salt and the sand glued to it with a smile. Once these two weeks are over, you’ll go right back to your normal life: your brother will return to the clouds and you’ll have to pretend, between a steady stream of pining texts and phonecalls meant to check in on you, that you don’t miss your gege. Even if sometimes, all you want is to leap back into time and hold his hand, cower behind his shoulder to escape the daunting fear of growing up.

You have responsibilities now. Dreams you’re meant to follow. You’ll train to be a hunter and then officially enroll into their program. Caleb will become a bonafide pilot within a couple months, achieving his lifelong dream, and might leave you in his proverbial contrails.

It’ll be just you and Gran, until you pack your boxes for an apartment downtown closer to your future workplace. Family will become a distant memory, a fading speck on the horizon or a phantom pain that tugs at your heart.

But… maybe that’s just what growing up means. Letting go of everything behind you. Caleb would certainly be able to relate with the sentiment that- other than each other and Gran- there was little to hold onto in the first place.

But… You’re not so sure about all of it. Maybe you’ll have to ask your gege for advice around the dinner table. You have no clue what will happen a month or year down the line, and to be perfectly honest that terrifies you, but for now—

You’ll make the most of this break with him and Gran all together.

✷✷✷

Half of it flies by in a blur.

Movie nights with buttery popcorn and long strolls by Bloomshore turn into fuzzy lines as soon as you look back at them. Once-quiet suppers with just you and Gran are revived with the cheerful presence of your brother, and the cabinets are filled with new snacks the two of you buy on impulse to test out.

You chase him around your cozy, childhood home demanding he deletes those awful pics of you- and the woman who took you both in as children calls from the couch for him to stop terrorizing you already.

He always swears it’s in good fun, but submits to your whining. Not without a flick to your forehead, though. It never hurts, but you make sure to stick your tongue in his face.

Evenings are spent on the floor by the coffee table.

Caleb busts out an old, wooden box from the closet and speaks in a wistful tone as you pass nostalgic photos and yellowed notes between each other. You’re about to poke at him for being so sentimental, but you spot a little mist in his eyes, so you refrain.

There’s six days left, tonight.

Neither of you remind the other of this ticking clock of sorts, but sometimes it will get quiet after a bout of laughter and you think you can feel it in the blanketing tension— the wordless countdown to zero.

X amount of days until I leave for Skyhaven. And, X amount of days until Caleb leaves us again.

You can hear it snicking like a stopwatch- and not the one Caleb wears.

A fan on the floor cools the balmy evening, but just a little.

You lie on your belly- utterly stuffed from another delicious meal- on his bed while he assembles a model. It’s some aircraft that you can’t hope to remember the name of, but he’s always gravitated towards that kind of thing, in more ways than one.

You kick your feet and moan with boredom when his eyes take on a very concentrated look and he hunches over the figure in his hands. He pokes his tongue out the corner of his mouth, he’s so engrossed.

Many minutes seem to pass. “Are you almost done, Caleb? We were ‘sposed to watch a movie tonight.”

Without glancing up, he chuckles lightly. “Be patient, pipsqueak. You know, it’ll go faster if you help me out here,” he suggests, nodding towards a few wayward pieces on the edge of the mattress. He scoops them up before they call fall off.

”Or are ya just gonna watch me do all the work?” He looks up to you and smiles. It’s soft. Smitten, almost.

You huff. “Fine. Okay, I’ll help.”

“Knew ya wouldn’t leave me hangin’.”

Seemingly pleased, his purple eyes stare for a moment longer before lowering. They remind you of the nebula sometimes: all bottomless and resplendent, and sometimes they get a little starry if you catch them for too long.

You’ve seen them darken like black holes before, though; some deep chasm taking over whenever his protectiveness flares up or he asks you, with his hand held tightly in yours, who made you cry. Then, he’s a force to be reckoned with, devoid of warmth and sharp-edged.

“Caleb, can I… ask you something?”

Caleb glances up immediately. Noting the sobriety of your expression and the lack of playfulness in your tone, he gives a quick nod. He lowers the half-constructed model- the one his hands absolutely dwarf- as if it’s no longer important.

