#even if you know it's only a simple mistake

[salem-s]

FINAL ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, flufffffffff, angst if you squint, smmmmmuuuutt (unprotected...everything so don't take after them please). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 13k. legit do not say anything. this was originally 4k words but i obviously couldn't let that happen for the last chapter. so. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. please see the note at the end of the chapter!! ── SERIES MASTERLIST ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER the only exception by paramore

Rafe swears he hears pounding on his door.

He takes an ear bud out, trying to discern if the noise was real or a part of the song he’s currently listening to. After a moment’s silence, he moves to put the bud back in but one, two beats later, the knocks sound again, confirming someone is at his door so late into the night.

Irritation bubbles in his chest.

Rafe’s been at these stupid memorization cards for what feels like hours, getting nowhere close to being ready for his eight a.m. exam. His mind has – obviously – been elsewhere for the betterment of a week, and he'd be lying if he said the attempt in drowning himself in work has properly distracted him from the events of last week.

Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and it's only getting worse.

Especially now, as the handwriting on the paper started giving him a headache hours ago, so he begrudgingly put on his glasses that he refuses to let see the light of day. The specks, unfortunately, do assist in not making the letters blur together, especially when he’s so tired that his gaze falls in and out of focus.

However, he hates them so goddamn much that it only worsens his already sour mood.

But now they aren’t the only annoyance of his night.

The fact that someone is ferociously pounding on his door only augments his headache, his frustration, and his precariously bubbling temper. He glances at the time, nearing two in the morning, angry that someone has the audacity to not only interrupt his studying, but probably everyone’s sleep on his floor, careless to rhyme or reason or simple ethics. 

He wastes no time standing so quick his chair nearly falls over, stomping over, a long list of curses and horrific things to say are on the tip of his tongue, ready to viscerally berate this person until next Tuesday.

Rafe whips the door open. “The fuck is the–”

His words die in his throat when he sees you.

The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs.

Your hair and makeup are done, as if you've just come from somewhere, adorned in one of his favorite tank tops on you and jeans that hug you too tight to be anything holy. You peer up at him with wide eyes at his harsh words, hugging your basically bare frame in a feeble attempt to warm yourself from wherever you just came from.

God, you look beautiful.

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at you and giving you space and all that, but all of that fades in an instant when he notices your arms coated in goosebumps and your teeth slightly chattering.

Something ugly brews in his chest, discomforted by the thought of you bracing the cold all by yourself. Where is your jacket?

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he grumbles, ushering you into his room without a second thought.

In an attempt to regain his cool, he frowns to keep up with his indifferent demeanor since he's supposed to be cordial and all, even though the mere thought of attempting small talk with you settles a kettlebell in the pit of his stomach. His heart aches looking at you, because you're simply a walking reminder of how he fucked it all up, said the wrong things and came on too strong with poor timing, a reminder of what he could've had if he was a little more patient, more calculated, less stupid in his endeavors.

Because the past week has been absolute torture for him.

He learned very quickly that almost everything around him reminds him of you: books with an aged spine and annotations adorning the wrinkled pages, simple parts of nature that resemble the color of your eyes, strangers hugging, the mere smell of eucalyptus, everything all at once. The day he got back, he went to the liquor store with Elliot in an attempt to distract himself, but it proved fruitless when he found himself wandering idly in the wine aisle, frozen in place when he found the same bottle that you snagged two of after that grueling dinner with your family.

From that point on, Rafe really only stayed in his room unless it was absolutely necessary to leave.

But it seems as though even the confinements of his room don't provide the solace he's been desperately seeking, as the knowledge of how your room shares a wall with his has been plaguing his conscience. There have been countless times where he's debated saying fuck it, knocking on your door, and begging on his knees to have you in his life again, but he knows he can't do that.

He needs to let you come to him, to not bombard you as he has before. That was what scared you off, his forwardness, so he's vowed to keep cool, keep a distance, and keep quiet as much as he can to give you the space you need.

So, he knows he needs to remain stoic, indifferent, guarded.

Reminding himself of this, Rafe hands you a hoodie off the back of his chair. “Did you lose your key again?”

The sound of his voice is so nice to hear, so refreshing, and you nearly sigh as you hug the hoodie close to your body before pulling it over your head, relishing in the way it smells like him, in its warmth as if he was just wearing it moments ago. Pathetically, you nearly sigh at how it feels adorning your body.

“I left my purse at Elliot’s,” you whisper, hugging your body. “Since when have you had glasses?”

Rafe freezes, forgetting he had them on. 

Ignoring his pink cheeks and ignoring your question, he moves on, putting his guard back up.

Quickly.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, so he reels it in. “Uh, it’s late. I have an exam.”

You frown at the considerable distance he’s put between you, but part of you really can't blame him since you were the one who orchestrated the falling out.

“I won’t…I won’t take too long. I just need to know if…” You trail off.

How on earth are you going to go about this? Especially when his stare is so piercing, as if he's looking right through your body and into your soul, brows pinched in what you assume is irritation at your stammering.

“Know what?” he drawls out.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, gaping to try and find the words. You shiver as you recover from the chilly walk, but also at his stare that you can’t quite make out the meaning behind. Is he mad? Irritated? Relieved to see you? You hate how you can’t tell.

But you take a deep breath.

You know how he feels about you, you know all of it, despite this front he’s wearing right now. If Elliot can confirm it, it must be true. 

And as if you needed the extra push, your gaze drifts slightly beyond him, fixated on his desk and noticing the sprawl of papers, his computer open to an online textbook, and notecards that have almost perfect handwriting etched onto them. What gets you, though, are the five almost professional looking photo prints laid out side by side across the top of his desk.

All of you.

You in the distance teetering your balance on a particularly precarious rock in your private cove. You walking up the dirt path to your nonna's cottage with the mountains behind you. You holding a hand up in an attempt to block the lens as your body adorns a hideous dress you only showed him for shits and giggles. You leaning forward to do your mascara in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall, wearing the perfect beaded dress. And, finally, you sitting alone in the garden chair in your nonna's yard, the moonlight hue behind you as you read your book, unknowing to his presence from the kitchen.

Just above his desk, just hovering over the photos, is his ceramic fish hanging on the wall, one of his only pieces of decor in his entire room.

Rafe follows your gaze with confusion, and his posture stiffens when he realizes what you're looking at, what you discovered. Instantly, he frowns as he side steps just enough to block your view of the photos, of the fish. But the damage has already been done, and your breath hitches as you immediately get the confirmation you need to open your heart up.

All of a sudden, you're blurting it out. 

“Elliot told me what you said to him.” The lack of clarification has Rafe raising a brow, to which you add, “About what happened with Yara.”

Rafe’s breath hitches. 

“Is it true?” Your voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like you. 

“Which part?”

“All of it.” You take a cautious step closer, the tequila running through your bloodstream giving you the confidence. 

Rafe doesn’t answer, instead he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes trail down your body in calculation, gears working overtime in his head as he soaks in your words, the sliver of desperation coating your tone, the way you're playing with the hem of his hoodie, your brows etched in slight worry as you anticipate his response.

Then, it clicks with him, eyes slightly widening at the realization. The reasoning behind your acute coldness towards him wasn’t out of unrequited feelings, but rather the latter.

You cared too much, felt too much. 

The thought gives him whiplash. You must've seen him and Yara in that godforsaken closet and gotten the complete wrong impression on the matter. His heart fucking lurches at your wordless confession, and no wonder you were so apprehensive about his words, about his intentions, and pushed him away at every single opportunity that presented itself because of a stupid miscommunication, because of her stupid actions.

“Is that why you were upset?” He takes it further and steps closer. “At your nonna’s, you said you were upset about something that made you tell your mom about us. You saw us? In the closet?”

Suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you. 

“Is that why?”

You can’t speak, not while he’s practically caging you in, standing so broad and tall in front of you that it renders you speechless. He faintly smells of shampoo, an intoxicating scent, and you can almost see yourself in the reflection of his thinly wired glasses, only shielding his bright blue eyes through shiny glass. His hoodie swallows you whole, and you're grateful for the extra layer that feels like it’s warding off the vulnerability you're reeking of.

All you can manage is a small nod. 

Rafe clenches his jaw, and a part of you fears you've said the wrong thing. 

But then his eyes immediately soften as he brings a hand up to hover over your jaw, almost in muscle memory, as if he's been paining him to not do so, to not touch you.

For fuck's sake, he almost looks relieved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nearly snort at the simplicity. For a number of reasons, really, but the biggest one comes first.

“I was embarrassed. I thought you didn’t mean what you said in the ballroom.”

Your voice is so quiet that you almost think he doesn’t hear it, especially when he gives no reaction for a few seconds.

Then his palm is pressing harder, fully allowing himself to touch you. And, god, you can't help but lean into the embrace with a long sigh through your nose, not breaking eye contact with him as his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, over the wound that’s practically all healed with little to no remnants of the disaster that occurred in that bathroom all that time ago. 

A flicker of pain etches over his face at the reminder of the cut, of what your own mother did, but then his eyes trail back up to meet yours, now glossing with certainty.

“Nothing happened with Yara,” he reassures firmly. 

You nod, sure of yourself now. “I know.”

“All I could think about was you.”

You can’t breathe. 

Cautiously, Rafe leans down to test the waters, and once you make no move to pull away from his touch, he indulges in his endeavors to brush his lips against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“About your pretty smile.” He pulls back to move to your other cheek. “Your pretty laugh.” To your forehead. “About how being with someone else made me sick.”

The air escapes your lungs. 

“I meant what I said.” Rafe pulls back so he can meet your eye, a flicker of worry glossing over his pretty eyes, but nonetheless filled with determination. “Every word.”

You can’t help your second nature and let a sliver of panic let up. 

“I thought you didn’t want to date in college.”

The excuse is meek, you know that, he knows that. It’s a last ditch effort for him to truly understand what he’s getting himself into. 

But he's serious. Not a fraction of uncertainty glosses over his pretty features, or give you any shroud of doubt that he didn't mean what he said on that ballroom floor. With the firmness of his palm against your burning skin, the narrowed yet softness gaze in his blue eyes, and the way his other fingers on his other hand twitch in your direction tell you all that you need to know: that he's fucking missed you as much as you've missed him.

And – normally – that thought would scare you and send you running for the hills with a heartbeat too erratic and a mind too gone, but now it only solidifies you, grounds you, keeps you tethered to the boy standing in front of you. He's handing you a proverbial knife and hoping you don't stab him with it, and you have once before, but now you don't dream of letting it happen again.

“I didn’t,” he confirms cautiously. “Not until you showed me what it could be like.”

If it’s possible, you lean further into his touch, frowning in your overwhelming blossom of emotions. The thought of being wanted by someone settles a foreign feeling in your gut, wavering between pride and uncertainty. 

“I want you, too,” you whisper, nearly sighing at how he visibly relaxes at your words, but your voice remains shy. “But I’m scared.”

Rafe pinches his brows in the slightest at your tone. “Of what, baby?”

The words die in your throat.

The list is endless, really, piling with a million excuses that only grow by the second. Where can you begin? How the idea of someone wanting more than just your body is evidently unheard of? How the concept of more implies putting up with the ugly parts of life, the parts you push deep down and never let see the light of day?

Your hands find his unoccupied one, holding onto your lifeline as if it'll fucking kill you if you let go. 

“I don’t know how to be more than just…a body.”

That makes him frown. Immediately. 

Despite it, you continue.

"All my life, I've just been..." You try and find the right words, avoiding his eyes and looking down at your connected hands instead at the weight of your upcoming words. "I've never been wanted, or yearned for, or anyone's first choice. It's really hard for me to believe that someone...that you...would want me..."

Rafe reels.

Have you really thought this entire time that he’s only here for the sex? That that’s all you're good for? All you're worthy of being loved for? 

How can you not see how much more you are? How much you mean to him? Don't you know that you occupy his mind at every waking moment? That you're the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning to the last thing he sees at night, and how he shuts his eyes when he’s alone and pretends you're right there beside him, holding his hand or scratching his back or playing with his hair.

Don't you know how much he loves you?

“Sweet girl,” Rafe murmurs gently before leaning forward, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug that makes you oof against his chest, getting pulled taut against him. “How can you say that? How can you even think–? When I can’t even–” He grips you tighter. “Fuck.”

Your confusion is through the roof at his desperation. “Rafe, are you–”

“Do you even know how much you mean to me?”

That silences you. 

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” he says in a wrangled breath. “Ever. I don’t know how to trust people. I don’t like to and I don’t know how. But with you, it’s never felt easier.”

A large hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and your heart lurches when you can feel a slight tremble. 

Especially when he murmurs your name so quietly, so ardently, that you can't help but just listen.

“You’re so much more than a body.” Rafe’s voice is quiet yet firm and it makes you fumble at the sincerity. “You’re smart. You remember things better than anyone I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t admit it, but you’re actually sweet. You take care of things and people you deeply appreciate. I’ve never seen someone so delicately handle a ceramic fish before.”

You shakily chuckle against his chest. 

“And the thought of not being around you anymore really scared me. And even if you...didn't feel the same," he says low, "I wouldn't have minded, as long as I could be in the same room or exist in the same friend group, it wouldn't...matter. As long as I could still see you.” 

Rafe finally relents on his grip, pulling back a fraction and taking his hand to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him and face the ferocity of his words, as if they didn't just fucking crush you in a way you've never felt before. 

“I liked being with you.” His stare is piercing. “Existing together. Doing all of it.”

You hum. On instinct, you reach up to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Rafe’s heart pounds. “Tell me,” he says, voice dripping in desperation. “Tell me it was real to you.”

You nod instantly. “It was real. All of it.”

He sucks in a breath at the verity, and goes to say something else but you don't let him, instead pulling him down to kiss him. 

And, god, it’s exhilarating. 

All of your fears, all of your doubts, all of your uncertainties that plagues yours and his heart, mind, soul all fly out of the window. You can finally lean into one another without the steel weights cursing your shoulders or the cage locking in your hearts. The kiss is a wordless promise, an oath, a safety net. 

His hands are everywhere instantly: arms, waist, face. Not an inch goes unnoticed as he finally, finally can touch you again, feel you again, hear you again. Your hands trail up to the nape of his neck, holding yourself here in his arms as if to remind yourself this is real and happening. He’s here, right here, and he’s not going anywhere, nor is he letting you go anywhere. 

As much as it scares you, the tension in your shoulders slowly release. 

You slowly back him up until his knees hit his desk chair, Rafe taking the hint and sitting down and wasting no time to pull you into his lap. It's muscle memory at this point, molding yourself onto his body. You both sigh at the sensation of the familiarity.

Straddling him, you place your hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt as his hands trail up and down your side, settling under your – his – hoodie and skimpy tank top to feel the ridges of your ribcage, a connection he's been yearning to make ever since his hands left your body last. His palms are hot against your icy skin, sending a plethora of goosebumps up your spine.

Rafe simply stares at you, watching you admire the planes and grooves of his shoulder muscles, his biceps, anything you can get your hands on to make up for lost time spent pining in silence.

When you finally meet his eye, you shyly smile when you notice him already shamelessly looking right back at you. 

One of your hands cradles his jaw, fingers gently skimming over the lenses of his glasses. “I like these.”

Rafe groans, rolling his eyes and darting his gaze away. “I hate them.” 

“Why?” You nudge his cheek to force him to look at you. “I think they make you look handsome.”

“They make me look stupid.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. They're glasses."

"Still stupid."

"You should wear them more often,” you demand lightly.

Rafe frowns. “No.”

“Well, don’t they help you see?”

“Obviously, but–”

You smile, and he’s having trouble focusing. “Then case closed.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet girl,” Rafe warns.

There’s no backbone to it. 

“Don’t sweet girl me,” you warn right back at him. Then, quieter, “Why didn’t you bring them?”

Instead he cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Are you really that interested in my optical choices or is this your sweet little way of getting in my pants?”

You snort. “We both know I don’t have to be sweet to get into your pants.”

Rafe laughs boyishly and you love the sound. But he’s still avoiding your question. 

“Answer.”

“Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Okay,” he huffs playfully, “I didn't really have to bring them. I only need them when I’m reading or writing a lot. My eyes get tired.”

You pout endearingly. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard–”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” You lean forward and press a slow chaste kiss on his lips. 

Of course, he can’t even fathom pulling away and mmrphs low into your mouth, leaning up to chase your lips again for another kiss when you lean back. You hum at his neediness, but giving in anyway and slightly parting your lips to give him all the access he wants.

Rafe wastes no time in doing so, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck to guide your movements as he lazily makes out with you as if he has all the time in the world to do so. The warmth of his mouth, his body, his palm nearly make you melt in your very spot, a wave of relief washing over you.

You decide that you love this spot right here on his lap. Your favorite seat. Your throne. 

When you happily hum again, Rafe kisses you harder, squeezes a little harder. 

“God,” he mumbles against your lips, “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The possessiveness makes your stomach pool with pride. All his. All yours. No one else's but each other's.

You can’t help but tease him. “I don’t remember you asking me officially.”

“You’re still mine.”

And Rafe kisses you again. Harder. A mark of his words. 

“Say it,” he demands quietly against your lips. 

And you just fucking beam. “I’m yours.” Your fingers splay through his hair. “All yours, Rafey.”

Scoffing, he turns his head away as you chuckle at his reddening cheeks, peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw, lips, anywhere available for you to coat in markings of you, you, you.

“Stop calling me that,” Rafe murmurs, but loses all the edge in his tone because the feeling of you pressing your lips all over him sends his mind for a loop.

You simply hum. “No. You have so many names for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you like those.” 

“Who says I do?”

“Be so fucking for real.”

The laugh that escapes your mouth is loud and boisterous, probably waking up someone on your floor. But Rafe can care less because the sound is music to his ears, despite you jesting at his expense. Shit, you can make fun of him all you want if this is how you're gonna react, smiling and sitting pretty in his lap whilst drowning in his clothes, kissing him like he hung the stars himself. 

You playfully slap his shoulder. “Whatever. But I’m still going to call you–”

“No.”

“Yes. When you’re least expecting it.”

Rafe hums low, a warning.

Shrugging, you suppress a smile. “What? I gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Shut up.” Then, softer. “C’mere.”

You laugh incredulously. “I’m already here.”

You nearly have the gall to laugh again when he ever-so-slightly pouts, but it all dies in your throat when he’s tugging you impossibly closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and broad on your back. It takes you one, two seconds to register his actions, and you find yourself melting at the notion of Rafe Cameron hugging you.

It feels so achingly familiar that you can’t help but sigh in contentment, letting your eyes shut for a few moments as you feel his chest heave in and out with his low syncopated breaths. 

Your heart lurches at the action, pressing yourself impossibly tight against him in fear he's going to disappear if you inch back even in the slightest. He takes a particularly deep breath, one of relief almost, your chests brushing together even closer than before. It makes you hum, pressing another kiss to the soft skin on his neck.

You speak before you register it. "Thank you."

His hands gently rub up and down your back. "For what, baby?"

"For..." You swallow the lump in your throat. "For not running."