“Of course,” he says. He gives his head a little reassuring tilt. “If there’s anything you’re curious about, you can tell me.”

You let out a small sigh. “Will you visit again? Visit more, I mean?”

He blinks and appears contemplative for a few seconds. Yet, you get the strange feeling that it’s less him trying to formulate an answer and more like he’s trying to figure out just what prompted your asking in the first place.

“Sure, whenever I get time,” he answers with a simple shrug. “You know I wish I could be here all the time, sis… For you and Gran,” but mostly you, he doesn’t clarify, “but the Academy is no joke. I need to work hard if I want to get in.”

His endless scores of A’s and A-pluses reflect his convictions. It’s really only one subject he can’t find it in him to master: Those damned, annoying mental wellness checks. (He thinks that all those less than reputable scores— they don’t reflect him, they reflect you.)

He smiles. “Then, I’ll be able to really support us.”

“Yeah…” You sigh softly after a beat. “But, like… what if you stop visiting? You’ll find a girlfriend and then never come to see me and Gran again,” you mask your very real concerns with a weak laugh.

Caleb’s brow gives a little twitch.

His expression falls, then, like swirling grey clouds that nudge aside white fluffy ones. Something in your chest seizing, you understand it’s disgust that rewrites his pleasant visage.

You just… don’t know why.

“Why would I get a girlfriend?”

You stare on with confusion. For a moment, you feel stunned because you’ve never seen him make that face before.

It takes an extra second or two to lasso in your rationale and laugh. “Well, you’re like twenty-something now. Isn’t that just what happens? You’ll find a girlfriend and I guess I’ll find a boyfriend. I mean, I bet Gran will be happy too if one of us brings home some babies—“

A derisive scoff cuts you off. “Babies?” He throws back, peering up at you through long lashes. He takes on the perfect Kubrick stare.

The scathing sound of his voice and the shadowy look in his eyes is more than enough to zip your lips. “Don’t you think we’re a little too young for that? Besides, we don’t have to do anything right now… If we want to stay single, that’s perfectly fine.”

A few moments of uninterrupted silence pass and leave you with no choice but to reflect on your actions. You inwardly ask yourself if you did something wrong. It certainly feels that way.

You give your throat an inaudible clear. “I was just teasing, Caleb, geez,” you brush off his intense stare by looking down.

The aircraft model looks big and unbreakable in your grasp, a far cry from how it appears when held in his. You distract yourself from the startled beating of your heart by rotating it in your hand.

“Y-You can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

You don’t meet his eye when saying that, not when he’s regarding you like you’re little more than prey or tomorrow’s dinner. No, you don’t dare to.

Gege is reliable by nature. But you suppose he can exhibit his fair amount of ‘intimidating’ when need be.

You feel an unseen weight lift off your shoulders (when they became cowed, you don’t know) when Caleb heaves a sigh.

He’s apologetic, “Sorry, sis. You’re right. Talking about it just… freaks me out a little. I mean, I barely have the time to even think about it, let alone prepare.” He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for your input.

When you look back up at him, it’s as if nothing ever happened. As if he never changed.

His eyes beam like indigo gems, sunny and unaffected. He leans forward to pat your head and it takes a strangely high amount of effort to not flinch under the weight of his palm.

If he notices, his mild expression doesn’t betray any signs.

“Why, what’s up?” He quirks a playful brow. “You’re not… Seeing someone, are you?” Caleb questions with a light laugh, hands moving to fold over the plastic plane in his hands, though his gaze remains level on you. Glued there like he physically cannot take it off until you provide him with an answer.

“Did my pipsqueak fall in love with some boy while I was gone?”

A harsh gust of wind escapes you at that. A laugh, you realize, or what’s supposed to be a laugh. You resume inserting pieces into place, adamant on building the miniature aircraft.

Your cheeks feel toasty. He’s managed to make you feel startled, ashamed, and bashful all within the span of a minute or two. It’s as impressive as it is whiplash-inducing.