Your words make him frown, and he eases you back so he can look you in the eye, confusion glosses over his features as one of his hands reaches up to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him when you turn your head away in embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "Gonna take a cavalry to get rid of me."

A smile twitches at the end of your lips.

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, letting it linger there for a moment before moving back up to meet your eyes, but before he can do anything else, you're already leaning in and severing the distance.

Rafe's large hand holds you in place, reciprocating your kiss with more fervor than before that makes his breath hitch. Your hips barely – just barely – move in tandem with his that has his hand gripping your waist, stopping your moments immediately.

You lean back at his sudden apprehension, almost shy. "What?"

"Don't- Don't do that," he answers meekly.

Of course, you've never been one to listen.

You roll your hips again.

His other hand leaves your face to grab your waist, both of his palms and all of his fingers digging deep into your flesh to cease your movements. His face is uncharacteristically scrunched in pain at the reluctancy of initiating what he's been dreaming about since the last time you had him.

You notice immediately. "What's wrong?"

Rafe's eyes dart between yours, sucking in a breath as he looks at you. "I don't want to hurt you again."

The words confuse you. Tilting your head to the side, you try and rack your brain on where this sudden approach is coming from, where the sudden apprehension stems from. The expression on his face tells you that he's holding back, he's pained, haunted by something you can't conjecture.

"You haven't hurt me," you tell him earnestly, a little confused, but one-hundred percent honest.

He furrows his brows. "...The day of the wedding?"

What?

You only look at him in befuddlement, mind trailing off when you replay the course of events of the day in your head. The only thing that would pertain to his words was when he fucked you deep and rough that morning because you asked him to. It had felt good. Too good. It was when you realized you were in too deep and it scared the shit out of you.

"Rafe," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He looks pained even repeating it. "You cried. After we..." He shakes the thought away. "There were teardrops on your pillow."

The confession makes your heart skip.

That's why he was so weird with you for the entire day? Why he kept himself at an arm's length and could barely look you in the eye when you lounged together on the beach? Because he thought he'd hurt you? Made you cry? When you were upset for the complete opposite reason?

You frown at his anecdote, hurt that he's had to carry this miscommunicated guilt with him for a week, unknowing to the real reason, and under the complete wrong impression of your feelings.

Before you know it, your hands are reaching up to cradle each side of his face tenderly.

"That wasn't because of you," you whisper ardently, almost pained that he's been thinking that the whole time. "Not at all."

But Rafe doesn't seem to believe that. "I was too hard."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head to emphasize your point. "No, you were too gentle."

That makes him furrow his brows.

At his silence, you continue with a deep breath.

"I thought that if I asked for it rough, it would let me get over my feelings for you, to remind me that it had to just be sex." Your voice is impossibly quiet yet firm. "But you didn't treat me like another fuck, you made sure I had what I needed, said all of these beautiful things, treated me impossibly gentle afterward."

The pad of your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.

"I cried because I was scared," you admit gently. "Not of you. Never of you. But of my feelings. You didn't make it easy for me to try and stop liking you."

A smile twitches at the end of his lips.

"So," he says quietly after a moment, "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head earnestly to confirm. "No. I'm sorry that I let you believe that you did."

His eyes blink, soaking in the weight of your words with a slow nod, the gears in his head turning as he gradually lets himself understand that it wasn't his hands that orchestrated your tears. He didn't hurt you. You are fine.

"You're okay," Rafe drawls out cautiously. "Right?"

Your nod is immediate. "Yes. Always with you."

That seems to make the tension in his shoulders release bit by bit, relaxing under your touch and allowing himself to believe you, believe that it wasn't what he thought it was, believe that he didn't hurt you.

"Okay?" You ask gently, confirming that he understands what you're saying.

Now he does, nodding against your touch and letting his hands experimentally skim your waist, easing up on his grip, and letting them venture over the smoothness of your skin. He waits a beat for you to pull back, to tell him to stop, but you don't.

Instead, you press yourself down onto him, making his breath catch.

It's out of clarity, certainty, especially when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss on his lips, a confirmation of your truth. He leans up to chase your mouth, and he's successful when you close the distance, allowing his tongue access to your mouth as teeth clashes against teeth, a wave of passion emerging like a tidal wave at the notion that he didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you.

"Fuck," Rafe mutters against your lips when you roll your hips once more. "You're going to fucking kill me. I swear."

Experimentally, he grips your waist and moves you back and forth against his already hardening dick, and when you don't pull back or voice your discomfort, he allows himself a deep exhale, allows himself to soak into the moment, allows himself to enjoy the feel of you, you, you.

"I missed you," you nearly whisper before you can stop it, the vulnerability feeling foreign on your tongue. "Missed this."

Rafe groans against your lips. "Me too, baby." He kisses you again as you moan quietly into his mouth as he continues guiding your movements against him. "Let me show you, mhm?"

Anticipation pools in your stomach, blossoming in your gut and sending warmth down to where your body touches his.

You're barely nodding before his hands venture down to your ass, holding you taut against him as he stands, your grip tightening around his neck like a koala and wrapping your legs around his middle. In seconds, your back hits the mattress, his knee is slotting between your thighs, and his lips are on yours again.

It's so familiar, so achingly familiar that you cannot believe you went so long without it, without him.

You arch into his chest, bodies molding together as puzzle pieces connect. A hand flies to his hair, tugging the strands gently that makes him omit a low groan into your mouth, one hand shamelessly groping one of your breasts under his hoodie and the other bracing himself over your body, barely hovering.

Rafe pulls back just slightly, a flicker of irritation coating his pretty face as he leans up to take his glasses off, ones that have slid down the bridge of his nose just enough to annoy him.

But you react before you realize it.

"Wait," you say, leaning up a tad for emphasis, a hand coming up to cradle his face and gingerly skim the metal as he freezes. "Keep them on."

A teasing smile twitches at his lips. "Seriously?"

You sheepishly nod, biting your lip.

Rafe stares at you for a moment, amused gaze darting between your eyes at the request.

"Please?" You add sweetly.

The scoff that leaves his mouth makes you suppress a grin, knowing how that one word makes him feel and using it to your advantage. He shakes his head in disbelief at you, but his faux irritation proves to be fruitless as a smirk can't help but grow on his lips.

"Can't say no to that, hm, sweet girl?" He murmurs, half in playfulness and the other half in adoration.

You shake your head slowly at him, your grin fading into something shy, as if asking for what you want proved to be difficult.

But he wouldn't dream of denying you that. Ever. Especially when you asked so nicely, so sweetly, just for him. Who is he to say no? Hell, you could've asked him for a car in that same tone and he wouldn't hesitate to ask what color, make, and model.

So Rafe indulges your request, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose and leaning down to connect your lips for the umpteenth time, nearly grinning when you let out a satisfied mmrph at him letting you get what you want. His hands are everywhere they can reach, groping and mapping out the curves of your body and nearly moaning at the softness of your skin.

"Can't believe you're mine," he murmurs against your lips, sending a shockwave down your spine as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "All mine."

"Yours," you whisper sultry, needy, desperately, nearly bucking up into him.

Rafe's eyes roll back at the sound of it, pushing the hem of your – his – hoodie to reveal your chest, and you sit up to aide him in taking it off. The act is deliberately thorough, as his calloused palms smooth over your skin, gingerly pushing it up over your head. Your tank top is next. Then, your bra. Then your jeans. Before you know it, you're almost completely nude, simply left in your light blue underwear and exposed in the cool air of his room.

All he can do is stare at your bareness, letting out an appreciative hum as one hand grabs a breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple that causes you to sigh deeply, eyes raking from your stomach, to your chest, and eventually back up to your face, where you peer up at him in anticipation. His hand gropes you meaningfully, as if he's studying the feel of the swell in his palm, relishing in your warmth.

"You're so beautiful," Rafe admires gently, almost to himself, before leaning down and taking the other breast in his mouth.

The words make your heart skip a beat, but you shove down the feeling as you arch into his mouth that licks and bites and sucks against the soft skin, a hand in his hair to keep yourself grounded, keep yourself tethered to him. No inch of your chest goes unnoticed, untouched, ignored.

Rafe is thorough in his appreciation, and as lovely as it is, you're growing impatient with need as you writhe underneath him.

"Want you," you whine under your breath, not like he can hear you anyway as it comes out as an incoherent babble, but figuring it's better than saying his name over and over like a mantra, but it proves fruitless when he albeit hums. "Rafe?"

"Yes, baby?" He asks lazily in between kisses as if he has all the time in the world.

"I want... I..."

He etches lower and lower on your body until his mouth is ghosting over your clothed cunt, a low hum emitted from his mouth as he presses a kiss against the wet patch on your underwear, greedily inhaling and exhaling hot breath that makes you squirm. By the looks of it, he's pleased at the sight of you eager for him, ready for him, squirming for him.

Instead of responding, he licks and sucks against the cotton of your panties, against the spot he knows makes you crumble all the same. You moan raggedly, almost embarrassed at the volume given the fact that you've just started, given that he's doing this over your clothes.

"Words," Rafe mumbles teasingly, the baritone of his voice vibrating your core with such fervor that it makes your back arch and your fingers grip a little harder in his hair. "What d'ya want, hm?"

"You," you manage to say, breathless and writhing. "Need you."

His nimble fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down achingly slow until they're fully off, discarded somewhere carelessly as he resumes his position between your legs, taking in the sight of you: so pretty looking down at him, cunt glistening with need, face flush with anticipation.

One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as his mouth ghosts over your core.

"You have me," is all he says before closing the distance.

You moan at the contact, as his tongue plunges deep where you need him and his nose brushes against your clit. The taste of you has him groaning into your heat, the rumble causing your eyes to roll back at the sensation. The sound is obscene, especially when he eats like a starved man, like he's been depraved of his favorite meal, like he's ravenous.

"Taste so good, princess," he practically moans into your heat.

It's almost unbearable. You've been so worked up this past week at the thought of him, the thought of never being able to make things right, the thought of losing something you can't help but love. The wave of relief that washes over you only augments your pleasure, because your worries dissipate and you allow yourself to enjoy this, enjoy him, enjoy what he can give you.

One of his hands venture up your body to grab a breast, as if he can't allow his hands to be unoccupied, to not feel and dote on you with every fiber of his being. The added pleasure makes your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you whisper so quietly that it's barely audible.

Your other hand covers his, gripping the back of his hand and squeezing tight to wordlessly reciprocate your want, your need, your appreciation.

His other hand comes to aide his mouth, maneuvering his body so he can both use his fingers as they glide in with ease, and his tongue that can't bear to separate just yet. It makes you whine so beautifully that his hips stutter forward against the mattress, groaning low into your cunt at the sudden sensation.

As Rafe sucks and laps and fingers you so brazenly, you let out a ragged breath at the plethora of pleasantries, suddenly hit with how nice everything feels, how the combination of his mouth, plunging fingers, and the hand fondling your breast start the familiar coil bubbling in your core.

"Fuck," you curse at the intensity, and how quickly it builds. "Please, I-I-"

Your hips writhe under his touch as you let out a particularly broken whine, chest heaving as you get closer and closer to your release.

"I know, baby," he murmurs low, almost strained.

Gasping, you momentarily lose breath at the speed of it, gripping his hand that's on your breast tighter, affirming how quickly you're approaching your high with your body language, one that he seems to understand quite well, something he's come to know better than a lot of other things in life. He's well versed in your tendencies, a pride he wears with his chest.

"Rafe," you whine as your orgasm comes closer, and closer, and closer. "I'm-"

You don't finish the sentence, and you don't even hear if he responds, because your orgasm hits you so quickly, so blindly, that your back arches off the mattress, a tidal wave of ecstasy flooding your veins and searing hot in your core. Your heartbeat is up to your ears, and he could be saying the secrets to the universe and you'd simply have no idea. It's pulsating, inebriating, because you don't hide behind a curtain of shame of how much you need him, not anymore, and that makes the release tenfold.

Despite your writhing hips, Rafe is able to lap up every drop, groaning deep into your cunt at the taste of you, of how nice you feel against his fingers, against his tongue, how pretty you sound as you let him hear you louder than ever.

Lazily, he licks and sucks you through the aftershock, nearly grinning at how your thighs tremble against his head and your ragged breaths ease from the intensity. Your thumb rubs absentminded circles on his hand, a gesture so fucking sweet that he reciprocates by placing a chaste kiss against your cunt, eyeing it for a moment as a brief goodbye before he sighs a hot breath against it.

"You did so well, sweet girl," he praises, trailing kisses up your body while turning his palm in your hand to gingerly lace his fingers through yours, squeezing once, twice, three times until his mouth is against your neck, sucking that sweet spot that makes you shiver.

You practically shake underneath him, still attempting to return to planet earth.

Rafe's nose nudges your jaw. "You okay?"

You exhale a noise that you think is affirmation, but frankly you're still trying to screw your head on straight after hearing your heartbeat in your ears, shuddering under his grounding touch that sends electricity through your already amplified veins.

"Yes," you start breathlessly, "I-I've just been– my brain– I couldn't... I need to..."

Rafe's face is suddenly inches from yours, practically beaming down at your incoherent babbling with a knowing glance, one that affirms just how nice he fucks you (your words, not his, as you've so graciously told him once). It's proving true now, as he takes in the sight of your gazed expression and bleary eyes, chest swelling with pride.

Watching you attempt to figure out your words all breathless and pouty, he can't help but let his gloating simmer into something more affectionate, something softer that he seems to only reserve for you. It's fascinating to see you like this, completely unguarded and fucked out and beautiful, nonetheless.

"Couldn't what?" He eggs on, heart blooming at the state of you.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter absentmindedly as you slip your hand out of his to paw at his chest, still recovering from the dizziness of your brain, movements sluggish as you reach down for the tent in his sweatpants while your eyesight slowly returns to normal. "C'mere, I–"

"Easy," he drawls out amusingly, taking the trembling hand that reaches for his dick and lacing his fingers through yours instead. "You're shaking."

You blink through your frustration, your vision returning (almost). "I'm not– I– You're being withholding."

His grin is impossibly wide. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "I'll give you another, just catch your breath, yeah?"

Your struggle is obvious, and your desperation even more, because you've missed him so fucking bad and all you want to do is feel him irrevocably, completely, ardently. The realization is pathetic, you know, but you figure that you're past the point of being shy, especially with him, who has seen you at your all.

You frown, spluttering, utterly flustered at his nonchalance, especially when his unoccupied hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, running the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth. "Wh– No, I don't want another, I want–"

"You don't want another?"

Groaning, you flush under his piercing stare. "No, I– Ugh, Rafe. I want you."

"Me?" Rafe repeats in faux surprise, brows raised playfully. "Could've just asked."

You roll your eyes so hard it only makes you a little more dizzy, trying really hard to appear angry but it goes nowhere when a hint of a smile ghosts your lips. And it only grows when he leans in, placing a long, chaste kiss on you, and you melt into it when you taste yourself, lungs wound tight. You figure you can breathe later.

He notices immediately, pulling back with a boyish chuckle that makes your chest feel funny. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

"Do it again," you mumble shyly, eyelids heavy with desire. "Please."

And he does. Immediately.

You albeit whine into his mouth as he reciprocates the noise at the sound of it, squeezing your hand once more and the gesture nearly kills you as you practically pout into his mouth at the sweetness of it. With your mind airy and lungs breathless, all you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, how he kisses you, how he touches you, how his voice sounds reverberated against your body.

It's incriminatingly intoxicating to be surrounded by him in all of your senses: his hand laced in your own, his breathy whimpers against your lips when your hand trails to the hem of his shirt to brush against his bare abdomen, teasing the waistline of his sweats. You're caught in a whirlwind of him, drowning in his scent and caged in by his arms.

You realize quickly, as you've noted before, that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He pulls back, and you're about to protest until you see he's moving to take his shirt off in one swift motion, sick of the cotton barrier between your chests. As he begins to take his sweats and boxers off, you sit up, idly waiting for him as you tuck your legs underneath you. The sight of his cock hard and aching, dripping pre-cum off the tip, has you shamelessly staring, as you let out a small breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Rafe notices your change in position, patiently waiting all pretty and breathless and brazenly looking at his dick, and he can't help but tilt his head and stare at you with an amused gleam in his eye.

When he makes no effort to move, your eyes travel back up to meet his to see that they're already staring at you, a piercing gaze that has you biting your lip at the notion of being caught.

"What?" He asks teasingly, searching your face for any indicator of what you want.

But you're apparently good with your words now, or at least better than before.

"Wanna ride you."

The sentence makes Rafe scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head at you as he runs a hand through his hair, practically in awe of you, of your words, of how good you're being for him tonight, how you're starting to ask for things. It makes his chest swell with pride, proud that you feel comfortable enough around him to start voicing your needs, your wants, things that he'll give to you in less than a heartbeat.

Nonetheless, once he's learned how to use his brain again, he leans forward, turning his body so he's sitting up against the headboard and extending an arm for you almost immediately.

Which you graciously take, gripping his forearm as you crawl onto his lap, sucking in a breath when his dick is the only thing in between your two stomachs. You can't help but stare down at it, bringing a hand to grip his length like you've been dreaming about for days, letting out a deep sigh that makes your hot breath fan over his tip.

Rafe lets out a low moan, gripping your hips impossibly tight as he watches you spread the pre-cum off his tip with your thumb, spreading it down his length and jerking him off at a painfully slow pace that nearly has his hips bucking at the sensation of it. The sight of your hand wrapped around him nearly makes his brain shut off, dumbifying him to the point where all he can do is pathetically whine as you hold his dignity in the palm of your hand.

A particular tight squeeze makes him tense underneath you, eyes screwing shut for a moment to compose himself as one of his hands leaves your hips to wrap around your wrist, stopping your movements altogether.

Your head whips up, pouting. "What?"

Rafe just shakes his head, almost pained as he can't even get the words out.

But you understand him, and you pout. "But I want to."

"Sweet girl."

You hum, looking back down as you feel his hand push your wrist down, down, down until, with some adjusting, his cock is sliding in between your folds.

The sensation makes you both moan shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as your eyes roll shut. Your stomach pools in warmth for the anticipation, especially when your hips rock back and forth against him to coat his cock with the remnants of your previous orgasm, mixing it with the pre-cum that you graciously spread on him. The feeling, almost on command, makes him practically shudder underneath you.

Rafe whines out a curse, and if you weren't so light-headed you'd think he's begging. "Feel so nice already, making me go crazy."

Frankly, the stubborn part of you wants to elongate this as much as possible, but as you feel your prior orgasm practically dripping onto his length, it's clear that you're in no position to withhold him from experiencing the same euphoria. All you want to do is give back what he did for you, how he made you feel, to wordlessly tell him how much you appreciate him, yearn for him, want him to be taken care of.

With shaky hands, you guide his cock to your entrance, not wasting another second before you're slowly sinking down onto his length.

"Shit," he murmurs shakily against your lips, his grip iron tight on your hips – borderline, your ass – as he feels you lower inch by inch. "Oh my fucking god, holy fuck. Taking me so goddamn well."