Your gege is watching you very carefully as you lower your chin and purse your lips. “No…” you say sheepishly. “If I did, I’d be spending the summer with him instead of you,” you tease.

That proclamation rings loud in Caleb’s ears like a gunshot bang.

She’ll spread her wings, and fly away.

He should be joyous that there is still an absence of that ‘special someone’ in your life, that he indeed is the one spending the prelude to summer with you.

But all he feels is a lump of dread forming in his belly.

It fattens and makes it hard to breathe. She’ll spread her wings and fly away. Leave you in her dust and all the memories. All the love.

”Yeah? Well, consider me lucky then.”

Something in his chest plummets. Too rapid to catch it. Too monstrous to hope to.

He lets it sink. Feels himself going with it. It’s getting so hard to hold out, Meimei. But don’t look at him with those eyes of wide startle. It’s still the Caleb you loved from your childhood, your beloved Gege.

Just with a whole lotta love that you couldn’t even begin to fucking fathom.

…Six days. Six days left.

He’s been granted a final, measly six days to change your mind and convince you that he’s still got a place in your life, in your heart. That it’s reserved only for him.

An uncanny smile warps Caleb’s lips.

“I’ll always visit,” he assures. “And don’t worry, sis… Once I get a girlfriend, you’ll definitely be the first one to know, okay?” He chuckles, a pleasant sound.

A pretty smile smooths out the remnant lines of uncertainty in your face. “Okay. And… I can visit you in Skyhaven, too?”

Delirious excitement blips across purple eyes, his grin too bright.

“Sure,” he cheerfully agrees. “Even better.”

✷✷✷

White dots his vision like a light leak seconds before you barge in.

That tight knot, the one that had been wrapping his stomach in threads of want and frustration and need, begins to unfurl at full pelt, and Caleb quivers as it happens.

Those academy girls could never quite compete with his pumping fist or the swirling thoughts in his head he gets himself off to. But he supposes they served their purposes where they could— in those moments of foolish thinking where he thought they could heal him and needed to at least make an attempt. To clear his conscious, if nothing else.

(Spoiler alert, a humored voice in his head says dryly. They didn’t. And of course they didn’t. They were never his precious little Meimei. That’s no one’s fault but his own for believing he could get ‘better.’

No. ‘Better’ is you. It always has been.)

He’s learned from all that, though. Played all those games- and people- ‘til they tuckered him out.

Relief bowls through him. That’s just what he needs, isn’t it? A little help. He’s never considered these short-lived sessions of fucking his fist a way to summon pleasure, no- although that is very much present when he does- but rather as a kind of damage control.

He’s too pent up and needy. He needs to take the edge off, somehow, lest some of that frustration teems over when he’s talking to you and he messes up. Messes up in a way he can’t fix.

After all, he’s entitled to his own self-soothing mechanisms, isn’t he?

Or… what, is he just meant to deny himself of that, too?

Caleb bites down on a deep moan and shakes.

Pleasure courses through his veins and builds to a high peak, certainly not one he can hope to climb down from in the short time it takes you to run down the hall and into his bedroom.

“Caleb, guess what—“

And, you know, it’s already embarrassing as is, being interrupted in a personal moment and caught in such a compromising position, but what makes it worser is when it’s your own little sister who walks in to find you with your cock in your hand.

What makes it… mortifying?

When she hears you saying her name during it.

When she gasps, her eyes losing their initial glitter as they flit down, his cock gives a shameless throb and Caleb can’t decipher if the lurch in his belly is from disgust or newfound arousal.

Either way, he realizes his nakedness and scrambles to fold the sheets over it.

(Bit too late for that though, huh?)

With labored breaths, he makes a sound akin to a whimper, voice thin and pained, and lets his jaw hang dumbly.

You seem to cotton on to reality once more, because you finally take a step back- a shaky, belated one- and begin to retreat into the sunlit hallway.

Evening casts a cherry-orange glow on the white walls that flickers when you backstep into one of the beams filtering from the window. It makes you look fiery and almost hellish. But he’s a sinner. A sinner by nature and so you’re inviting.