It isn't until you feel him fully bottom out when you're letting out a ragged breath, one that you were unaware you were holding at the intensity of the feeling, of the stretch, of how much more you can feel him in this position, his cock hitting places unknown as you still on his lap, soaking in the moment of simply being full of him, relishing in the notion of how nice it is to be in your favorite spot.

Your arms sling around his neck, draped over his shoulders to impossibly taut yourself to his chest as you place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he can't even reciprocate because he's still sharply breathing, still not over how well you're taking him and how perfect you feel around him. It's, understandably, making his brain all fuzzy, and all he can try and concentrate on is not coming in this given moment.

So, no, he doesn't kiss you back. He can't.

Instead, he shakily exhales against your lips, gently shaking his head when you cheshire-cat grin at him, attempting to roll your hips in retaliation but his grip on your hips is iron. Part of you relishes in the marks you're going to wake up to, imprinted by him, and greedily want to and move again to get him to dig deeper, to be able to feel the reminders of him in the morning.

You try. He holds you still even harder.

"Just- Fuck," Rafe groans. "Gimme a minute, wanna feel you."

You pout, ignoring the way your heart thumps at the simplicity of his words, yet find yourself obeying. Leaning back a fraction, you take a moment to take a selfish peek at him: blue eyes blown black with lust, hair falling onto his forehead in messy waves that you brush back gingerly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose that you fix silently, lips parted and swollen from all the activity he's been engaging in with them.

He looks unequivocally fucked out. You assume you look equally as such.

Without thinking, your arms retract from their position around his neck, slithering up the sides of his neck and letting your hands cradle each side of his jaw, holding his face in place as your thumbs absentmindedly trace circles, squares, triangles on the soft skin. You simply stare at him, admire him, wait for him to give you the green light to continue moving.

And Rafe doesn't think he's ever been held like this before.

It does something irreversible in his chest, a pang of an unknown emotion jolting through his skin like electricity as he simply sits under your touch, teetering between wanting to explode with admiration and shutting down altogether to sulk in the feeling. He's sure you have no idea what you're doing to him, and whether you mean to or not, he's sure there's nothing better on the planet than this, than the feel of you wrapped around him, holding him, grounding him.

His hands move up and down your spine, tracing vertebrae bone by bone in a delicacy he never knew he possessed. As his heart pounds in his chest, his mind morphs to mush, and the only thing he can conjecture is that he is, irrevocably, yours for the rest of his life. There's frankly no doubt about it, and the thought makes his lashes flutter shut to truly soak in the physicality of it all.

He feels you place a feather-light kiss on his lips, and before you can pull back to continue to give him the moment to gather himself, he's chasing the kiss and closing the distance again.

This time, Rafe's the one moaning into your mouth, especially as you accidentally shift your hips when kissing him back. At the slight movement, his impatience is suddenly through the roof as his hands venture down to your ass, slowly starting to guide your motions up and down, back and forth, taking him in ways that has his eyes rolling back.

Your thighs aide his movements for about a minute, but soon begin to tremble as your bounces get needier, kisses become breathless, sighs turn into whimpers. Calloused palms roam the entirety of your body, groping and rolling the flesh of your ass in tandem with your movements, slithering up your ribcage to squeeze and suck on your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies connect to press a firm thumb on your clit.

That right there makes you whine so gutturally deep where his hips unexpectedly jerk into you, his cock – somehow – burying deeper inside you to a spot unreached before.

Rafe moans your name like a mantra, like it's the only word he knows.

It makes your brain fuzzy, as your neediness takes over and your conscience is on autopilot. You say something, but it comes out like an incoherent babble, something insignificant and probably pertaining to how good he feels, as you continue to shift your hips up and down to take his full length, lift up to where his tip barely pokes out, only to sink back down onto him again. Over, and over, and over.

Your arms sling back over his shoulders, lazily linking behind his neck as one of his hands snakes around your back to pull you impossibly closer while the other works your clit, thumb pressing on it so firmly that you momentarily see stars at the ferocity of it all. Nails scratching the smooth skin of his back, you almost break skin at the attempt to pull him closer, as the need for more, more, more stems from the coil beginning to rumble in your stomach.

"Rafe," you gasp, sucking in a breath as you feel the familiar sensation bubbling. "Feel so full, feels so good."

"You feel like a dream," he mumbles shakily against your lips, hips jerking up into you as you recognize that he must be close. "Never gonna– fuck. Can't believe you were– and I was– oh my god, oh m– You feel so fucking nice– I'm gonna–"

Your chest is light, core on fire. "Something's– I feel– I–"

For a second, your eyes roll back as a searing hot sensation floods your lower half, and you momentarily only see white as you feel your body practically give out and lean forward onto his, gasping into the crevice of his neck as his hips slam into you from underneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades as firmly as you can muster with your little-to-no strength in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Your whines are loud and straight pornographic at the branding fire feeling in your cunt.

Did you just come?

Given the heat overwhelming your core and the bundle of nerves shooting electricity through your veins, you think you just did. With your heartbeat in your ears, the sound of Rafe's shameless moans feel like they're underwater as you're practically putty in his grasp, both of his arms bear-wrapped around you as he thruuuuusts up into you with such intensity, such fervor, that you think he just came, too.

Spots blur your vision as you moan into the hot skin of his neck as he fucks you through your orgasm, only now feeling the hot spurts of his cum gushing into you with every upwards thrust of his, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be full of him – to be really full of him – as the sensation is burning hot and tempestuous and everything you've needed.

Your chest heaves at the intensity, clawing at his upper back for some sort of leverage that you're not sure will do anything to aide your limp body. His hips grind up into your core, and once you gain some sort of semblance back from practically passing out from the orgasm he just gave you, you realize he's been speaking the entire time.

You happen to catch the tail end of his words.

"–ve you, I fucking– I– fuck-" Rafe whines, and the sound vibrates your lips that are pressed against his vocal cord. "It's like you're made for me, feel so fucking nice, so pretty on top of me, I– fuck. How could I– When you–? With the–? Oh my god, oh my fucking god."

All you can respond with is a low moan, overstimulated as you come down from your earth-shattering orgasm as he fucks himself using you through his, his cum leaking out of you and spilling down your thighs and onto his lower stomach. The sight of it makes your breath hitch, breathless at how much you both came at the same time.

His bucking gradually ceases, becoming less and less grandiose and eventually settling in stillness as his chest heaves against yours. You register his hands trailing up and down your back soothingly, lips pressed to your hairline and placing chaste kisses with sweet nothings riddled between them. Your eyes flutter shut, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck that makes goosebumps adorn his arms.

The two of you sit like this for a minute, mentally coming down from the daze your simultaneous orgasms put you through. Once your vision returns to normal (i.e. you're no longer seeing stars every time you open your eyes to try and look at him), you gently press the palm of your hands to his shoulders, pushing yourself up off his chest to sit up and find some semblance of independence.

Your brain is foggy, no doubt, as you hazardously sway as you blink at him, heart racing as you discover he's already looking at you.

"Holy shit," you murmur, dazed and fighting exhaustion.

He exhales shakily. "I know."

You manage a wry smile. "That was-"

"I know," he repeats bashfully, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to push his glasses further up his nose, letting your fingers dwell on the metal sides before bringing it down to cup his jaw. It's as if you're a ghost in your own body, feeling airy and light yet wrecked all the same, shaking as if you've been left in the freezing cold with no amenities, shaking as if he just gave you the best orgasm you've ever had.

Noticing your frailness, you laugh in a self deprecating way. "I think I passed out."

Rafe exhales a shaky chuckle, one of disbelief, as a hand travels up to the side of your neck, keeping your head in place from all the swaying. Though a flicker of concern coats over his eyes at the hazy smile you're flashing him, eyes blinking ferociously as if they're regaining sight.

It makes him frown. "Did you? Are you okay?"

You nod, lazy yet immediate. "Uhm, did you hear me? I think our neighbors are gonna kill us."

A boyish laugh escapes his lips, and he lets himself ease into the fact that you're fine, you're smiling, you're gazing at him like he hung the goddamn stars himself.

His thumb brushes a tear from the corner of your eye, one that you didn't know you had, humming low and sure as his eyes rake over the features of your pretty face. Now, you're left in the stilled silence of your own doing, basking in the aftermath of your actions, of the words that led you to this point. Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerability, knowing it's more than sex, knowing that what you're feeling right now – the gravitational pull towards him – is reciprocated, especially as his gaze softens. It's replaced by something deeper, more raw, cut open for you to do what you please.

The intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch, and, despite literally what just occurred, a wave of shyness overcomes you, averting your gaze down to his chest.

But in your bottom peripheral, you catch a glimpse of the fucking mess.

Your eyes widen, looking down to where your bodies connect. "Oh my god."

His gaze follows lazily, glancing at the sight with nonchalance for his soaked bedsheets, suppressing a shit eating grin as he continues to see small amounts of cum still dripping out of you, as if there's an endless supply of it inside you, continuously adding to the plethora of a mess on his (freshly washed, by the way) bedsheets.

You blink stupidly, attempting to fathom the sheer amount of mere sex all over your lower bodies, all over the sheets, some of it even grazing his abdomen. How did that even get there? How could the two of you produce that much? And – oh, god – is it ever going to come out of his sheets? Fuck, is it leaking through?

But he has no qualm with the matter, and instead beams at the fact.

"That was all you, sweet girl," he teases with a hand skimming the faint bruises starting to form on your hip. "You came so hard. You squir-"

Your hand comes up to cover his mouth.

Your face scrunches up in embarrassment at the word, because you fucking hate the term, and frankly assumed it was a myth for the longest time since you've never done it before, nor have any of your friends. Yet your heart thumps at the possibility that – most of – this mess is from you.

No, it couldn't be. It can't be.

Because if it is, he is never, ever going to let you live it down, and you can count on that for a fact.

Eyeing him quickly and feeling your face flush as he stares right at you, eyes twinkling with amusement, you remove your hand from his mouth and ring your fingers together, looking back down to the sheets with a dismissive scoff.

"I did not," you argue meekly because, frankly, you have no idea if you did or not. You don't even know what that was. "This is all yours."

Rafe's grin is blinding, teasing, fucking proud. "You totally did. Went everywhere, baby."

Face flushing, you groan and throw your hands up to cover your face, hating how hot your skin feels at his laugh and complete nonchalance over the matter.

"Fuck," you murmur as you take in the sight of it. "Are you serious? But I didn't– I don't even– How could I–?"

Instead of answering, he whistles low. "Holy shit, you really did pass out, didn't you?"

You refuse to answer, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth as guilt riddles your chest for ruining his sheets. Expensive ones, at that. You're assuming it has a crazy thread-count imported from god-knows-where, as he's the person to get the best of the best of material things as long as he has the means to obtain them. You've always liked sleeping in his room on the random occurrence it would happen, partly because his bed is always so damn comfortable, the sheets definitely having something to do with it.

"I'll wash them" you offer quietly, slight panic settling in now that you're – somewhat – back to normal and coherent enough to register that this is a problem. "I'll buy you new ones-"

But, of course, Rafe simply shakes his head, pressing his palms against your spine to lure you closer, letting the words die in your throat as he tugs you against his lips. He kisses you slow yet meaningful, a wordless promise that he's not mad about something like this, he's not even concerned, barely letting his beaming smile falter at the thought of having to clean it up. He's only thinking about you, you, you.

"No need," he murmurs against your mouth, still fucking grinning. "I'm framing and putting this shit on my wall."

You groan at his words, cheeks unabashedly hot.

"Gonna time-stamp it and everything," he adds just to be a prick. "Wave it around like a flag, and shit."

You want the ground to swallow you whole. "Stop."

"Wear it like armor."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hot. I mean it, baby. I'm gonna get you to do that every time."

"Rafe."

"What?" He says incredulously as if it isn't the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. "You can't expect me not to go crazy over that, hm?"

You only shake your head at him, but you suppose if the roles were reversed, you'd definitely feel an inclination to drawl out the teasing to a T. After all, riling him up is one of your favorite past-times, as riling you up actually might be his number one.

Eventually, you secede. Especially when he threatens you with another orgasm.

After he cleans you up and delicately dresses you in his own clothes, with wobbly legs you attempt to help him strip the sheets (even though all he told you to do is sit at his desk and look pretty, which you wholeheartedly refused to do) and replace them with his spare set. In an effort to get your shit together, you use the communal restroom to wash up, taking one of his spare toothbrushes – because of course he has one – and using it. He goes into the restroom across the hall, stating he was bored of being alone, to freshen himself up.

When you return to his room with him hot on your tail, you slither back onto the clean sheets and settle under them as if you were made to lay there.

Getting comfortable, you quietly watch him resume his tasks of the night: organizing his notes, taking off his glasses and leaving them askew – to your utter dismay – as his shirt and sweatpants follow, leaving him in boxers, and finally turning off his desk lamp as he navigates through the dark and and climbs into bed beside you. 

It’s muscle memory the way you puzzle-piece your way into each other’s arms. Rafe tugs you impossibly close, placing a chaste kiss on your hairline as your hands splay across his bare chest, nearly sighing in relief at the familiarity. It's unfathomably inviting, it's cloud nine, it's home.

When he starts to twirl your hair with his nimble fingers, you sigh again.

“Tired?” Rafe murmurs gently. 

All you do is nod against his neck, placing a ginger kiss on his vocal cord.

He hums at your sweet gesture, nearly melting at the implication. “Okay, sweet girl. Go to sleep. I'll be up early tomorrow but you can sleep in, m'kay?”

Tomorrow. Early morning. Notes. Glasses.

Fuck. Exam.

Your eyes flutter open as you remember his night before you arrived, all the papers scattered on his desk, the reason he was wearing those godforsaken glasses in the first place, the open textbook on his computer, the entire reason he was up so late in the first place.

A kettlebell settles in your gut.

“Wait.” Rafe hums lazily in response. “What about your exam?”

With a chuckle, he nuzzles into your hair, unbothered.

“Baby, if I don’t know it by now, there’s no use.”

Part of you feels guilty. Guilty about plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a week and – no doubt – pulling his focus from his studies and all of the important shit going on in his life. Guilty about arriving at his door in the middle of the night and – again – pulling his concentration from what he needs to pay attention to in order to get the marks he needs to pass.

Guilty about everything you've put him through, him, Rafe, your Rafe, who's been so patient with you in your journey of self discovery or whatever bullshit.

“I can help,” you offer weakly, as he rubs soothing up and down your back. “I’m a good teacher.”

Rafe chuckles quietly and you nearly frown, unsure of his nonchalance. 

“Best teacher I know,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and baritone and it practically lulls you to sleep. 

Your eyes are already closed. “Let me help. Please.”

“Very sweet of you. Go to sleep.”

“‘M really smart. You said so.”

“I did.”

You yawn. “What’s the class?”

Rafe doesn’t answer for a minute, and you soon believe he falls asleep. But then, quietly, “Art history.”

Your heart flutters. “I know about that.”

A warm hand rubs up and down your back. “I’m sure you do, baby.” Then, it cradles the back of your head in brazen laziness. “Sleep.”

His voice emulates a lullaby, low and alluring and smooth. Impossibly, you nuzzle closer to him with a stupid smile on your face. Grinning against his neck, you press the lightest kiss you can muster as your hands gently skim over the hills and divots of his chest, grounding yourself, a reminder that this is real. He’s here, right here, holding you, reciprocating your love, your want, your need. 

“Stop smiling,” he says above you, but his tone is far from authoritative. Instead it’s softer, as if he’s suppressing a smile as well. “I can feel it.”

You squirm when he pinches your side, reciprocating the act and attempting to tickle him, but he doesn’t budge in the slightest.

Suddenly, Rafe grabs your wrists lightning fast and pins them high over your head, the motion forcing you on your back as he hovers over you. Despite the darkness, you can feel his face inches from yours, breath fanning over your lips. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to sleep,” you challenge. 

Rafe snorts. “You’re being a brat.”

Ah, that word. That sort of behavior has gotten you in trouble before, and the thought of annoying him makes you grin even harder. 

“Rafey, that’s hardly nice.”

The guttural groan he lets out makes you laugh quite unattractively, letting out an oof when he collapses against your body and therefore crushing you. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent against your soft skin that feels like a million pin pricks to each nerve.

His hand leaves your wrists and slowly drags down your arm, settling on the top of your ribcage just under the swell of your breast, lazily rubbing his thumb over the grooves and curves of the bone with little to no shame whatsoever. 

The act gives you goosebumps. “What? Nothing to say?”

“Go to bed.”

You hum, kneading your fingers through his hair and smiling when he lets out a content sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Rafe practically clings to you, breathing in your scent and unabashedly nestling into your embrace. Your fingers through his hair feel so achingly familiar, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now. He feels your lips gently press on the crown of his head, his heart skipping a beat as he involuntarily lets out another sigh, a wordless thank you for trusting him, believing in him, and – most importantly – letting yourself have this. Trusting him. Trusting yourself.

Exhaustion seeps through his pores, eyelids heavily shutting as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, deeper against your body. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp and back quickly lure him to sleep, so gentle and adorning that he’s so close to–

"Hey."

"Sweet girl, I said go to bed."

You pause for a moment, elongated the silence in the darkness as he can practically hear you thinking. After a second, he frowns as he just now analyzed your tone, which was far from teasing.

He's about to prompt you to continue when you shift slightly above him, and his heart fucking melts when he feels your lips press a kiss against his hairline.

"Those photographs are beautiful."

Despite the complete darkness, and despite the fact that even if the light was on, you wouldn't be able to see his face anyway given his position, his face flushes hot.

Because you weren't really supposed to see those. They'd been the final prints he submitted for his photography class, tasked to photograph the pleasantries of life that may emulate beauty in everyday life. And, to him, he wanted you as his everyday muse since you already occupy almost every waking thought of his.

Rafe sat on the prompt for the entire semester, never once finding a muse meaningful enough to him to make him feel like he could complete the assignment. However, once Lorenza had given him the camera, the task seemed like the easiest thing he's ever done. Plus, you made it pretty simple. You emulated effortless beauty. All day. Everyday.

"I had a pretty model," is all he responds with.

And your thanks is translated enough when you press another kiss to his forehead, ticking his soft skin with your gentle breaths, and all he can think is sweet, sweet, sweet girl. It's concerning, really, how he really only thinks of you. He thinks of you when he wakes up, when he sees something funny, when he's scribbling down notes, when he goes to sleep.

So. Yeah. You are his everyday beauty. By a longshot.

He continues to think of your pretty, of how warm you feel pressed against him, how sweet you smell. He remembers how you looked in the moonlight, the candlelight, under the Sicilian sun with a glisten he could swoon over. It lulls him to sleep. Simply the image of you, you, y–

“Rafe?”

Rafe’s pulled from his slumber, barely lifting a finger and humming in response. He can’t even open his eyes, bloodshot and tired from all the studying. 

“Do you want me to come home with you for Christmas?”

Out of all the things he expected you to say, that has to be the last topic on the list. 