(And he came to terms with his sin nature long ago. Sometimes it just feels like he’s waiting on you.)

His love— so deep and fervent, spread in the pit of his being like apple seeds, tearing him apart from the core— brings endless guilt, maybe, but not regret. No, nothing is regrettable about you. And he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry, Meimei, that he’s a monstrous liar and he desperately wishes it wasn’t like this, that you could see him separate from a brother, but—

He can’t stop. He can’t stop.

And there’s a certain instant… where he’s had to pause and really look at himself and ask if he truly wants to.

What he feels for you is suffocating. Like an eldritch river beast snatching his ankle and dragging him down hopeless, louring depths. But he pictures your face in perfect peace and wears your locket close to his heart. He loves you endlessly. Would do it all for you.

Just… Maybe pretending he doesn’t feel what he feels for you isn’t apart of that equation.

He senses your departure with a stab of inexplicable panic. “Meimei,” he quickly stammers, reaching out with his free hand.

His other hand, the one with wet, dripping knuckles, sticky with his own seed, darts to hide behind him, placing a proverbial cloth over his sin.

He has half the brain that already wants to mitigate this situation as it plays out in front of him in real-time, and he’s all but praying a ‘clean-up’ of sorts is viable here...

The scale doesn’t quite seem to be tipping in his favor though and honest to God, he’s not surprised. He deserves it if anything, for being such a selfish, awful big brother. Oh, doesn’t he know.

You look horrified, and you are. It feels as if you’ve been splashed with cold water. Your chest warms like a hearth and tightens, but your limbs frost over. Icy-hot shock keeps you moored in the threshold of his bedroom door with wide, fluttering eyes.

“Wait, don’t go, i-it’s not—“

A feeble lie. Wholly unconvincing.

You’re naive to a fault, that’s been true since you were kids, and too kindhearted for your own good, but this is not a matter wherein you can feign ignorance... It’s not one where you’re running into his arms, either.

No, you look… afraid as you back away from him. Like his arms come dead last on the list of places you want to be.

Paired with the mute horror is abashment. A vivid pink glazes your cheekbones and Caleb, guiltily, thinks you look very pretty (albeit, he can’t remember there ever being a time where he didn’t think that).

You recollect just enough of your composure to pick up your jelly legs and maneuver them out.

The door clicks shut and the sound is too soft to warrant the tempest gusting through his chest. His heart thrums at racehorse speeds.

He said your name, Meimei (or more accurately, moaned it), and you heard it. He came, and you saw that, too- fountaining over the backs of his fingers like white water rapids. You… saw it all. Saw him.

A niggling feeling stirs inside him. Filthy and blinding but brief. It passes like a car in the night, there and then gone.

A voice purrs to life in the back of his head, one of greed and frustration. One of miserable longing. He listens to it for a moment, and it brings him catharsis.

The loneliness constantly enveloping him like fog at a mountain’s foot seems to thin out, but just a little... It allows some wiggle room for a warped sense of accomplishment to settle.

Because you saw him.

(And isn’t that all he ever wanted?)

Slowly, Caleb licks his dry lips and hazily notes the twitch of his cock against his wet abdomen. It’s flushed an angry red as it crawls back to life, but Caleb tucks it under the waistband of his boxers and contemplates his next move.

You’ll be in disarray, in shock, in a boiling pot of disgust and the likely, self-sabotaging questions of, is this somehow my fault? Maybe he’ll even capitalize off them— screwed-up, pathetic gege he is.

But you saw him and there’s just no denying it and now there’s no hiding place for him either. Not anymore.

This truth… you can both navigate it together.

There’s a pulsating mix of terror, guilt, and scorching excitement that takes the breath from his lungs as he lies back down. Relief moves in a thin undercurrent in his blood, reassuring him that it’ll be okay. Somehow, it will.

Little devils perch on either of Caleb’s shoulders. He feels a very odd sense of calm wash over him. You saw it. So…

Do you accept it?

He thinks you might just have to. For your gege’s sake, if nothing else. Because Meimei, this has been killing him for far too long.