All exhaustion comes to a halt as his eyes blearily blink open, unsure if he’s heard you right, as the question is so out of left field that he doubts you actually said what he thinks you said. Despite his head feeling like a million pounds, he manages to lift it so he’s looking at you in the darkness.

Rafe can just make out the outline of your face. “What?”

He hates how small his voice is. 

But your fingers continue to massage his scalp and he feels you shrug underneath him.

“I dunno, I was thinking I could do for you what you did for me." Your voice is impossibly shy, almost as if you didn't mean to bring it up but now there's no going back. "Provide some moral support, I don’t know. Just a thought.”

Yes, he wants to scream. Of course he wants you to. 

It would make life incredibly easier, not to mention he’d get to spend more time with your undivided attention and shower you in a ridiculous amount of appreciation now that you're officially his. He can show you off to his friends and family and flaunt you around, shamelessly hold you and kiss you and not have to feel the slightest bit guilty about it. 

He'd tell you to bring that beaded dress he bought you, take you out to dinner on the mainland and fuck you for the whole island to hear. There's no doubt he's going to buy you anything under the sun that you express interest in, shower you with the kind of love you've been aching for for so long. He'd have to be assertive, though, because you're exactly the girl his sisters will immediately love, and there's no way he's going to be able to share you.

Rafe needs to relax.

Instead of saying all of that, he takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to Lorenza’s?”

“No,” you respond quietly. “I was supposed to go home so she’s already going on a trip with her girlfriends. But now I'm just...” You take a breath. "No, I'm not."

He frowns at the idea of you spending Christmas alone, because there’s absolutely no way you're going to go home and face your family again, and the long haul across the Atlantic feels like a chore after just recovering from doing so. 

“You can say no,” you murmur playfully. “I have a sublet lined up for the month.”

That makes Rafe scoff. “You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he commands. “You’ll spend it with me.”

Suddenly you clear your throat, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to, like, invite myself. You seriously can say no–”

Rafe is sitting up before he knows it, leaning on an elbow and finding your jaw with his other hand to navigate through the darkness, and kissing you firmly enough to let it do all the talking for him. 

You mmrph in surprise into his mouth, effectively shutting you up and assumingely shutting down any doubts you have about the entire idea. Rafe kisses you certainly yet deliberately slow, as if to reassure you of his answer, that you don't have to stress about being too much, especially around him. In fact, he wants you to be too much, yourself, unapologetically you. He craves it, utterly deprived every second you're acting shy as if he wouldn't give you anything you asked for.

Pulling away, Rafe resumes his previous position and lowers onto your body, his original position. His lips find the soft skin of your neck and place a kiss there, sucking ever so slightly to emphasize his point, to stake his claim, to wash away your doubts. 

“I want you to stay with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Okay?”

You hum shyly. “Okay.”

Rafe runs his hands over your ribcage. “I need you to know something, though."

"Yeah?"

Your tone is so fucking sweet that it makes his upcoming words difficult, understanding you can completely hold your own against a family full of narcissists yet wanting to shield you from it all anyway. He wants to hide you away from it all, but he knows you're tough, you're strong, you're too kind for your own good.

"My dad probably won’t be the friendliest.” Rafe figures that's the nicer term for Ward. "He'll be charming and inviting when you first meet him, but behind closed doors..."

He trails off, not necessarily wanting to get into the specifics of his father's tendencies right now with you, laying pretty beside him and body exhausted with earlier passion. To subject you to this all over again, it makes his chest pull, knowing that his father will probably say or do something to remind you of the obscenities of your own family, to remind you of the darkness that shrouded you a week ago.

Before he can continue, you gently massage his scalp. "I understand. I'll be alright."

It makes him nearly swoon. "You're too sweet for your own good, hm? You can be mean to him if you want."

You laugh and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound.

"I'm not doing that."

"If I asked you nicely?"

Chuckling again, your nails rake down to the nape of his neck and back up to his scalp, making him sigh low into the confinements of your hold. But it's much more than physicality, it's almost a promise, reaffirming your stance and wordlessly convincing him that you have his back. Now and always.

"Still no," you murmur, and by the tone of it he swears you're smiling. "You're the one who said I'm incapable of being evil."

Rafe snorts. "I did."

You hum happily, content with 'winning' the conversation as you continue to massage absentmindedly. "Besides, I’m great with parents.”

This conversation feels all too familiar, full circle, echoing his words that he spoke to you all the time ago when your mother stormed into your dorm room, the catalyst for all of this, the start of the spiral to where you lay now with limbs entangled and hearts out in the open.

Shaking his head slightly and allowing himself to shut his eyes, Rafe murmurs in agreement, almost tauntingly.

“I’m sure you are, sweet girl.” Then, quieter, “Sleep.”

The words are like a command, and despite every effort to not do so, you find yourself babbling something incoherently, words soon dying in your throat as you fall asleep, but not without being lulled by the sound of his syncopated breaths, and that, somehow, his hand has found yours in the darkness, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gentle enough for it to be a long lasting reminder: he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You let yourself succumb to that. You let yourself deserve it.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni

notes holy shit???????? i have a few (more like a hundred) things to say. legit where do I begin.

thank you for 900 followers FIRST OF ALL i only started posting laaaaaate march (practically april) so this is absolutely incredible, thank you for all the support it's been so overwhelming in the best way. half of the comments genuinely make me lol and the other half make me legit spiral bc huh???? you like my stuff??? anyway.

for those who have sent me inbox messages: I SEE YOU!!! I APPRECIATE YOU!! I HAVE NOT IGNORED YOU!!! i'm gonna try to get around to answering them but trust i see y'all!!!!

on the topic of inbox messages, a few of you have been asking about if i'm open to blurbs, and i 100% am. i cannot guarantee i will be able to answer all of them (i started a full-time job??? crazy) but i would love to try and provide that.

okay i think that's it from me. again. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT i'm legit sad this is ending but, again, im open to blurbs about them so TRUST this def won't be the last time we read about them. GODSPEED!

[zynp-krdg]

Someone else already corrected that Ibn al-Haytham didn't invent camera obscura but he was the first to understand the principle behind it and explain it. They even shared a link. He IS known as the father of modern optics. Sorry I made that one mistake and it was too late to edit when I noticed it. And about Al-Khwarizmi, you can scan resources, they say he did demonstrate that. Maybe better than those before him, I don't know. I didn't specifically research it. I did my best to try and summarize these as best as I could and picked people I thought would be the most interesting to read for people. I had to skip some scholars that I wanted to talk about to keep it simple and short. I also skipped some things the scholars I talked about did as well, I just chose a few examples.

I also find it unfair to say that the examples of great Muslim scholars end with the Abbasid Empire's end. (I only gave those examples because OP talked about that time period.) Muslim societies always valued scientific advancements and contributed as long as they had the opportunities. Obviously every civilization has its start, its peak, and its end. The Abbasid Empire is no exception to that. (And the West built its riches by exploiting and occupying other countries, so they had a lot of resources but didn't need to work as hard, in the simplest words.)

And yes, Muslim polymaths were inspired by Indians (and many other civilizations), they translated many of their works too. Muslim scholars properly credited their predecessors and built upon what was already discovered instead of stealing credit or putting humanity behind for the sake of their superiority complex. People in a subreddit might know these things but in general education/academia, these are not talked about. Many people genuinely don't know and they can't know if no one teaches them. This is a good opportunity to do so, my goal wasn't to excite people but to inform them, and you would've seen that someone else already linked a resource for al-Haytham if you had looked at the comments.

Thanks for the additional information.

was talking to my mom about how white people ignore the contributions of poc to academia and I found myself saying the words "I bet those idiots think Louis Pasteur was the first to discover germ theory"

which admittedly sounded pretentious as fuck but I'm just so angry that so few people know about the academic advancements during the golden age of Islam.

Islamic doctors were washing their hands and equipment when Europeans were still shoving dirty ass hands into bullet wounds. ancient Indians were describing tiny organisms worsening illness that could travel from person to person before Greece and Rome even started theorizing that some illnesses could be transmitted

also, not related to germ theory, but during the golden age of Islam, they developed an early version of surgery on the cornea. as in the fucking eye. and they were successful

and what have white people contributed exactly?

please go research the golden age of Islamic academia. so many of us wouldn't be alive today if not for their discoveries

people ask sometimes how I can be proud to be Muslim. this is just one of many reasons

some sources to get you started:

but keep in mind, it wasn't just science and medicine! we contributed to literature and philosophy and mathematics and political theory and more!

maybe show us some damn respect

[nelumbonuciferagaertn]

Beasts x Reader

Summary: How the Beasts react when the reader kisses them. Relationship: Romantic with Shadow Milk Cookie, Mystic Flour Cookie, Eternal Sugar, Silent Salt, and Burning Spice.

***

Shadow Milk Cookie

First, you ask him if you can kiss him. Honestly, it disturbs him—not in a bad way, but because he has no experience with romantic relationships. The only vision he has comes from plays, where love is romanticized: the protagonist—a man of course—kisses his beloved fiercely. That brings us to the current situation, where you’re asking to kiss your favorite Cookie, who's now staring at you in shock.

« HA! You know you're funny? …Wait, you're not joking?! » he stammers. When he regains composure, he finally accepts your offer. Though "accept" may be too strong a word compared to what he actually says. « Aww! My Pookie wants to kiss me. But, honestly, I can't blame you—I am so handsome. I’d probably do the same if I were you. So, I’ll be generous and allow you to place your lips on my incredible self! »

You start by kissing the cheek he turns toward you. What he didn't expect is how happy it would make him. The more you kiss him, the faster his heart beats, and the hotter his face becomes. He grabs the sleeve of your t-shirt with the intention of getting himself inked somewhere before collapsing into a puddle of emotion. Until you reach his forehead. Just the way you guide your left hand to his cheek, holding his head while your other hand brushes his bangs back, sweeping a path for a gentle kiss—It melted him! That simple act made him feel protected by your love.

When you stop and walk away to see the result, Shadow Milk Cookie looks dazed. His eyelash-like hair lowers quickly as his trembling hands reach for your clothes. Even though he proclaims himself a master of deceit, his emotions are incredibly easy for you to read.

You finish by kissing him on his lips, making his face turn tomato-red, and the eyes in his hair transform into hearts. You thank him, and his dilated pupils avoid yours, suddenly finding great interest in the nearby wall.

A few hours later, he'll deny liking it. But make no mistake—he'll ask for it again. Not directly, but he will.

Mystic Flour Cookie

She was surprised the first time you asked to kiss her, but kept her poker face. Nevertheless, she accepted.

You start by kissing the end of her hand as if it were a sacred act. She feels a warm glow of satisfaction, as if she had regained her former glory and you were showing her your adoration in the purest and most naive way. And the higher you go, the more this heat intensifies. Each kiss moves higher — starting with her fingers, following her knuckles, then kissing her wrist — until your fingers intertwine, sealing the gesture with intimate grace.

You finish by kissing her lips, very slowly, as if you were silently asking for her consent again. She didn’t pull away; in fact, if you looked closely, you might have noticed her leaning in. The kiss between you was slow, sensual, but full of candor and intensity. A mixture of calm and bold confession.

You had to stop the emotional moment to breathe. Somehow, it seems the lack of air didn’t bother your gorgeous Cookie. You move your head back, feeling a little numb and with red cheeks. And, unlike you, Mystic Flour seems perfectly normal. You would say that if you didn't know her, because you detect a softness in the way she is positioned, and maybe in the light smile on her face. Yeah, that helps too.

Despite this, she looks imperturbable, due to her philosophy of apathy, but inside, she really enjoyed the kiss.

She places her left arm under your chin with a delicate gesture and guides you towards her lips again. And you let yourself be led with joy.

Later, after that soft moment, Mystic Flour will maintain this radiant demeanor for the rest of the day—to the point that Haetae begins to wonder if something had changed in her, though they don’t dare to ask.

Eternal Sugar Cookie

You see her asleep, her head stuffed into her arms. You think she is kinda cute, peaceful like that. And then, you remember a conversation with her where she said she liked it when you kissed her to sleep. So you think it will be cute to kiss her. Not on her lips, because consent is important, and she’s asleep so you don’t have it. However, you can kiss her on the hair. You run your hand over it, smoothing down stray strands before bringing your lips together and tenderly kissing the top of her head. It was a long and soft kiss. When you finish, you whisper goodnight in her ear. You finally move back your head— « That's all you do for showing your love? »

Then, she lifts her head, looking at you slyly, her smile carrying a sweeter undertone. You immediately understand the request. She catches you with her arms surrounding your waist. You then pepper her face with kisses, leaving in your wake sincere proofs of love. Eternal Sugar is definitely happy. Her face lights up with joy. Your lips touch her cheekbones, her lower jaw, the corner of her lips, and you feel that wherever you kiss, her dough becomes warmer. You bet she blushes.

Finally, you warn your favorite Cookie that you have things to do and must go. However, she blocks your path with her angel and demon wings. « Don't you dare leave me. It's our moment now! Just for ourselves ~ »

She hugs you tighter and you can't resist, her sweet scent numbs you. The cocoon of her wings is enchanting, as if this happiness will never end. Both of you fall asleep in each other's arms. Resting peacefully, in this safe place, together, forever~

Silent Salt Cookie

Silent Salt would like to be kissed on the hand or the cheeks, in the style of old medieval demonstrations of love. Discreet, but emotional. Very romantic!

In addition, kiss them on the lips while they are wearing their helmet and they will melt in their armor.

Burning Spice Cookie

When you ask to kiss him, he is surprised. But not in a good way. « Why the hell would you ask that?! » His furrowed gaze pierces you.

This makes you angry. You fix him with the most empty look you can give. He glances at you, clearly not impressed. « Well I'm so sorry for actually caring about your feelings, love! » you growl, taking his head with your two hands and forcing him to lean forward to meet yours. You slam your lips hard, not on his, but just on the corner. Perfect for getting your revenge and teasing him.

When you release the pressure to leave his dough, his response is instantaneous. He slams you against the wall beside you (which you hadn’t even noticed), his ever-present axe glinting in one hand, your wrist pinned with the other. The silence that follows is significant. You can even see an ember igniting in his eyes while he observes you up and down.

« You're playing with fire right now, doll. » He moves his head forward, obviously aiming to kiss you on the lips this time, unlike you. However, you use your free hand to shove it into his long black hair and pull it down roughly, regaining control.

« Nuh-uh. This was my idea. You’re going to stay still. Got it? » He doesn’t resist. You feel the tension buzzing under his skin — the need to take control, but also the thrill of being played.

So you kiss him slowly: cheek, forehead, the edge of his mouth. When your lips reach his jawline, a low growl escapes him.

You smirk. He’s losing. And he doesn’t even mind.

***

Bonus for all: Over time, you become more intimate. Thus, they accept—with varying levels of embarrassment—that you kiss them where they wear their Soul Jam:

on his neck for Shadow Milk

on her upper forehead for Mystic Flour

between her eyebrows for Eternal Sugar

on their collarbone for Silent Salt

and on his chest for Burning Spice.

And if they really trust you, they'll let you kiss their Soul Jam directly. 😏

***

Note: Yo, I hope you enjoyed it! ✨ This took me a long time because I had to catch the behavior of each Cookie. Silent Salt's text is very short and different for a reason: they have not appeared in the game, so I don't have source material for their identity. Thus, it's mainly a headcanon. I don't even know what gender they have!

To understand the Cookies, I read their WikiFandom, some other fanfictions, and I asked ChatGPT to tell me the percentage of closeness I had with the original Cookie, with some advice added. The text with the highest grade in the first draft was Shadow Milk with 85%. Is it because he's my favorite Cookie and I read a ton of fanfics? Perhaps. By the way, this explains why some texts are longer than others. My motivation to write is apparently proportional to how much I love the character. Lol.

Then, using an AI allowed me to get as close as possible to the character at the cost of various rewrites. I use AI to correct my language too. I know how horrible it is to read a badly written fic. However, my first language isn't English and I'm far from bilingual. So I need correction. The idea and the original text are, and will always be, mine. But I need you to know I use AI in my fic only as a writing tool, just like I use Google Translate.

One more thing I have to say is about the nicknames ("Pookie", "Doll") I used. I don't know if they are used for a specific gender (I'm not a native English speaker), and with my small research I came to the conclusion that they could be used for everyone. But if you are not comfortable with it, you can always change the nickname in your head—for example, replacing it with your name.

I liked writing a new type of fanfiction. However, if I do that again, I won't write for more than 5 characters. That was painful enough 🤣 I'm wondering how many people will read this until the end. Try to fit the word "phantasmagoric" in your comment if you got this far.

Have a nice day :)

[soulsforsales]

You guys can hate me for this but I despise Jason's canon ships. I hate Jason x Rose, I hate Jason x Artemis.

Here's why:

Rose manipulated, used, and betrayed Jason for her father's mission, knowing how much Deathstroke had already taken from him and his family. Knowing how much Jason has already been through. She toyed with him and his feelings.

Maybe she loves him, maybe she never did. Who knows?

And Jason and Artemis... don't even get me started on that. Artemis sees Jason as only her partner; she admits that she kissed him for "comfort," while you could clearly tell that Jason genuinely liked her the whole time.

I hate it because it feels like an indirect message that he cannot be loved unconditionally because he's damaged and traumatized. These ships have this pattern of him being used, overlooked, or just flat out not chosen, which reinforces the belief that he's only worthy of situational, conditional affection. While Jason Todd, for all his mistakes and rough edges, is one of the most loyal, self-sacrificing, and deeply loving characters in the Batfam. And canon just can't stop fucking him up.

I just think Jason deserves a relationship that isn’t based on lies, manipulation, violence, or shared interests. He deserves someone soft, warm, and feminine, fiercely and endearingly. Bcs he does need someone who can put him in his place — but not by making him feel awful or small or weak (like, oh yes, fucking CANON) but instead by letting him be weak and vulnerable not because they want him to be but because that’s what he really needs. He needs someone he can be painfully human with. He doesn't need a partner matching him punch for punch, or trauma for trauma. He needs someone who sees beyond the Red Hood mask and just sees Jason Todd, wounded, broken, bloodied, but real and so perfectly worthy of love and good things.

I am not coming at anyone who loves these ships. That's your opinion, this is mine. Simple as that!

[greypistacchio]

something i've come to lose my marbles about is what @thebluespacecow pointed out in the tags when they reblogged one of my destiel posts, which is that dean would love cas no matter the vessel:

but the reason why i'm bringing it up in the light of episode 7.17, "The Born-Again Identity", is because there's a Side B to this. not only will Dean love Cas no matter the vessel - he won't love any of Cas' vessels unless Castiel is inside their body, and you can bet he's able to tell whether his angel is inside Jimmy Novak or not.

just think about Castiel's amnesiac persona, Emanuel, who wore Jimmy Novak's face and had Castiel's angelic powers. he could heal with his touch like Castiel did, he could read people's souls like Cas did, he could see the supernatural like Cas did. he had Castiel's pensive nature, he spoke with Castiel's deep voice, his gaze was Castiel-deep, he remained in awe of life as the ultimate miracle, as a work of art.

Dean sees the body that Castiel has been in for years at this point, and knows that that's not Jimmy Novak. but it only takes an interaction for him to figure out that it's also not Castiel. not quite. right away, Dean is able to carefully introduce himself in a way that doesn't rub Emanuel the wrong way nor pokes at his repressed memories. and although Dean has spent the whole season feeling really pissed at what Castiel did when he opened up Purgatory and released the Leviathans into the world, leaving Sam's mental defence against Lucifer shattered before he fucked off into the river...

he doesn't demand that he remember, nor does he start acting reckless, violent, or out of control. instead he schools his features and does what he knows, right away, is best for his Castiel by not pressuring him into remembering. but he knows that it's Castiel, he fucking knows, because why else would he open up the way he does in the Impala? why would Dean "Repressed Emotions" Winchester lay out his vulnerabilities and deepest pain for Emanuel to know, when he never trusted even Sam or Bobby with the rawest of his hurt??

and then, when Meg suggests telling Castiel about who he is so he can get back his angel mojo and help them save Sam, Dean's brother Sam, Dean's reason to live Sam. Dean refuses. of course, Cas ends up figuring it out himself, but until then Dean refuses to have any part in reminding him of who he is because he knows it won't do Castiel any good to remember what he did. as Castiel gets his memories back, Dean looks distressed. not angry at Cas now that he's back and can be held accountable for his mistakes. not scared of Castiel relapsing back to his turbo-fascist God era.

he looks distressed that Castiel is going to blame himself and go down the self-destructive rabbit hole, and when Castiel starts berating himself out loud, Dean follows him and actively argues back. and the reason he does this is as simple as it is unhinged - the moment everything clicks back into place, he KNOWS that Castiel is back. he just KNOWS it's him - not the vessel Cas favours. not an incomplete version of Cas who's devoid of his moral compass, his memories and the free will he built for himself that Dean has come to know and love him for. it's HIM, it's CASTIEL, and he's back.

fucking hell everyone the destiel of it all

[plasmara]

not the anon who sent that jay angst ask, but i wonder what it is with the ninjago fandom’s refusal to believe rogue is… not a good person? Like i feel as though we saw him smiling at jenny & barry or showing small moments of care, and then proceeded to ignore the fact that he has a service for kidnapping people and delivering them (bordering on human trafficking) & outwardly kills without remorse. i don’t even mess with jay tbh but i feel like his own fanbase uwu-fies him even as rogue. sure he’s in pain and is hurt but he’s also just… not a good person. He cruelly digs at wydlfyre many times over simple mistakes and even mocks her dead (?) boyfriend i feel like we need to start understanding he can be hurt and manipulated and also show mild amounts of compassion at times and also be an evil son of a bitch without dumbing him down to what we decide is ‘too far’ because what the fandom feels is ‘too far’ for rogue to go also kind of ? contributes to that uwufication of jay? As in there’s a limit to what rogue can do before we deem him too far gone from ‘og jay’ when we’ve seen time and time again that rogue is willing to do almost anything for a price.

and that’s not to say he’s outright genocidal maniac, i’m sure he has some point of what he’s not willing to do, but not for any reason of ‘that’s messed up’ because as we’ve seen his moral compass is way crooked but more so of ‘this is the not worth the hassle/ or this is not what i’m being paid for.’ and very, very light mix of ‘this is kind of messed up.’

we’ve seen him oppose the release of bad people (bleckt) not because bleckt was a bad person, but because precisely bleckt was a bad person and cannot be trusted to aid them on a mission that rogue was (at the time, under the impression) being paid for, which would end up causing problems.

While i’m not the other anon, i do feel it slightly in character for rogue to mock the other ninja especially in a moment of anger (which we know his temper is not only shorter, but way more extreme) but he has the capacity to be cruel and he does take it on more than one occasion, and is flippant response to others pain, even nya’s (at the end, when she’s clearly upset over his actions and his response is a pouty petulant frown and ‘try not to die before you pay me) despite being shown to obviously care for her. Don’t think it’s character assassination at all to hc rogue to be cruel in words (which he’s explicitly shown to be) in a moment of anger

Mmm anon im sorry but i just don’t agree. and im the last person to turn jay into some sort of completely innocent victim but you’re missing the point. yes he would absolutely be a jerk to them and Yes he would absolutely say something out of anger in a heated moment (and it wouldn’t even really need to be that heated) but that ask was about him repeatedly messing with them, faking vulnerability??? pretending to remember Just to twist the knife and laugh in their faces. he’s not just cruel for no reason. He’s not some evil cartoon villain who’s trying to make their lives hell or rub it in their faces that their friend is gone . In no way did i claim he was this misunderstood little baby who doesn’t know what he’s doing but at the same time people aren’t just simply ‘good’ or ‘bad’ . he has more layers to him than what’s explicitly shown. and Yes he’s done some truly terrible things like the ones you’ve listed above, but (imo!!!!!) he’s not getting off on hurting people. The things he’s done have a reason — even if that reason was just anger, pain, or self-preservation. but pure, calculated, sadistic cruelty????? For him to fuck with them like that multiple times just ‘for fun’? . that’s not him. and i think it’s missing a huge part of his character to try and paint him that way

[jusstmonnikaa]

-husband arrested yandere x reader

Hi! This is the first story I’ve ever published, so I’m a little nervous... I really hope you enjoy it! 💖

If you notice any mistakes, feel free to let me know �� just please be kind. And if you like it, don’t forget to leave a like or follow me! good reading! 🌸

You’ve been in a relationship with your husband for over three years, and by now, it’s no surprise to see him getting arrested again. Since the beginning of your relationship, he’s been detained more than four times. Normally, the jail time lasted only a few days, but this time he was sentenced to a full year.

Thanks to bribes and a few quiet talks from his gang friends, the sentence was reduced from one year to just three months. He’s grateful — not for getting out sooner, but because it means he’ll be back with his wife that much faster. Still, three months away from her is unbearable. He’s struggling. He can’t take the separation anymore.

-Her Yandere husband desperately awaits her visit. Every fortnight, his beloved wife comes to see him - but even that is no longer enough. Just one day without her seems like torture. He's in a spiral. Desperate.

He knows that killing someone out of jealousy wasn't right… But he's trying to change. For her. Just for her.

— He waits quietly as the guards come into the cell, cuff him, and escort him to the visiting room. And then… there she is.

He catches a glimpse of the only woman in his life — his wife. She looks at him with an annoyed expression — not that it bothers him. In his eyes, she’s still breathtaking. Even with that look, she’s stunning.

He never tires of waiting for her. All he wants is to finally hold her again.

“You took too long...” he whispers, eyes locked on hers, hungry for the smallest flicker of attention. “It’s the usual time. Every fifteen days. Like always.” she replies, dryly. “Fifteen days without you is hell.” He smiles, a smile that’s halfway between madness and longing. “But you came. That’s all that matters.”

She sighs, glancing away for a second.

“My love... you have no idea how much I missed you. I’d break this glass. I’d blow up this entire prison... just to carry you in my arms. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”

His eyes remain fixed on hers, without breaking contact for a single instant. He refuses to waste a single second of her presence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

— The two of you spend the last 20 minutes in a relatively calm conversation — at least, as calm as things can be under those circumstances.

But in that short span of time, one thing becomes painfully clear to him:

He needs to have you in his arms. If not… well, maybe he’ll have to start a massacre. Or maybe not.

Because in his mind, a simple solution begins to take shape — and like everything else that comes from him, it’s obsessive, unhinged, and entirely focused on one thing: you.

— After the visit, your imprisoned Yandere husband makes a final, twisted decision: He will have you. No matter what.

After relentlessly pestering the guards and obsessing in silence, he finally gets permission to make a call to one of his gang members.

The message is whispered with a grin that chills the air: “I want her here. With me. In prison. Make it happen.”

And with that, heart racing and eyes glowing with sick anticipation, he waits. Anxiously. Intensely. Counting the seconds until his beloved is locked in the same hell — but finally in his arms.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading! 🌸

[cheesybadgers]

Ok, bear with me a bit on this one because they're not like-for-likes, but they do both involve dramatic bitches flouncing off and leaving notes:

Meanwhile, in OHDH chapter 4:

By the time Horacio awoke, sunlight was beginning to stream through the windows; a stark contrast to the darkness of his mood as the events of the last few days came flooding back to him.

He rolled over wondering if Javier was still asleep, but found his side of the bed cold and empty and the apartment silent. That was when he noticed it out of the corner of his eye; the light bouncing off a metallic object on the nightstand.

Horacio’s heart shattered before he’d even leaned across to confirm his suspicions. The necklace lay abandoned, with a scrawled note next to it that simply read “I’m sorry.”

He stared down at the note before balling it up tightly in his fist, his vision already blurring and his chest stuttering as everything hit him all at once. Not only had he lost his job and home and any chance of catching Escobar, he had seemingly also lost the man he loved.

Now, obviously, in 9-1-1, Eddie doesn't actually leave and brings Chris and Pepa to visit Buck as a way to cheer him up and apologise for their fight, whereas in OHDH, Javier does temporarily bail but Horacio tracks him down in chapter 5, where they reconcile and it transpires Javier only ran away because he's scared of the depth of his feelings for Horacio:

The evidence was rapidly stacking up and Horacio deduced several things at once. Firstly, it wasn’t that Javier didn’t care; in fact, it was quite the opposite. More than he was apparently comfortable with, but his theatrics didn’t change the facts, nor he suspected would putting an ocean between them. Secondly, Javier clearly thought his disappearing act would be enough for Horacio to give up on him, forgetting that Horacio had no patience for such games and was far too tenacious to walk away now they’d come this far. Thirdly, he looked up at the clock by his bed and realised he still had time to fix this; and fourthly, he had a hunch he knew where Javier might have gone.

******************

“I know you got scared and that’s what these dramatics are all about. I know you expected me to give up on you because that’s what you think you deserve. I know you hated some of the things I did and wanted me to stop, but you also know it wasn’t that simple. And I know you let me give you the necklace in the first place for a reason…before you bolted, obviously.”

THEN, the whole fake-out Eddie does, which leaves Buck thinking he's really gone back to El Paso for some reason totally reminded me of OHDH chapter 9 when Javier runs off again but comes back to Horacio's apartment and Horacio thinks Javier hooked up with someone else but he didn't because he's so in love:

“I’m sorry I ran off too. Again. I should’ve been there for you.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, I understand. And I understand why you went…where you went tonight.”

“What? How did—?”

“Murphy came to see me after you left,” Horacio cut in before Javier could finish floundering. “You were right; he’s not stupid. He thinks I’ve got some sort of hold over you and seems to know you pretty well, too. Because he guessed where you went after.”

“Shit!” Javier's head dropped into his hand with a defeated exhale. “It’s not what you think.”

“Look, Javier, you don’t need to do this. I wish you wouldn’t push me away, but I get it. I deserved it.”

“No, wait, fuck! You’ve got it all wrong. Nothing happened. We just talked, that’s all.” Javier hesitated, undecided whether he should reveal the whole truth before throwing caution to the wind. “I did think about it on the drive there, though. But I couldn’t do it. And I don’t mean to – I don’t want to push you away.”

The specific whys/hows might not be the same, but the general tropes and the end result of the characters learning to stop running away from their own feelings and learning from their past mistakes because they want to make it work this time with their chosen person are essentially the same.

The way Pepa interacts with Buck is also very reminiscent of the way Javier's and Horacio's older family members interact with their relative's chosen partner, and also all of their conversations with Señora Romero (extra points for the parallel of said conversations taking place whilst washing dishes as well):

OHDH, chapter 18:

“Do you need to have it figured out yet?”

“Well, no, not yet. We’re okay financially for now. But I know it can’t last forever.”

“There’s plenty of time between now and forever, Javier.” Señora Romero lowered her voice as though she was letting him in on a coveted secret. “At your age, anyway. Less so at mine, but I take each day as it comes.”

“What’s that like?”

“There are good days and bad days. And bad weeks, months and years, come to think of it. Days when my body doesn’t do what my mind tells it to do. Days when my mind is frail, and my heart is sore. But on other days, I’ll spend time with the family. Or my piononos will come out better than they did last time. Or I’ll make new friends in unusual circumstances.” She winked in Javier’s direction. “I think the bad days are just part of life’s rich tapestry. Especially where healing wounds are concerned.”

And chapter 19:

Once all the cutlery, cups, and plates were washed, Horacio refilled the sink, a comfortable lull in conversation settling over them.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Señora Romero asked after she delivered a second load of dishes to be washed. “When I asked if there was someone back home.”

Horacio switched the tap off now the sink was full, concentrating intently on swirling soap suds and a cloth around the serving bowl he had plunged under water. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear. You didn’t owe me an explanation then, and you don’t owe me one now. I understand when the newspapers have been no better than the days of Franco. And mark my words; those were dark, dark days.”

A righteous anger erupted from the surface in Señora Romero’s tone. It was one that Horacio had rarely heard but recognised and understood instantly.

“Spain’s old wounds,” he stated rather than asked.

“On good days, I like to think of it more as scar tissue.”

Notice how many of these tropes are coming thick and fast in season 8 now as well. Almost like we're building up to something...

Not to make everything about OHDH, but Eddie is not beating the Horacio parallel allegations...

“My Mamá, Elena, was the same after my Papá, Eduardo, died. I heard her crying at night sometimes, but she was always strong for me and Alejandra – my sister. So, I had to be strong for them. I thought I was the man of the house.” He scoffed at the absurdity of that statement, given how he was barely out of his teens at the time. “I took every promotion I could, just like he’d done. But it never seemed enough.”

******************

Horacio entwined their fingers on his leg because if anyone understood his apprehension, it was Javier. “I know. I just hate keeping it from her after everything we’ve been through. She would always make me soup if I was sick. And she looked out for me after Papá was gone. She taught me Mamá’s sudado de pollo recipe because it was one of Papá’s favourites. I liked to think I was the man of the house, but she loved reminding me she was my older sister.”

******************

“We both did. But at least I’d had more time with Papá. Good job I did have those few years to myself ‘cos Horacio followed him around like a shadow. Until he couldn’t. Then he thought he had to be the man of the house. Even when there were two much more qualified women for the job.”

“He thought it was his duty."

[beanghostprincess]

If someone spots a typo in a fanfic you post on ao3 would you be okay with them commenting pointing it out? Big fan of your stuff and just wanna help if thats something youre looking for

This is really sweet and I'm happy that you wanna help but I'm very, very, very sensitive with the stuff I write and if you point out something that's wrong I might not feel good about it-- English isn't my first language and I'm aware it's not the best and I don't have any beta readers either so there are a lot of mistakes in my fics I don't wanna know about 😭 But it's nice that you asked 💖💖

[nondivisable]

I need to say something and I need y'all to be calm

if it isn't actively bad or harmful, no representation should be called "too simple" or "too surface level"

I have a whole argument for this about the barbie movie but today I wanna talk about a show called "the babysitters club" on Netflix

(obligatory disclaimer that I watched only two episodes of this show so if it's super problematic I'm sorry) (yes. I know it's based on a book, this is about the show)

this is a silly 8+ show that my 9 year old sister is watching and it manages to tackle so many complex topics in such an easy way. basic premise is these 13 year old girls have a babysitting agency.

in one episode, a girl babysits this transfem kid. the approach is super simple, with the kid saying stuff like "oh no, those are my old boy clothes, these are my girl clothes". they have to go to the doctor and everyone is calling the kid by her dead name and using he/him and this 13 year old snaps at like a group of doctors and they all listen to her. it's pure fantasy and any person versed in trans theory would point out a bunch of mistakes.

but after watching this episode, my little sister started switching to my name instead of my dead name and intercalating he/him pronouns when talking about me.

one of the 13 years old is a diabetic and sometimes her whole personality is taken over by that. but she has this episode where she pushes herself to her limit and passes out and talks about being in a coma for a while because of not recognizing the limits of her disability.

and this allowed my 9 year old sister to understand me better when I say "I really want to play with you but right now my body physically can't do that" (I'm disabled). she has even asked me why I'm pushing myself, why I'm not using my crutches when I complain about pain.

my mom is 50 years old and watching this show with my sister. she said the episode about the diabetic girl helped her understand me and my disability better. she grew up disabled as well, but she was taught to shut up and power through.

yes, silly simple representation can annoy you if you've read thousands of pages about queer liberation or disability radical thought, but sometimes things are not for you.

[lemonynuggets]

if I wanted a hyphen last name, would you mind the cadence?

[painsandconfusion]

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[bredforloyalty]

i had a good day i like having things to do but unfortunately i have just remembered i am insane</3

[fandomfuntimem]

Dp x dc: batshit crazy driver au.

Bruce hired a new personal driver for the Wayne's. He was a nice enough guy. His grades weren't great, but he was a great driver and very patient. Like, really patient. Like, he is so unbothered by traffic, stupid drivers, and villain attacks, its kinda scary. But all the background checks came back clean. Minus his mad scientists parents, of course.

Daniel (Danny) Fenton. He could relate to any of the Wayne kids and hold an intelligent conversation with Bruce. Bruce feels that he doesn't need to be all Brucie Wayne around the young man. He doesn't know about their nightly activities yet, though. They're not quite sure if he even needs to know.

The first sign there was something more to Danny happened when Tim was sitting in the passenger seat. Tim was struggling with a math problem. It was driving him nuts. It only took a quick glance for Daniel to solve it, though, "it's thirty-six"

"What?"

"The answer is Thirty-six. You forgot to carry the three."

"Huh..."

He was right, Tim made a simple mistake, sure. But that was advanced college level math. Danny was a straight c student and never went to college. It only took him a momentary glance to solve it. Tim, though suspicious, chalked it up to a simple case of gifted kid syndrome. He related to it and began to consult with Danny on some of his math problems. Danny was more than happy to help, for a price, of course.

Then, there was a villain attack. The villain's goons ran rampant through the city, terrorizing anyone unfortunate enough to be outside at the time. But not Danny, they'll tried, oooh they tried. But those goons swiftly found themselves zip tied, in the trunk of a car, and on their way to jail. All while Danny blasted some music by a small artist named 'Ember'.

Alright. He is in Gotham, and his mother was a black belt, so maybe he was just well trained. Its good to know how to deffend yourself.

Then, Damien was kidnapped. It was so fast they barely saw, but a white van sped by and grabbed Damien as he made his way tawords the car. Initially, Damien expected the chauffeur to panic and call the police. But when shouting and cursing were heard from the front seat, and the men in the back slipped the van door open to check behind them, it was revealed Danny had followed them and he had a gun.

What could only be described as an action movie chase scene ensued. Every corner they swerved, every shortcut they took, Danny was right behind them. Driving like a bat out of hell, he shouted and fired at the wheels of the van. Knocking one out, the van swerved and was forced to come to a stop.

A kidnapper grabbed Damien by the hair and held a gun to his head, but before the threat could even leave his mouth a bullet flew through his hand. He dropped Damien and fell to the ground screaming, clutching his hand.

The kidnapper in the van already took off running but was swiftly stopped by Redhood arriving just in time to see Danny helping Damien up and checking him over, profusely apologizing for "letting this happen."