Relieve him, why don’t you?

✷✷✷

His vacation of sorts is coming to a close.

Caleb blinks, and a few days scurry underfoot like mice— too quick to stop or comprehend. He steps on the tail ends of them, but they escape anyway.

You’ve been avoiding him.

Stowing yourself away in your bedroom and locking the door just in case he tries to come in; you don’t exactly expect him to come barging in like you did, especially not after what you’d seen, but you’d rather be safe than sorry.

You’re not afraid of your gege, you’re not. You never have been. But these past few days have felt nothing short of hellish.

You tell Gran you’re not feeling well when she asks why you’ve been skipping family dinners. She leaves a water bottle by the door with a tiny orange pill on top and believes you.

Sure, you told your tall tale or two growing up, and Caleb always had your back when you needed to cover up a small wrongdoing, but this is… different. To pretend that nothing is happening right now- or that it’s all fine- would be more than just a white lie.

Something is wrong with your Gege. Terribly.

You… don’t know what to do.

You love him. And you hate him, hate him in a way you never could when he used to steal your snacks as a child or conveniently forget to unlock the attic hatch.

These battling feelings only serve to complicate the situation further; your stomach is a war-ground of guilt, sorrow, and a disgust that viciously razes your wellbeing to the dirt.

How could you do this, Caleb? You think to yourself, curled up on your side, nuzzling into a heap of pillows. You’re under the illusion that this was an overnight thing. That he up and decided just a couple days ago to do the unthinkable- the reprehensible- and vocalize your name in the act. You don’t why he did it. What he was thinking. But whatever the reason could be, perhaps you don’t want to know.

Your own Gege….

Anger beats in your chest. Fear, too- making your belly toss with sickness. Now the future is more blurry than ever, and the one person you always leaned on for counsel has all but spat in your face. That’s what it feels like, at least. Like betrayal.

Hours drag by and you fall victim to endless swarms of butterflies, but not the good kind. The anxious kind. They fly in droves and absolutely piece you apart.

Guilt lances at your heart as you curse him in your head, and you hate that despite it all, you still feel the undercurrents of love for him.

For the entirety of your childhood, he was your shield. Your best friend, your protector, and the one person in the whole entire world you could always count on- perhaps more than Gran- to be there for you. Your teasing but well-meaning older brother. Now, you realize just how strong that sentiment is, because it stubbornly remains. Even now as you clench your teeth and hold back tears.

It’s buried under layers of hurt, though. A feeling of betrayal that pierces bone-deep and spreads all over.

He’s sick. Depraved. A voice in a dark cranny of your brain whispers, bitter and scared. But these new, scathing adjectives you assign your gege are just as surprising as they are uncertain, because no matter how many times you mentally call him a sick monster, your heart sings a weak song against it.

No. No, he’s not a monster. He’s your Gege.

Maybe you can fix this, somehow.

Maybe… Maybe it was a misunderstanding after all! Some rotten delusion you experienced fueled by the summer heat and the humid haze of late June. Even if it wasn’t- maybe you’d just be content to pretend it was. You’ll seal your little pinky with his and he’ll make a vow to never bring it up again; you’ll accept a lie, even, if he says it never happened to begin with.

You’ll do it. You’ll pretend. The two of you will go back to normal and he’ll leave for Skyhaven and you’ll eventually send in your final admission to the Hunter’s Association. You’ll be accepted in and you’ll forget him. Forget him until he pays his one or two occasional visits during the holidays. By that time, though, you’ll already have gotten your new place and it’ll serve as an excuse to never have to fucking see him again—

You don’t want to see him again.

A little sob escapes you.

You feel sick to your stomach. Nausea churns in your gut like milkfat in a butterbell. You shut your eyes desperately to bat away a flurry of intrusive, bitter thoughts, but it hardly works.

How could he do this to the both of you—?

Could you confide in Gran about this? If you told her, would she find help for Caleb or spank him like old times-? or would she start looking at you with cold, repulsed eyes as if it was your fault?