When asked why he did all of it, his simply answered, "I don't think I would get paid if I let Mr. Wayne's kid die! I can't let a kid die in general!"

Bruce, of course, gave the young man a bonus and a few days off for the stunt. Accompanied wlth a few stern words about safety. What was truly remarkable was that there was not a single scratch on the car. Untouched, meaning he never hit anything during the whole ordeal. "I just learned what not to do from my dad!" He joked, but Bruce felt that, despite the clear joking tone, there was some truth to the statement.

The family is suspicious, very suspicious. The man they previously viewed as their simple and humble driver turned out to be a monster of a fighter, and they have no idea how or why.

----------------------‐------

A/N: Feel free to add onto this in any way you would like :3

[kthologue]

steal my girl — gojo satoru

synopsis. the time gojo and megumi decided to crash your date.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo roping megumi into his loser activities, timeskips, tw sappy

notes. this drabble has been rotting in my brain for over a year. finally wrote it!

“I’m going on a date.”

It only took five simple words from you to make the world’s strongest jujutsu sorcerer drop to his knees. For the first time in his life, Gojo could swear he was experiencing shortness of breath. And was it just him, or were the walls closing in?

“What?” The word leaves his mouth like a demand rather than a question. He’s trying so hard not to overreact, but your overjoyed face makes it nearly impossible not to succumb to the ugly green monster clawing at his insides.

“Well,” you push his shoulder playfully. “Don’t act so surprised. You’re not the only one that pulls.”

“Don’t I know it,” Gojo mutters under his breath, eye twitching. Don’t you know how hard he works to deter any suitors vying for your attention when the two of you are out? He’s practically a rabid dog growling at anyone who so much as breathes in your direction.

Hell, even Shoko once mentioned to him something about being a “registered pervert” at most establishments you frequent together.

 Not his finest moments.

You eye Satoru suspiciously before continuing. That was your first mistake.

“Yeah, he’s taking me to that new Michelin Star restaurant downtown,” you sigh dreamily. “I mean, seriously. Isn’t that so cool?”

Gojo scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “If that’s what you wanted, you could’ve just said so. I know a place that has three Michelin Stars.”

You pout. “Well, it’s different with you.”

Gojo’s eyebrow quirks up. “How so?”

“You’re a friend. And with him…” You trail off, suddenly feeling shy under Gojo’s piercing gaze. Heat creeps up your neck, blooming across your cheeks as you toy with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s a lot more romantic.”

Gojo thinks he could just die.

The word romantic rings in his ears, and it was deafening. It digs into his ribs and squeezes at something raw inside him. He’s the strongest sorcerer alive, yet right now, he feels utterly powerless against the way your voice softens when you talk about someone else. Against the way your lips curve at the thought of another man.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Romantic, huh?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge to it.

You nod, eyes glimmering with something dreamy, something distant, and Gojo wants to reach out and wipe it away. He wants that look—wants to be the reason for it.

If you wanted romance, he could give you romance.

Better romance.

A grand plan manifests in his head, spinning to life at full speed. 

Oh, this poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.

The moment Megumi sees Gojo enter his and Tsumiki’s shared apartment, he knows something is wrong. There’s a certain energy in the air, a distinct lack of peace that Gojo drags with him that makes the eight year old’s stomach churn.

“Fushiguro!” Gojo’s voice rings out, far too enthusiastic for Megumi’s liking. “We have a problem.”

Megumi barely glances up from his book. “We?”

Gojo makes himself at home and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, we. Our dear [Name] here has a date.”

Megumi's grip on his book tightens, his interest sparking at the mention of you. Where Gojo lacked maturity, you balanced it effortlessly. He liked that about you. He liked you.

Megumi blinks once. “And?”

Gojo sighs dramatically. “And we can’t just let her go unprotected, can we?”

“Unprotected?” Megumi repeats, deadpan. “From what? Bad table manners?”

“From heartbreak, Megumi!” Gojo places a hand over his chest, looking scandalized. “What if this guy is a total loser? What if he chews with his mouth open? What if he’s a handsy creep?”

Megumi’s expression darkens. He had been indifferent before, but now there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn’t like the idea of you being stuck with some no-good scrub who isn’t worthy. In a series of twisted events, you and that white haired idiot had managed to become the only constants in his life. The last thing he wanted was for some random guy to come along and take you away.

“We need to intervene,” Gojo presses, watching the flicker of hesitation in Megumi’s expression. His usual deadpan exterior is cracking, just a little. Gojo knows he has him.

Megumi exhales sharply, gripping his book a little too tightly. “I am not going to ruin their date.” His voice is firm, but there’s a sliver of doubt wedged between the words. Gojo seizes it like a cat pouncing on its prey.

“Ruin?” Gojo gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Megumi, this is purely a background check.” His grin stretches.

Megumi glares at him. “It could be considered stalking.”

Gojo waves him off. “Pfft. Such an ugly word. I prefer ‘protective oversight’.”

“You don’t even know if he’s a bad person.”

Gojo tilts his head, feigning deep thought. “Oh, you’re right. Maybe he’s perfect. Maybe he’ll take such good care of her that we won’t be needed anymore.”

Megumi stiffens, and Gojo bites back a smirk.

“That’s not—” Megumi starts, but Gojo steamrolls over him.

“I mean, think about it. If this date goes well, they might actually start dating. And then what? She’ll start spending more time with him.” Gojo nudges him. “She’ll run off and start a new family.”

Megumi’s jaw tightens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right,” Gojo corrects cheerfully. 

Megumi runs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. He already knows Gojo won’t drop this, and, annoyingly, he’s already planted the seed of doubt in his mind.

Gojo leans in, voice lower, almost serious. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Megumi exhales sharply. “...Yeah.”

“And you’d rather make sure she’s safe than sit around wondering?”

Megumi stares at him for a long moment, then groans. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Gojo grins, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s go before you start growing a conscience.”

The night was supposed to be perfect. A well earned break. It your first real date in a while. Probably your first since meeting Gojo. Though, strangely, you’d never stopped to question why that was.

The guy sitting across from you was a non-sorcerer, and while his looks had been enough to catch your attention when he first asked you out, the novelty was wearing off fast. His personality was as flat and each word he spoke draining more of your enthusiasm. You found yourself nodding along absently, barely listening, already regretting your decision.

Still, you just had to stick it out until the food arrived. Then you could eat, make an excuse, and be done with this painfully dull evening.

Though, just when you thought the night was starting to get interesting, a familiar voice cuts through the elegant ambiance of the restaurant.

“Mom, who is this strange man?”

Your choke on your wine at the familiar voice while your date stiffens.

You turn slowly, dread pooling in your stomach as you come face-to-face with Megumi, standing at your table with his arms crossed. His expression is perfectly deadpan, but you see the flicker of mischief in his eyes, a familiar gleam of mischief that could only be the work of a certain white-haired man lurking nearby.

“E-eh?!” You sputter, glancing between Megumi and your date.

Your date looks thoroughly confused. “Do you… know this child?”

“N-no—I mean, yes, but—”

Megumi doesn’t give you a chance to explain. Instead, he sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “And what will Gojo—Dad—say about this?”

The words slam into you like a truck.

Your date’s jaw drops. “You’re married?”

“N-no!”

“Then why is he calling you Mom?”

You glare at Megumi, but he just shrugs, completely unbothered.

“Come home,” Megumi continues with a sigh. “Tsumiki misses you too.”

“You have multiple children?!”

Your date looks absolutely horrified, like he’s just found himself in the middle of a scandalous affair. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Listen, if you’re going through a divorce or something, we don’t have to do this—”

Before you can defend yourself, another, far-too-cheerful voice joins in.

“There you are, sweetheart!”

Gojo waltzes up to the table, dressed in his finest suit and those damn glasses he only wore on special occasions. He places a hand on your shoulder and turns to your date with an exaggeratedly apologetic expression. “Sorry, buddy, but this one’s a real work. You know it took me two kids to finally tie her down?”

Your date glances between you, Megumi, and Gojo, his eyes wide with pure panic, as if he’s just stumbled into something far beyond his comprehension. His grip tightens around his napkin, knuckles white. “I—I think I should go.”

You lurch forward, reaching out as if that might stop him. “No, wait—!”

But it’s already too late. He’s scrambling for his coat, chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes back from the table, nearly knocking over his drink in his rush. Without sparing you another glance, he spins on his heel and all but bolts toward the exit, shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

You sit frozen for a second, blinking at the now-empty seat across from you. Then, slowly, you turn toward the culprits, fists clenched at your sides.

“You two,” you hiss, voice low and simmering with fury, “are in serious trouble.”

Megumi has the decency to look guilty, staring down at his lap, shifting awkwardly in his seat as if he’s just now realizing the full extent of what they’ve done.

Gojo, on the other hand, is utterly shameless. He stands there in all his smug glory, adjusting his sunglasses with a satisfied smirk. 

You grab your purse and storm out of the restaurant, with the two trailing behind you like two guilty kids.

“You know,” Gojo muses, “I think that went pretty well.”

You round on him so fast that even he takes a step back. “Pretty well?! You humiliated me! That poor guy thinks I have an entire secret family!”

Gojo snickers. “Well, technically, you do.”

You jab a finger into his chest. “You are not my husband.”

“But wouldn’t it be great if I was?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Megumi lets out a long sigh. “Please don’t entertain him. I’m sorry, [Name].” His blue eyes are trained onto the floor, “I just didn’t think he was good enough for you.”

You exhale sharply, some of your anger ebbing as you glance between the two of them.

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you sigh, your frustration softening at the sight of his guilty expression. You could never stay mad at him, not with that face.

Gojo, however, was a different story.

Slowly, you turn to him, eyes narrowing. “You—”

He grins, entirely unrepentant. “Me?”

Oh, he was so in for it.

Although he had been shamelessly unapologetic at the time, Gojo still found ways to complain about that night, even years later, after you were finally married.

“It was an unusually cruel punishment,” your husband whines dramatically, draping his entire body weight onto you as if his sheer presence could sway your sympathy.

“You mean the silent treatment?” you deadpan, eyes still trained on Megumi practicing his cursed technique across the yard. “It was only a week. Could’ve been longer if you hadn’t harassed everyone around me until they practically begged me to forgive you.”

Gojo lifts his head just enough to shoot you an exaggerated pout. “I don’t harass people. I simply exist, and they just happen to find me irresistible.”

“You tend to have the exact opposite effect, actually.”

“Ten years later, and you’re still so cruel to me.” He sighs heavily, as if burdened by the weight of your terrible treatment, before shoving his face into the crook of your neck. “You wound me, wife.”

You laugh, warmth bubbling in your chest as his breath tickles your skin. “You’re impossible.”

A loud thud interrupts the moment, and you both glance over just in time to see Megumi scowling, his stance off from a misstep in his training.

“You are still disgusting after all of these years,” he grumbles, adjusting his form before going at it again.

Gojo beams. “Aww, he likes us.”

You shake your head, smiling. “He tolerates us.”

“Eh, same thing.” Gojo squeezes you tighter, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to your cheek just to be insufferable.

Megumi groans. “Seriously, get a room.”

Gojo smirks, wiggling his brows. “Don’t tempt me, kid.”

[kooklovee]

HOLD ON TO ME (m) - JJK

Your husband forgets your second anniversary. What starts as disappointment and heartbreak soon spirals into doubt- about your love, your marriage & whether he even sees you anymore. But when Jungkook realizes his mistake, he’s willing to do anything to prove that his love has never wavered..

Can he make it up to you, or is it already too late?

Pairing - CeoHusband!Jungkook x Wife!Reader

Genre - 18+, established relationship au, angst, fluff, smut, some more angst MDNI

ONESHOT - 11k words

Warnings - angsty ride, hurt/comfort, workaholic Jungkook, miscommunication, crying, deep emotional intimacy, slow build, Jungkook is an idiot but trust me he's sweet alright😭, Explicit smut- unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), soft dom Jk, nipple play, lots of kissing, love-making, creampie, pet names <3, praises, happy ending (sad ending's not in my veins🫸)

a/n- snsjkqkw It's my first fic (well more like I've taken the courage to actually post it)🥹 do let me know your thoughts on it <3 n consider a reblog if you like it, thank you for reading! 🫶

Masterlist kofi☕

---------------------------------------------------

The soft glow of the overhead light casts long shadows across the dining room, but its warmth does nothing to chase away the cold emptiness creeping into your chest.

You sit in one of the dining chairs, fingers idly tracing the gold band on your ring finger, the once-familiar weight of it feeling heavier than ever. The house is silent, except for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.

Jungkook is late. Again.

You’ve lost count of how many nights have passed like this, curled up alone in bed, the space beside you growing colder with each passing hour.

He always has a reason. A meeting that ran overtime, a last-minute project, something urgent that demands his attention more than you do. And you’ve always understood. Until now.

Your second anniversary is just around the corner, and for the first time in weeks, you have something to look forward to. Something that, surely, he wouldn’t forget.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched dinner on the table. It’s the third time this week you’ve set two plates, only to eat alone. The food has long gone cold, but you still can’t bring yourself to clear it away. Some foolish, desperate part of you still hopes Jungkook will walk through the door, pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies against your skin.

But the door stays closed. Your phone stays silent.

You check the time—almost midnight.

He used to call. Even when he was busy, he always found a way to let you know he was thinking about you. A quick text. A voice note. Something. Now, hours pass without a word, and you’re left wondering when exactly you started feeling like a ghost in your own marriage.

You clench your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This isn’t you. You don’t doubt him. You don’t overthink things. But these days, love feels a lot like waiting, and waiting feels a lot like breaking.

And you’re so damn tired of breaking.

You close your eyes, trying to remember the Jungkook from before, before work took over, before the distance set in. The man who, despite his quiet nature, always found a way to make you feel cherished. He wasn’t one for grand speeches, but his words had always carried weight. Small, simple confessions once meant everything. Now, silence is all you get.

It wasn’t always easy with Jungkook. Back in college, he was cold, reserved, a storm you could never quite predict. But little by little, he let you in. His love had been careful, deliberate, whispered promises in the dark, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingertips brushing against yours like a secret only the two of you understood.

And now, it feels like you’re losing him.

The thought sends a sharp ache through your chest. You tell yourself it’s just work, that the weight of being CEO is heavier than either of you expected. That he still loves you, even if he doesn’t say it as often.

But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.

The clock hits midnight.

You don’t know what you were expecting. A text? A call? Maybe the sound of the front door unlocking, Jungkook stepping in, exhausted but still managing to hold you close?

But there’s nothing.

Your throat tightens as you stare at the small cake sitting on the dining table, the frosting slightly uneven, the decorations a little clumsy. You were never a good cook. Jungkook knew that better than anyone. But in the early days of your marriage, you had tried. Because back then, cooking together had been something special. Flour-dusted fingertips, shared laughter over burnt pancakes, stolen kisses between stirring batter.

So tonight, with him too busy and too stressed, you thought a quiet, cozy celebration would be enough. Something small, something just for the two of you.

But now, looking at the untouched dinner, the unlit candle, and the cake that no longer seems worth eating, you realize how foolish that hope was.

You glance at your phone—no messages, no missed calls.

You put away the plates. You put the cake in the fridge, even though you know it’ll probably stay there, forgotten.

And then you crawl into bed alone, wrapping your arms around yourself because if Jungkook won’t hold you, who else will?

----

You stir, feeling the warmth of an arm lazily draped around your stomach. The weight is familiar, and for a moment it feels like everything is okay.

Jungkook is still asleep. Shirtless, his toned chest rises and falls in steady breaths, his face soft in the morning light. His dark lashes cast faint shadows on his skin, and his lips parted just slightly, making him look so much younger, so much more at peace.

You take your time looking at him, memorizing the exhaustion on his face, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. He must’ve come home late—so late that you hadn’t even heard him.

Still, he’s here. Beside you. And that alone is enough to make something flicker in your chest.

Maybe he’s planned to stay home today.

Of course he remembers.

You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft, loving kiss against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your lips, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it used to.

Jungkook mumbles something incoherent, his brows knitting slightly before relaxing again. A small, sleepy noise escapes him, and the sound makes you giggle softly.

He stirs, his grip on your waist tightening just a little before his lashes flutter open. His dark eyes, still hazy with sleep, land on you, and for a second, there’s nothing but quiet warmth in them.

"You're up early," he murmurs, his voice thick with drowsiness. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your waist, a touch so familiar yet so foreign all at once.

You smile, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't sleep much," you admit softly.

Jungkook hums in response, his eyes falling shut again for a moment. He nuzzles into the pillow, his grip on you still firm like he has no intention of letting you go. And for a brief, fragile second, the weight of last night, of the distance, of everything, seems to disappear.

Maybe he really did plan to stay home today. Maybe this morning means something.

Your heart clenches with the smallest trace of hope.

Jungkook lets out a long breath and shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head before blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His warmth leaves your side, the air turning cold almost instantly.

You watch as his expression shifts, sleep slipping away as his screen lights up. His brows furrow, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Then, with barely a glance in your direction, he mutters, "Shit, I need to get to the office."

The hope you held onto so desperately?

Gone.

You blink, your mind scrambling to catch up.

Maybe he's kidding. Maybe this is just one of his teasing games, the kind where he acts all nonchalant just to catch you off guard later. That’s how it used to be. Him pretending to forget something important, only to turn around and surprise you in a way that left you breathless.

So you wait.

You wait for the smirk to tug at his lips, for him to toss his phone aside and pull you into his arms. You wait for him to kiss you insane, to murmur a husky "Happy anniversary, baby," against your skin.

You wait for him to prove you wrong.

But he doesn't.

Jungkook swings his legs over the bed, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up. He moves through the motions—grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, checking his notifications again, already half-immersed in whatever work emergency is pulling him away.

The realization settles in. suffocating. He’s not playing. He’s not pretending. He really forgot.

And with that, the last flicker of hope inside you dies.

----

The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut barely registers in your mind. The faint rush of water follows soon after, but you’re still frozen in place, staring at the empty space where Jungkook was just moments ago.

Your fingers grip the sheets as you try to process it, try to make sense of the ache settling deep in your chest.

He forgot.

The thought circles endlessly, refusing to fade. It should be simple, just a mistake, something easily fixed with an apology. But it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like another crack in something that’s already been fragile for weeks.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, the screen lighting up with messages from friends and family. Warm wishes, sweet texts. All reminders of the day that Jungkook should have been the first to acknowledge. And of course, they must have messaged him too.

But you know the answer before you even have to question it. Jungkook has two phones—one for work, one for personal use. And these days, his personal phone sits untouched, collecting dust somewhere in the house while his work phone never leaves his side.

Your throat tightens.

Even if someone did remind him, would he have even seen it? Would it have even mattered?

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

Maybe you should say something. Maybe you should remind him.

But a part of you, one that you don’t want to acknowledge—wonders if it even matters anymore.

You push yourself up from the bed, the weight in your chest making it harder than it should be. You don’t want to sit here, waiting for him to remember, waiting for an apology that might never come.