Is… Is it your fault?

A sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

For how gentle they are, you really shouldn’t flinch so hard.

Your breath hitches. Your fingers curl around your blankets and tighten.

“Y/n,” the voice on the other side of the door is honeyed and low. You note the sadness in it and immediately wish you didn’t as a throbbing sweeps through your chest. “It’s…. It’s me. It’s Caleb,” he sighs out. “W-Will you… let me in?”

Your response is quick. “No,” you say dully, feigning meanness. “I don’t feel well.”

“What’s hurting?” He seamlessly chirps in a light voice, concerned. You’re just thankful he hasn’t tried for the knob yet, despite knowing you’d locked it anyway. “You still have your meds out here… I guess Gran left them for you, huh? Do you want me to bring them to you—“

“Just- go away, Caleb,” you manage to say his name, but it’s in a gritted, forced breath. Something in your heart does a 180 degree twist as the title leaves your mouth. A salty tear rolls in and wets your tongue.

You take a shaky breath in and try to mask your sorrow. That’s near impossible.

“L-Leave me alone.”

A pause.

For a second, you’re almost dumb enough to believe he’s turned around and left.

A palm, large and worried, presses to your bedroom door. “Are you crying? Meimei- let me in, please,” comes his fretting voice. “I need to see you.”

Meimei. The title, once wrapped with affection and warmth, sends a cold chill down your spine. You ought to open that door just to give him a black eye and a wake-up slap to reality. He needs that— and desperately.

A wave of anger, frothy and hot, rides over that feeling of disgust- but just for a moment.

You sit up in bed and sneer at the locked door, “I need you to leave. Go, Caleb! I don’t wanna see you anymore, don’t you get it?!”

It’s a strange thing, how you’re currently blind to his expression but you can clearly imagine it regardless: anguish bunching his brow as his whole face falls. You’ve seen that face before, and now you’re seeing it in your head. It’s paired with a very real, pained sound he makes.

You hate the guilt that hits you, barreling through you at the sound of his strained voice. Growing up, there was always a reason why he called you a cry baby, why Gran told you to guard your heart. Because it’s fucking weak. Prone to your gege.

He leans his full weight against the door. Fists planted there as he hangs his head.

“Don’t say that!” he forces out. “You don’t mean it. Let me come in. I’ll explain to you what happened— a-anything you wanna know. Just…” He pauses for a moment, exasperated.

“I only have three days left to see you. Don’t leave me like this.”

Three days…

You force your eyelids shut. Your nostrils flare.

“Please,” he says, and drives the final nail in the coffin home. Your, coffin.

You’re about to get up from your bed, plastering on a cool face as you prepare to untwist your limbs from your blankets. You drag one leg up from your sheets before a mental image- one you never want to acknowledge as real- stops you in place.

(Meimei, he moans. Meimei meimei meimei, nmmph—)

You stoop your head and cry harder.

“Dammit, sis,” his voice warbles opposite the door. “Let me in, you’re not okay- don’t cry, don’t cry,” he hushes, but you cut off his tender, admittedly effective tries at consolation with a sharp shout.

“Tell me,” you grit. “Tell me you didn’t mean it! That all of it was just some- some- I don’t know! Just tell me it won’t happen again,” you whimper, “That it never did.”

“Please, Gege.”

His reply comes quick. After a loud, shuddering breath that rattles the last of your wellbeing and oozes confidence.

“No,” he says lowly, assured. “It did. It did happen, sis. It’s been happening. You just… didn’t know.”

Revulsion lands a punch to your gut. Direct and vomit-inducing.

“N-No—“

“I’m sorry,” he interjects sadly. A very deep convinction bleeds into his words a second later, though, strengthening them. “I never meant to hurt you. But I don’t regret the way I feel. I love you, Y/n. I love you more than you could ever know. So… let me in. C’mon- Let your Gege see you just one more time, or will you send me back to Skyhaven without so much as a goodbye?”

Furious, you shout for as loud as your frightened throat will allow.

“NO! Leave, Caleb! I don’t wanna see—“

The door makes a sound. It echoes around the four walls of your cozy bedroom and you watch in mute horror as the knob, with the tiny slat lock and all, begins to turn.

Without using his hands, Caleb pushes the door open with his Evol.

He takes a proper moment before stepping in- almost as if preparing himself- something flashing across his face before withering away. You think it takes some piece of him with it.

But when he does take that first stride in, you get the cold, unshakable feeling that he is no longer your Gege, not anymore.

Some monster in him has been fully realized: it’s sloughed its skin- the sweet, doting face of your older brother- like a snake and embraced its scales. It can only crawl on its belly and it only crawls towards you.

(And now, all there’s left to do is place that apple in your hand—)

“It’s gonna be okay, sis. I’m right here. Gran doesn’t have to know. And if she finds out- it doesn’t matter. I’ll take you someplace else. Fly you far away, if I had to—“

“C-Caleb, stop,” as he nears your bedside, you demand your legs to move but they won’t- anchored in place like bags of sand. Tears path down your cheeks and put a chink in his armor; his brooding face faltering.

You know, just between the two of you, growing up, he was always a bit soft, too.

“It’ll be just the two of us and no one’ll lay a hand on you, I pinky promise. I’ll be a pilot within a month and get you anything you could ever dream of,” his quivering lips curl into a smile- a genuine, manic one- as he takes your smaller hand in his own and kisses the back of it.

You try to tug it away to no avail. You suppose he was right, a handful of days ago, saying his muscles weren’t just for decoration. If he wants to overpower you, he can, and that’s a terrifying thought you don’t want to believe in but it’s looking like you might have to grow out of this blind trust you always held for him. It’s looking like there’s no better time to start that than now.

Your lungs heave, “Caleb, what are you—?”

“Remember, when we were younger? you’d called me selfish once or twice,” he chuckles, a light sound. “And you were right, Meimei. I am selfish. But you should take a page from my book sometime, too. I’ll let you, ya know. Just say the word, and—“

Panic taking control of you, you regain feeling in your bones and launch a foot at him.

It’s seized, instantly. Suspended in midair— floating unnaturally without so much as a touch or grab. He’s holding it up, keeping you pinned beneath him, with his gravity manipulation skill and you realize with another sob that you cannot escape your Gege, not in heart and not in body, not ever.

His eyes trail to yours after a thick moment, indigo irises dancing with darkness, impatience, and the smallest beat of hurt. As if this pains him more than you.

What an asshole. A lying, selfish— manipulative asshole.

The sweet, kindhearted boy Gran raised to be your brother—

“Are you… tryin’ to hit me?” he laughs, lifting a deceptively flippant brow. “Hm, that’s alright. I can tell what you’re thinking, Meimei, that you don’t recognize me at all right now, right..?”

His fingers, long and slim, do close around your floating leg, then. They draw your calf to his face and he peppers a chaste kiss to it. It lingers and makes you feel sick— butterflies erupting in your stomach at the way he looks up at you, lashes framing a reverent look that borders on delusional.

Mortification settles when you realize they’re not just the anxious kind, those butterflies: Your body seems to be just as traitorous as the brunette hunched over you.

“But it’s me, Caleb. Your own gege,” you wonder if it’s a scoff, the little breath he looses, or something else, but he appears almost disappointed with himself for a fraction of a second—

Gone.

“So let me take care of you. If you don’t let me now… you’ll just be delaying the inevitable. Might as well just… rip the bandaid off, right? It’ll be okay, just have a little faith in me. I- I can’t keep pretending anymore. But it doesn’t have to end with you crying,” he reasons with furrowed brows, hands descending to pin yours to the bed and entwine your fingers with his. He hovers over you and nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, sighing with deep content. It’s a mockery of a lovers’ embrace.

But to Caleb, it’s the real thing.

“I want us to be happy. Just let go, Meimei. Let go and let me take care of you. I… always have, haven’t I?” He murmurs, lips planting a kiss- the first of many- to the thumping column of your throat.

(—All there’s left to do is place that apple in your hand, and watch you take the bite.)