So you move. Just as you step toward the bathroom, the shower turns off. The door opens a moment later, as Jungkook steps out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his toned chest.

For a brief second, your eyes meet. He looks at you, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, his expression unreadable. There’s no sign of realization, no flicker of guilt or hesitation. Just the same tired, distracted gaze you’ve been seeing for weeks.

You say nothing. Instead, you walk past him, entering the washroom to go about your usual routine. brushing your teeth, washing your face, anything to avoid the tightness in your throat.

The sound of the sink running is the only thing filling the silence between you.

By the time you step out of the washroom, Jungkook is already dressed for work. His tie is slightly loosened, one hand adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves while the other holds his ever-present work phone. He looks like he’s in a hurry, but that isn’t surprising. He’s been having breakfast at the office for weeks now—always rushing out, always too busy.

Still, you can’t grasp that he’s actually forgotten.

Some part of you still expects him to pause, to turn around and say something. But he doesn’t. He’s focused on his screen, scanning through emails like today is just another ordinary morning.

Your chest tightens. You need to look away before the emotions creeping up inside you spill over. So, you pretend.

You settle at the table, opening your laptop like it’s just another workday. Since you’ve been working from home for the past couple of months, this isn’t unusual—but today, it’s not about work. It’s about avoiding him. About keeping your head down so he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble slightly.

If you act normal, maybe it’ll hurt less. Maybe you won’t break in front of him.

And maybe, just maybe, if you pretend hard enough, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t hurt at all.

“Baby, can you help me with the tie?”

His voice is smooth- like every other morning before this one. Like today isn’t supposed to mean more.

You hesitate for half a second before standing up, walking towards him. Your fingers move automatically, looping the fabric, tightening the knot, straightening it against his crisp shirt. You should pull away the moment you’re done, return to your seat, to your laptop, to pretending like everything is fine.

But just as you step back, Jungkook’s hand catches your wrist.

Before you can react, he tugs you closer, his warmth enveloping you as his large hand cups the side of your face, fingers splayed against your skin like he’s memorizing the feel of you. His touch is tender, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours for a beat too long. like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, for the first time in days.

Then, he kisses you.

Warm & lingering. Like he actually means it. Like he actually feels it.

“Need it for good luck,” he mumbles lovingly against your lips, his voice deep, hushed.

You blink up at him.

Jungkook pulls back slightly, offering a small smile. “Big deal with the Kims today.”

And just like that, reality crashes back in.

Your mind struggles to process, to understand how he can be like this. How can he kiss you like this and still not remember.

His mind is somewhere else. His thoughts, his focus—none of it is here. None of it is with you.

You force a smile, nodding wordlessly. Because what else is there to say?

----

Jungkook moves around the house, gathering his things- his wallet, his keys. You stay where you are, settled on the couch with your laptop open, pretending to be busy, pretending that your heart isn’t sitting heavy in your chest.

Just as he’s about to leave, he steps toward you, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

Before you can even respond, he’s already halfway through the living room, his focus elsewhere, his steps hurried.

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.

You remember a time when things were different. When he used to whine, pout, and nudge you relentlessly if you didn’t say it back right away, just to tease him.

Flashback

The movie playing in the background had long been forgotten, the dialogue drowned out by the soft moans slipping from your lips. The purple neon glow cast dreamy hues across the living room, painting Jungkook’s skin in shades of violet as he moved above you.

His fingers laced tightly with yours, grip tightening slightly as his thrusts grew more desperate.

“J-Jungkook…” you moaned softly, nails digging into his hand.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby…”

Your body arched beneath him, pleasure building to something uncontrollable. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice deep and rough, sending you tumbling over the edge.

You both unraveled together, gasping, shaking, holding onto each other like the world outside didn’t exist.

Jungkook pressed lazy, loving kisses all over your face, his lips brushing over your cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “You alright?” he whispered.

You nodded, a sleepy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. But then he just stared at you. A little too long. A little too intensely.

And then, barely above a whisper, like a secret meant only for you—he said, “I love you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you bit down on them, trying to contain your smile. He’d been saying it more often lately, slowly getting used to voicing what he felt.

But when you took a second too long to respond, he groaned dramatically, dropping his head into the crook of your neck like a kicked puppy.

“Say it back,” he grumbled.

“What?” you teased, laughing.

Jungkook huffed, then playfully bit down on your shoulder, just enough to make you squeal.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice muffled against your skin.

Still giggling, you cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “I love you, you big baby.”

His grin was instant, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you even closer, like he could never get enough.

End of Flashback

Now, he just says it in passing. quick, thoughtless, already moving on.

The front door clicks shut, and just like that, Jungkook is gone.

You sit there, fingers motionless on your laptop’s keyboard as the weight of what just happened settles deep in your chest. He forgot. He kissed you, held you, told you he loved you, but none of it was because he remembered.

Is this what your relationship has become?

Work, work, work. Always work.

It’s not that you expect Jungkook to run behind you all the time, to ditch his responsibilities just to shower you with affection. Hell, you supported him through everything- through college, through late nights chasing his dreams, through every stressful moment leading up to him becoming CEO. You believed in him.

But what about your love? Your marriage? Communication?

You’ve been patient. Too patient. more understanding than any normal wife would be. And you know Jungkook. You know he loves you, would bring you the whole damn world if you asked. But then why—why are you beginning to question it all?

Jungkook stepped into the CEO position a few months ago. At first, things were fine. He handled it well, still made time for you. But then… everything became about work. Slowly, then all at once.

You can’t even remember the last time you had truly loving sex. Not that Jungkook doesn’t love you but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. There’s tension in his touch, frustration in the way he moves against you. It’s not the warmth, the desperation to be close to you like it used to be.

Is this how life is going to be from now on?

Sure, you could talk to Jungkook about your feelings. Tell him that the distance is starting to feel unbearable.

But when?

When he’s always checking his phone? When he barely even looks at you in the mornings? When you feel like you’re living with the CEO rather than your husband?

Well, happy anniversary to you.

----

Your gaze drops to your hand, to the delicate band wrapped around your finger.

Your wedding ring.

For the first time in a long time, you really look at it- tracing the intricate details, the subtle shimmer in the morning light. And suddenly, it feels… heavier. Like you’re only noticing the weight of it now, as if it’s trying to remind you of everything it once meant.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your fingers slip beneath the band, sliding it off. It’s only when the cool air brushes against your bare skin that it hits you.

Your breath catches, eyes widening at the sight of the ring resting in your palm. You hadn’t even thought about it—you just did it. And now, staring at the small, beautiful piece of jewelry, something inside you cracks. Tears gather before you can stop them.

Jungkook had spent weeks searching for this ring. Dragged you to countless jewelry stores, analyzing every cut, every design, obsessed with finding the perfect one. And no matter how many times you had told him that anything would make you happy, he had refused to settle for less.

"It has to be special," he had murmured against your temple the day he finally found it, slipping it onto your finger with the softest smile. "Because you’re special."

A broken sob escapes your throat as you clutch the ring tightly in your palm.

How did you end up here?

----

Jungkook leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he watches the final contract details appear on his screen. The deal with the Kims had gone smoothly, better than expected, actually. It should’ve been a moment of satisfaction, of relief.

Instead, he just drowns himself in more work.

The hours blur together, his coffee going cold beside him as he moves from one task to another. Another meeting. Another report. Another email. The same routine, the same cycle.

It’s later than evening when a familiar voice interrupts the quiet hum of his office.

“So you’re really here.”

Jungkook glances up, his fingers still typing as Taehyung steps into his cabin, arms crossed, a deep frown on his face.

“Hey, hyung,” Jungkook greets, barely looking away from his screen.

Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head playfully. “I really didn’t believe it when Yuna said you were still in your cabin.”

Jungkook blinks, confused. “Why?”

Taehyung gives him a look like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Y/N must really love you to let you work even today. My wife—dude, she would’ve killed me.”

Jungkook hums absentmindedly, still typing, still lost in work. “Mmm.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue, watching him for a second before letting out a chuckle. “Anyways, you’re still an asshole for working on your anniversary.”

Jungkook’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. The realization crashes into him all at once, like a punch to the gut, like ice spreading through his veins.

Fuck.

Jungkook’s fingers hover motionless over the keyboard.

His mind races to catch up with Taehyung’s words, but they don’t make sense. Not right away.

Anniversary?

No, that can’t be right. His brows furrow slightly as he glances at the date on his laptop screen.

November 22.

His wedding anniversary.

For a second, he just stares, as if the numbers might shift into something else, something that doesn’t prove what an absolute idiot he’s been. His heartbeat picks up, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like his brain refuses to register it fully, like if he doesn’t react, it won’t be real.

He’d forgotten.

Completely.

No hints, no reminders, no last-minute realization before heading out this morning. Just an entire day of emails, meetings, and a deal he had been so damn focused on that he hadn’t even spared a single thought for you.

His wife.

But—no, that can’t be right. He would’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered.

His jaw tightens, his mind scrambling for some excuse, some reason. anything to justify how this happened. But no matter how many ways he tries to twist it, the truth doesn’t change.

You had expected something. Of course you had. And Jungkook had given you nothing.

Taehyung’s voice barely registers now, his casual teasing just background noise to the way Jungkook’s pulse is starting to hammer against his ribs.

His wife. His love. His anniversary.

And he had let it pass him by like it was just another day.

How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?

Taehyung squints at Jungkook, waiting for some kind of reaction. When Jungkook stays quiet, his fingers frozen over the keyboard, Taehyung lets out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He leans forward, palms flat on Jungkook’s desk. “You just realized, didn’t you?”

Jungkook inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Hyung, not now.”

“Oh, no. Especially now,” Taehyung shoots back, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Y/N must really love you to put up with this shit.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, his mind already spiraling. He checks the time—late. The entire day is gone. He’s spent hours sitting here, drowning himself in work while you—

Fuck.

He pushes his chair back abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. His coat is next, yanked from the back of his chair as he moves on instinct.

“Whoa, whoa.” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So now you care?”

Jungkook levels him with a glare, his voice lower, sharper. “Hyung.”

Taehyung lifts his hands in surrender, though his smirk lingers. “Go. Try not to get divorced on your second anniversary.”

Jungkook doesn’t wait for another word. He’s already out the door, moving faster than he has all day.

And for the first time today, work is the last thing on his mind.

----

Jungkook’s mind races as he grips the steering wheel, his fingers tightening with every passing second. The city lights blur past, but all he can focus on is the suffocating weight in his chest.

How the fuck did he forget?

His phone vibrates in the passenger seat- probably another work email but for the first time in months, he ignores it. Instead, he swipes through his contacts, pressing the first name that comes to mind.

“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, jaw clenched as the dial tone rings.

“Yes, Mr.Jeon?”

“Yuna.” His voice is rushed, urgent. “I need you to get me something. Flowers. A gift. Something big—just—fuck, anything.”

A pause. “Sir?”

“Now,” he snaps.

There’s a shuffle on the other end before his assistant hesitantly speaks again. “I…Mr.Jeon, it’s almost 10 p.m. Most places are closed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Of course they are. Because he’s too fucking late.

His grip tightens around the wheel. “Just—check. Call whoever. I’ll pay whatever.”

“Understood,” Yuna replies before hanging up.

What the fuck is he even doing?

No expensive gift, no overpriced bouquet, no last-minute grand gesture can erase the fact that he forgot. That he spent an entire day drowning in work while you—his wife, his love, the woman who has stood by him through everything—sat at home, waiting for him to remember.

His hands clench the wheel.

How much had he missed? How much had he ignored?

And the worst part—the part that makes his pulse spike, that has panic clawing at his ribs is the question he doesn’t have an answer to.

What if you’re done waiting?

Jungkook slams his foot down on the gas.

He’s not losing you. He won’t.

----

Jungkook steps into the house, and immediately, something feels off. The air is still. The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against his chest. Almost all the lights are off, the space eerily empty, like no one has been here for hours.

His throat dries. “Baby?”

No answer.

He frowns, dropping his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink. His feet move quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway leading to the bedroom. nothing.

A weird feeling starts creeping up his spine. His heart beats faster as he strides toward the bedroom door, only to find the bed untouched, the sheets exactly the way he had left them this morning.

You’re not here.

His pulse spikes, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. His hands tremble as he yanks his phone out, immediately dialing your number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Straight to voicemail.

His stomach drops. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at his screen, the call log mocking him with the lack of response. His fingers tighten around the device, his mind spiraling.

Where are you? At this time of night, alone- where could you have gone?

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. His lungs strain for air.

Then, another thought claws its way in, violent and unwelcome.

Did you leave?

No. No. His chest tightens, his breath coming faster now. That’s not—that’s not possible. You wouldn’t just leave him. You wouldn’t—

He swallows hard, shaking his head. Don’t go there, Jungkook. Don’t even fucking go there.

But the panic is already curling around his ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.

You’re not here. And right now, that is the worst fucking thing in the world.

Jungkook’s fingers tremble as he redials your number.

Voicemail. Again.

“Fuck.” His breath comes out uneven, panic clawing at his throat. His hands are clammy, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where are you?

His mind is spiraling now, every worst-case scenario flashing through his head. His jaw clenches as he swipes to his contact list calling your friends.

Each time, the same response.

No, I haven’t seen her.

Did you check with—

Wait, what’s going on?

Jungkook grits his teeth, his hand tightening into a fist. His breathing is shallow, his pulse out of control. You weren’t with your friends. You weren’t picking up. You weren’t home.

And he still had no idea where you were.

Jungkook grabs his car keys with shaky hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t have a plan. All he knows is that he has to find you.

His feet move on instinct, carrying him toward the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, something catches his eye.

A small glint.

His breath stills. His gaze shifts toward the couch, and that’s when he sees it.

Your wedding ring.

Sitting there. Abandoned.

For a moment, everything stops. The pounding in his chest, the rush of his movements—everything.

The air in the room feels heavier, suffocating. His fingers twitch at his sides as he stares at the delicate band, his stomach twisting into something painful.

You never took it off. Never.

Jungkook swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He steps forward, slowly, almost cautiously, like touching it will somehow make this nightmare real.

His hand trembles as he picks it up, the cool metal pressing into his palm..

Jungkook stares at the ring in his palm, his vision blurring as a lump lodges itself in his throat. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, his chest tightening painfully.

You wouldn’t just leave him like that… would you?

The thought alone knocks the air from his lungs. His grip on the ring tightens as his mind spirals, drowning in questions that only make the ache worse.

Were you thinking about this before today?

How long have you been feeling like this, so alone, so unloved that taking off your ring even crossed your mind?

A sharp breath escapes him, shaky and uneven. His knees buckle, and before he can stop himself, he’s sinking onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

The ring feels heavier than it should, pressing into his palm like a cruel reminder of everything he’s neglected, everything he’s taken for granted. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a slow, trembling breath.

He needs to find you. He needs to fix this.

Before it’s too late.

Jungkook exhales shakily, forcing himself to move. His legs feel unsteady, but he pushes through, gripping the wedding ring so tightly it bites into his skin.

Somehow, he manages to stand, his entire body tense with desperation. He stumbles toward the door, his heart pounding, his mind racing with every possibility of where you could be.

But just as his fingers reach for the handle—

The door swings open.

And there you are.

Jungkook freezes, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, everything stills. His panic, his thoughts, his entire world narrowing to the sight of you standing in front of him.

Then, in the blink of an eye, he moves.

He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His grip is desperate, his hands fisting into your clothes, his entire body pressing against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You stand there, stunned, your own arms hovering slightly, unsure of what just happened.

"…Jungkook?” your voice comes out confused, hesitant.

But he just clings to you, burying his face into your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

You don’t know what’s going on.

But Jungkook?

He feels like he just got his heart beating again. You feel the way his body trembles against yours, his grip impossibly tight, like he’s holding onto you for dear life.

Then, the sound reaches you. A broken, uneven breath, followed by the unmistakable hitch of a sob.

Your heart clenches. “Kook…” Your voice is soft, laced with worry as you try to pull back, just enough to see his face. But he doesn’t let you. His arms only tighten, his body curling into yours, as if letting go would physically hurt him.

Panic bubbles in your chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to cradle his face, your fingers threading into his hair. “Hey… what happened?” Your voice wavers slightly. “Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

But Jungkook just shakes his head against your shoulder, another quiet, shaky breath leaving him.

You don’t understand.

But whatever this is, whatever’s breaking him like this—your own heart aches just watching him fall apart. Your concern deepens with every shaky breath that leaves Jungkook. He’s still clinging to you, his body trembling slightly, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t know what’s wrong, but seeing him like this—Jungkook, your Jungkook—completely unraveling, is enough to make panic rise in your chest.

Gently, you pull back, your hands cupping his face. His skin is warm, slightly damp from his tears, and when his glassy eyes finally meet yours, your stomach twists painfully.

“Come inside,” you whisper, your voice softer now, coaxing. “Please.”

He swallows thickly, nodding ever so slightly, but his grip on you doesn’t fully loosen. You guide him inside anyway, one hand wrapped around his wrist as you lead him toward the couch.

He sits down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhales shakily. His shoulders are still tense, his whole body radiating something raw and unspoken.

You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands, but he doesn’t lift his head.

Your worry deepens. “Jungkook… please tell me what’s wrong.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. His fingers twitch against his temples, his breath uneven.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, cracking slightly. He swallows hard, gripping his knees. “I thought you left me.”

You blink, his words settling in, but it takes you a moment to fully process them.

He thought you left him?

Your brows furrow slightly as you shake your head. “Jungkook, I was babysitting Hanuel.”

His breath is still uneven, his hands gripping his knees like he’s trying to ground himself. His eyes flick up to meet yours, confused, searching.

“Hana and Seokjin had a date night,” you explain gently. “They asked me to watch him for a few hours.”

Hanuel, your neighbour's son. Jungkook stares at you, his body still tense, like his mind hasn’t caught up yet. You watch as his lips part slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the ring still clutched in his hand.

His fingers tighten around it, his knuckles paling. A beat of silence passes before he swallows thickly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…Then why was this on the couch?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if he’s afraid of the answer. And for the first time tonight, you don’t know what to say.

“I…” The word barely escapes your lips before you stand up, turning away from him. You can’t meet his eyes, not when your emotions are still raw, not when the weight of everything is pressing so heavily on your chest.

Jungkook notices immediately. Panic flickers across his face, and in an instant, he’s scrambling up after you. “Wait—baby, please.” His voice is desperate now, thick with emotion, his hands reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping closer, his tone cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I—fuck, I forgot—I don’t know how, I don’t even have an excuse, but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head, his eyes glassy as they plead with yours.

“I never meant to make you feel like this,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t.” But you still don’t look at him. And that alone is enough to make his heart sink.

You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stare at the floor. His words, his desperation, his guilt—they all swirl around you, but they don’t erase the ache in your chest.

“Do you even realize how much this hurt?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight of it makes Jungkook flinch. “I spent the entire day thinking—hoping—that maybe you had something planned. That maybe you were just pretending to forget.”

Jungkook’s throat bobs as he steps closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold onto him either.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know I fucked up, baby. I—I was so caught up in work, I just…” He trails off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not an excuse. Nothing is. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been there.”

You let out a hollow laugh, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. “Jungkook… this isn’t just about today.”

His brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a shaky breath. “It’s been weeks..maybe even longer—since I felt like your wife instead of just… someone waiting for you to come home.” Your voice wavers, but you push through. “And it’s not that I don’t understand. I do. I’ve always understood. But at what point do I stop being understanding and start being invisible to you?”

Jungkook’s breath catches, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re not invisible,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “You never could be.”

“Then why do I feel like I am?”

Silence.

Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he exhales unsteadily. “I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he murmurs. “You are everything to me, baby. Everything. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then show me, Jungkook. Because I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The vulnerability in your voice nearly breaks him.

He’s been losing you, piece by piece, for a while now. And he hadn’t even noticed.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop, the weight of your words hitting harder than any argument, any fight you could have thrown at him. His grip on your hand tightens, but you don’t squeeze back.

He’s losing you.

And it’s not because of one forgotten anniversary—it’s because he hasn’t been here.

He swallows hard. “Baby…” His voice cracks, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, but you step back before he can touch you.

The distance, however small, is enough to make his chest ache.

“Tell me, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “When was the last time we sat down and had breakfast together? When was the last time you really looked at me—not just kissed me on the forehead before rushing out the door?” You shake your head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “When was the last time we made love without it feeling like you were trying to release your stress instead of loving me?”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

You let out a slow exhale, your voice calmer now but even heavier with hurt. “I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fancy gifts or a picture-perfect romance. I just… needed you to see me.”

His entire body feels cold. Because the truth is—he doesn’t have an answer.

He’s been so caught up in his responsibilities, his work, his stress, that he’s let the one person who has always been there for him slip through his fingers.

And the worst part? He didn’t even realize it was happening until now.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, his hands running through his hair as he looks at you, really looks at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lips tremble slightly like you’re holding back everything.

His heart clenches painfully. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you hold his gaze for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know, Jungkook. Did you?”

Jungkook's breath is unsteady, his chest rising and falling too quickly as he stares at you, at the distance between you, the weight of your words suffocating him.

He moves. Before you can react, his hands are cupping your face, his touch desperate, almost shaky. His forehead presses against yours as he exhales a trembling breath, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I see you,” he whispers, his voice raw, strained. “I swear to god, I see you, baby. I just..I lost myself somewhere along the way, and I didn’t even realize I was dragging us down with me.”

His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, a silent plea laced in his touch. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t push him away. You should- you should make him sit with this, make him feel what it’s been like for you all this time. But then his grip tightens, his voice breaking.

“Please, baby.” His lips hover just above yours, not quite touching, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me it’s not too late.”

His vulnerability shakes you to your core.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want to lose us either, Jungkook,” you whisper. “But I can’t keep being the only one holding on.”

Jungkook shakes his head instantly. “You’re not. You won’t be.” His lips ghost over your forehead before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let me prove it to you. Please.”

His desperation is tangible, seeping into every word, every touch. And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—he really does see you now.

Jungkook watches you, searching for something—anything in your eyes that tells him he hasn’t completely lost you.

Before doubt can settle in, he takes your hand, pressing it over his chest, right where his heart is hammering wildly. “Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Always.”

Your fingers twitch against his shirt, but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all, just staring up at him, your expression unreadable.

He swallows hard. “I know I don’t say it enough. I know I don’t show it enough, but fuck, Y/n—” His hands tighten around yours, his voice barely above a breath. “There is nothing in this world that matters more to me than you.”

You let out a slow exhale, your gaze flickering, like you want to believe him. like a part of you does, but the hurt is still too fresh. So he gives you more.

“I’ll fix this,” he promises, his thumb brushing soft circles over your wrist. “Not with flowers, or gifts, or some last-minute bullshit—but with me. With us.”

His voice drops lower, thick with emotion. “Just tell me it’s not too late.” Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. Instead, you finally—finally press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart beats erratically beneath your touch.

It’s enough to break something inside Jungkook. His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek—slow, hesitant, as if he’s still afraid you’ll slip away.

And when you don’t, when you let him, he exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours once more.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Like if he says it enough, he can make up for all the times he didn’t. And maybe, just maybe—you’ll believe him again.

Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, his forehead still pressed against yours, his grip on you unwavering. His words linger in the air between you. raw, desperate, filled with a love that had always been there, even when he’d failed to show it.

You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision. He’s waiting—watching you so intently, so hopelessly, as if your next words will either put him back together or completely shatter him.

You take a shaky breath. “Jungkook…” Your voice wavers, and his grip tightens instinctively. “I love you too.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his entire body sinking slightly in relief. But before he can say anything, you continue. “But this hurt,” you whisper. “More than you realize.”

Jungkook stiffens, nodding quickly, his hands cupping your face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. “I know, baby. I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice cracks, his jaw clenching before he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want promises, Jungkook,” you murmur. “I just… I need to feel like I matter to you again.”

His hands tremble slightly as they slide down, wrapping around yours. He lifts them to his lips, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to each of your knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“You do,” he whispers. “More than anything. And I’m going to spend every damn day proving that to you.” His voice is steady now. no hesitation, no doubt. Just quiet, determined love. And though the ache in your chest hasn’t fully faded, something shifts.

Because this time, you don’t just hear him. You believe him. Even if just a little.

Jungkook presses another lingering kiss against your knuckles, his touch reverent, as if grounding himself in you. But before he can lose himself completely, you gently murmur, “Have you eaten?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He shakes his head, gaze still searching yours. “No… I—"

“Go freshen up,” you say softly, stepping back just a little. “We’ll eat together.”

His fingers twitch against yours, hesitating to let go, but eventually, he nods. With one last glance—like he’s making sure you’re really here, he pulls away and heads toward the shower.

While he’s gone, you move to the kitchen, setting out dinner in quiet contemplation. The ache in your chest hasn’t completely faded, but there’s something else now- a warmth that wasn’t there before.

----

By the time Jungkook emerges, hair damp, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, you’ve already placed the food on the table.

He hesitates for only a second before joining you, sliding into his chair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice softer now.

You nod, offering a small smile as you take a seat. The conversation is light, effortless. Jungkook fills the silence, stealing glances at you like he’s still memorizing you all over again. And through it all, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin.

After dinner, he helps with the dishes, working beside you in quiet understanding. The air between you feels lighter, yet still fragile, like something delicate being pieced back together.

Jungkook sets the last dish onto the drying rack, wiping his hands on the towel before turning to you. There’s a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes, like he’s clinging to this moment.

You step away, hesitating for just a second before opening the refrigerator. Jungkook watches in silence as you carefully pull out the cake, placing on the counter, your fingers grazing the edges of the plate, before finally speaking.

“I…I’d made this.”

The words are quiet, but they hit harder than any raised voice ever could. Jungkook’s entire body stiffening as guilt crashes into him all over again. His eyes flicker to the cake- to the careful details, the effort, the thought you had put into it, for him. And suddenly, it feels like the walls are caving in.

His throat tightens. His fingers curl at his sides. He can’t look at you. He doesn’t deserve to. Tears gather in his eyes, blurring his vision, his heart breaking all over again, not just because he forgot today, but because he had broken you in so many ways without even realizing it.

And that? That’s something he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for.

“Jungkook..”, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a knife.

He wants to look at you, wants to say something—anything, but he can’t. His head remains bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, as if holding himself together takes everything in him.

You take a small step forward, the space between you feeling larger than it actually is. His silence is deafening.

“Jungkook,” you say again, a little firmer this time.

His lips part, a shaky breath slipping through, but no words come out. He wants to speak, to apologize again, to tell you how much he loves you, to somehow fix this- but his throat feels tight, his chest heavy.

He doesn’t know if words are enough.

“I… I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” Jungkook chokes out, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. His hands shake at his sides, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been an asshole—a terrible husband. I don’t even know how to make this right.” His breath stutters, his words spilling out faster now, raw and desperate.

“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you left me,” he continues, shaking his head. “You should’ve. You deserve better. I—I can’t believe I—”

“Jungkook.”

You don’t let him finish.

Instead, you reach up, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that have already begun to fall. His lips part in surprise, his rambling cut off as you rise onto your toes.

A gentle kiss on his lips.

Soft. Loving.

Tear-streaked and real.

Jungkook exhales shakily against your lips, his whole body melting into yours. His hands find your waist, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

The kiss is slow, there's no desperation, no urgency. Just you and him, emotions bare. Tears continue to slip down your cheeks, mixing with his, salty and warm, but neither of you pull away. Because in this moment, there’s no need for words.

Just this.

Just love.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing heavily, your tears still wet against each other’s skin. Jungkook’s grip on your waist is firm, like he’s grounding himself in your touch, afraid to let go. His lips part, like he wants to speak, but before he can, you whisper,

“You’re not a terrible husband, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes glisten with more unshed tears, his lips pressing into a thin line, unable to speak. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs, offering him the smallest smile. “Just… love me better, okay?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, nodding again, more determined this time. “I will.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you believe him.

You press one last gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping back, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. “Come on,” you say, nudging him lightly. “Let’s cut this before it melts.”

Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, wiping at his face as he nods. He steps beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours again as you both move toward the small cake. The two of you cut into it together, Jungkook’s fingers lacing through yours around the knife handle. He doesn’t let go, even as you both take small bites in comfortable silence.

Once the plates are cleared, you tug at his wrist, nodding toward the bedroom. “Come to bed?”

Jungkook exhales, relief washing over his features as he nods. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, you’re both under the covers, warmth surrounding you as Jungkook pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap tightly around you, his breath fanning against the top of your head as he whispers,

“I love you.”

This time, you don’t hesitate to say it back.

“I love you too, Jungkook.”

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms, where you’ve always belonged.

Jungkook’s fingers still tremble against your skin. Even as he holds you, his grip is laced with hesitance, a silent fear lingering beneath the warmth of his touch. It’s in the way his hands press into your back yet remain careful, as if he’s afraid of holding on too tightly.

You can feel the erratic thud of his heart beneath your palm, his breaths uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’s struggling to keep himself steady.

And something about that, about him—makes your own heart ache.

Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, your eyes locking onto his in the dim glow of the room. His lips part slightly, his gaze unreadable, but the moment you lean in, his breath catches.

You kiss him.

It starts soft, so gentle, full of longing. Filled with everything you can’t put into words.

Jungkook melts into it instantly, his grip on you tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of his lips, the slight hitch in his breath when you press harder. it sends a familiar heat curling through you.

The kiss deepens, your fingers gripping his t-shirt with urgency, needing to feel more. It’s desperate, heady, the space between you charged with something deeper than just want—something raw, something that had been missing for too long.

Jungkook pulls back gently. His forehead stays pressed against yours, both of you panting softly, but his hands shake slightly as they hold you in place.

His lips part, his breath uneven. “I… we shouldn’t…” He swallows hard, voice thick with hesitation. “I mean… I don’t want you to think I’m gonna fix this with sex.”

His words cut through the haze of warmth between you, grounding you both back in reality. You understand. Because even now—even now, he’s afraid. Afraid that this isn’t enough. Afraid that he isn’t enough.

Your eyes soften as you take in his hesitance, the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his breath trembles against your skin.

You reach up, your fingers threading gently through his hair. “I’m never gonna think like that, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quiet but sure.

His lips part slightly, his brows still knitted in concern, but before he can say anything, you lean in again. This time, the kiss is softer, filled with nothing but love.

You linger for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “I just… I need you.” Another soft kiss. “Please.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, his entire body shuddering under the weight of your words.

And just like that, whatever hesitation he had left—it’s gone.

Your breaths grow uneven as your lips move against his, the heat between you intensifying with every passing second.

Jungkook shifts, his body hovering over yours, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel him. His hands slip beneath the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his touch still hesitant, fingertips ghosting over your waist like he’s memorizing the feel of you all over again.

But you don’t want hesitation.

You tug at his shirt, a silent plea, and Jungkook obeys without question, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Before he can think, you pull him back in, capturing his lips in another deep, hungry kiss.

A quiet groan escapes him, his hands finally exploring freely, pressing against your skin, feeling the warmth beneath his palms. His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath warm as he presses soft, lingering kisses there.

You shiver when he reaches the collar of your shirt, your own hands moving to help him remove it. Dark, love-filled eyes roam over every inch of your skin, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the words but nothing he could say would ever be enough. Still, he tries.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucking perfect.”

Your breath catches when he lowers himself again, his lips planting soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, trailing lower over your shoulder, your chest. Your husband's mouth mapping you like you’re something sacred.

His lips slowly wrap around one breast, his tongue flicking teasingly before sucking softly. A moan escapes you, your fingers tangling into his hair, tugging lightly as he hums against your skin. His other hand moves to your neglected breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he keeps mouthing sweet nothings against you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers between kisses, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you so much, baby.”

And as the heat between you builds, his touch grows bolder. A desperate whimper escapes your lips as your fingers tangle deeper into Jungkook’s hair, your body arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

He groans against your skin, the sound low and warm, vibrating through you. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, pressing another lingering kiss to your chest before trailing lower, his lips tracing the curves of your body. “Let me take my time… let me make love to you.”

The way he says it, love—makes your stomach tighten, your heart aching as much as your body craves him. His hands glide down your waist, slow and purposeful, before slipping between your legs. His fingers find the damp fabric of your panties, pressing just lightly enough to make you gasp. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his touch, and Jungkook groans at the feeling.

His dark eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all he needs.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he tugs your panties down, dragging them slowly along your legs before discarding them somewhere behind him. His gaze never leaves you as he lowers himself further, trailing kisses down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips.

He settles between your legs. You feel completely bare under his intense gaze, the way his lips part slightly, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something reverent, something devoted. His hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, soothing circles.

“My wife.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, making your core clench in anticipation.

Finally, he closes his mouth around you. One long, slow stroke of his tongue, and you fall apart instantly, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.

Jungkook hums against you, pleased, his hands gripping your thighs as he licks another slow, teasing stripe through your folds. “So fucking sweet,” he groans, the heat of his breath against your slick skin making your body tremble. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

He isn't just making love, he's devouring you.

Jungkook hums against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes. learning you all over again, savoring every little gasp and shudder that escapes you.

“Jungkook—” Your voice is breathless, almost pleading, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging him closer.

He groans at that, the sound reverberating through your core as he laps at you with more purpose. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, testing, before he sucks gently, making your back arch off the bed.

“Fuck—” You whimper, your thighs threatening to close around his head, but his strong hands keep you spread wide, completely at his mercy.

His lips brushing your sensitive skin as he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick, his dark eyes burning with desire.

Your cheeks burn, he dives back in, this time with more urgency. His tongue moves in tight circles, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deeper, firmer licks that have your breath hitching.

One hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying across your skin before reaching your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers. The combined sensation makes your thighs tremble, a moan tearing from your lips as your hips buck against his mouth.

Jungkook groans, clearly enjoying how responsive you are, his grip on you tightening as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. He flicks his tongue over your clit again, then sucks, harder this time, sending sparks shooting through your body.

“-fuck, Jungkook—” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against you, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

The heat inside you is unbearable now, hot and consuming. You nod desperately, your moans spilling freely as you grip his hair, your body teetering on the edge. Jungkook doesn’t stop. He pushes you closer, his mouth working you over with expert precision, his hands holding you steady as your body starts to tremble.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your heat. “Let me taste you.”

And with one final flick of his tongue, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you, your back arching, thighs trembling as you moan his name like a prayer. Jungkook groans, drinking in everything you give him, his hands stroking your body as he helps you ride it out.

Only when your body goes slack does he finally pull away, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs, his voice thick with pride and adoration. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. “My love. My wife.”

Jungkook moves up, trailing kisses along your body, over your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. When he reaches your lips, he captures them in a deep, languid kiss, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile, something cherished.

Your fingers roam over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving lower, brushing over his abdomen until you reach the hardness straining against his sweats.

A groan rumbles from his chest at your touch, his hips twitching into your palm as you cup him, feeling just how ready he is.

“Baby…” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. You tug at the waistband of his pants, wordlessly asking for more. Jungkook obliges, sitting back just enough to push them down, kicking them off entirely.

He’s fully hard, the sight of him making your stomach tighten, heat pooling between your legs again. But before you can even reach for him Jungkook takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The intimacy of it overwhelming.

His other hand moves between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure-

With a final nod from you, he pushes in, slow and careful, stretching you inch by inch.

A soft moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook kisses you instantly, swallowing the sound, his own groan muffled against your mouth as he sinks deeper. The moment he’s fully inside, he stills, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in. And as he holds you close, as your bodies mold together so seamlessly, you realize- this isn't just sex.

This is home.

Jungkook moves slowly, each roll of his hips deep and deliberate, as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he let slip away. His body is pressed flush against yours, warmth seeping into every inch of your skin, his breath shaky against your lips as he kisses you between each movement.

Your fingers dig softly into his back, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him. One hand moves to his hair, your fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently as his lips travel from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart ache.

It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s love.

And then, suddenly, you feel it.

A faint tremble against your body.

Something warm and wet against your neck where Jungkook has buried his face.

Your breath catches as realization dawns- he’s crying. Tears gather in your own eyes without warning, the sheer weight of the moment crashing over you all at once.

You tighten your hold on him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you press a soft kiss into his hair. “Kook…” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.

He shudders at your touch, at the way you hold him, like you’re not just letting him fall apart but falling apart with him.

“I—” His voice cracks as he exhales shakily, his thrusts faltering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His lips find your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he presses kisses there—apology after apology, praise after praise.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his words thick with emotion. “You always have been.” A tear slips down your cheek as you cup his face, guiding him up until his forehead rests against yours.

“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I know, Jungkook.”

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss slow and deep, his movements resuming, gentle but full of something raw, something unspoken. His hands grip your waist tighter, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, as if this moment is rewriting everything.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, voice laced with love. “I’ll always have you.”

Jungkook shudders, gripping you tighter, his lips pressing against your shoulder, his movements slowing but never stopping. You can feel the love in every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath against your skin.

And when the pleasure builds to its peak, you come undone together, your bodies melting into one as waves of warmth crash over you. His name spills from your lips, his deep groan following right after, his arms holding you so tight you swear he never plans on letting go.

Silence lingers, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the space. Then, Jungkook shifts, lifting his head just enough to press the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of devotion. “I don’t deserve you… but I swear, I’ll spend my life proving that I do.”

You cup his face, your thumb brushing away the remnants of dried tears. “Just love me like this, Jungkook,” you whisper, voice steady. “That’s all I need.”

His hands tightening around you as his forehead presses against yours. “I’ll love you more,” he vows, his voice breaking slightly. “More than this, more than anything. Always.” His words settle deep in your chest, warm and real, and when he pulls you impossibly closer, tucking you into his arms, you believe him.

His heartbeat is steady now, no longer frantic with fear. Just warm, solid, home.

As sleep begins to pull you under, you hear him whisper one last thing against your hair.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”

---------------------------------------------------