#he has done bare arms now it's time to show some Leg

[rqsie63]

the claim has been made ; yuki tsunoda.

Of course Yuki in his navy Red Bull tee goes viral. And of course you get a little jealous of those thirsty comments. But he makes sure you know you're the only one whose attention he needs.

🏁: yuki tsunoda x jealous girlfriend! reader.

🏁: SMUT. (nothing too crazy bc I suck at writing smut). smau ending. english is not my first language. i think that's it.

🪻: who else cried after yukierre crashed?, anyways let's forget about that and appreciate how good yuki looks in the red bull t-shirt. a whole snack. sorry if this is kinda bad or feels rushed , I'm trying my best to exercise the written fanfic more😭. enjoy 💙.

Mónaco, late afternoon. The sun's casting golden lights trough the windows.

You're scrolling on the couch, phone in hand, biting the inside of your cheek.

"You've gone viral again", you say.

He raises a brow. "Yeah?"

You turn your phone towards him, and sure enough is that photo - him in the navy Red Bull tee, sleeves hugging his arms like a second skin. The comments are chaos.

"Wait, when did Yuki get HOT-hot?"

"Staring at those biceps like it's my full time job"

He grins. "I mean... I do look kinda good."

You roll your eyes, tossing the phone down. "I'm very aware, those comments make sure I know everyone wants a piece of you now."

Yuki's smirks widens as he padd over to you. Towel slug around his neck. "Wait... are you jealous?"

You cross your arms, but the way your eyes rake down his chest says yes, absolutely. "I'm not jealous, I just - some of those comments were a lot, okay?"

Yuki steps between your legs, hands resting on your thighs. “Baby…”

“Don’t.”

“I only want one person’s attention,” he murmurs, leaning in, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Yours.”

You´re still pouting, just a little. He trails kisses down your jaw.

“I don’t care how many people zoom in on my photos,” he says, hands sliding under your hoodie, “because no one else gets this.”

Your breath hitches. “Gets what?”

“This mouth,” he whispers, lips ghosting over yours. “These hands.” He grabs your thighs, squeezing. “And all the things I want to do to you.”

Your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. “You’re cocky today.”

“Mm.” He grinds against you just enough for you to feel him. “Wonder why.”

“Tell me what they said again.”, He continued.

Yuki’s voice is low, closer to a growl than a question—as he kneels in front of you, pulling your panties down your thighs at an excruciatingly slow pace. His hands are warm, steady.

You exhale sharply, back arching as he leans in to kiss the inside of your knee.

“They said… your arms looked good.”

He hums. “Just my arms?”

Your back shivers. “Your jaw. Your neck. Your thighs. Your everything.”

He chuckles, kisses higher. “But they don’t get to touch, do they?”

You shake your head, eyes already glassy. “No.”

His mouth is so close now, breath hot against you. “They don’t know what you taste like.”

Then he finally drags his tongue through your folds; slow, deliberate. You gasp, hips jerking, and he locks his arms around your thighs, anchoring you in place.

“I do,” he murmurs against you, voice ragged. “I know.”

He eats you out like he has something to prove—like every flick of his tongue is a love letter, every moan he draws out of you is a trophy. One hand slides up to your stomach, grounding you, the other tangled in yours—fingers laced tight.

When you come, it’s with his name on your lips, thighs shaking around his head. But he’s not done.

Yuki stands, mouth slick, eyes dark with devotion and heat. “You think I’m gonna let anyone else even imagine making you feel like that?”

You barely catch your breath before he’s kissing you—deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He lifts you, carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing, and lays you down on the bed.

“I love you,” he says, lining himself up, voice wrecked. “So much it scares me sometimes.”

You cup his face, eyes soft even as your legs pull him closer. “Then show me.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly, savoring every inch, forehead pressed to yours. You both moan, breathing each other in.

The rhythm builds—deep and unhurried. It’s about claiming. About connection.

He keeps whispering to you as he moves: “You’re the only one I want.”, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

And when you finally fall apart together, it’s quiet—no screaming, no chaos. Just trembling limbs, whispered names, hands never letting go. Afterward, you lie tangled in each other, skin flushed and hearts racing.

Yuki brushes your hair from your face, eyes searching yours like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

“You know they can thirst all they want,” he murmurs. “But I’m already taken.”

You smile lazily, pressing a kiss to his chest.

“Damn right you are.”

liked by yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly, carlossainz55 and others.

yourusername he's hot. he's perfect. he's mine. stay hydrated babes.

view all comments...

yukitsunoda0511: i bet the person who took these is even hotter and perfect 🤭

username1: no way she saw those thirsty comments about yuki and now she's giving us more material

pierregasly: miss possessive

yourusername: no seriously, get your eyes off my man

© rqsie63 | 2025.

[anneapocalypse]

Listen, I just really needed to see him in the new glam. And I like what I see.

[humanjarvis]

forever boy

synopsis: you used to tell caleb everything. so why doesn’t he know about your new tattoos?

tags: fluff to angst to fluff, you get tattoos without telling caleb and he freaks out and you argue, he guilts you into showing him, surprise reveal (guess what the tattoos are), references to the fleet stuff and his bionic arm, caleb has nightmares, pathetic puppy caleb is back, he’s in the doghouse (ha get it) for less than a day, groveling, happy ending word count: 2.3k

a/n: i am proud of this i think. i made up some dates bc idk the timeline in this game. i also have no tattoos if you were wondering. there are allusions to a beloved recent drabble of mine in here can you guess which one

“Get off of me!” you squeal, gasping through chortles as Caleb's fiendish fingers dance over your belly.

“No can do, pips. Tickle monster doesn’t let his victims off that easy.”

He’s had you pinned down on the couch for almost 10 minutes now, poking and prodding at your sides until you’d grown nauseous from laughter. 

But still, Caleb won’t relent. Each time you swat his chest, try to bring your knee up between his legs—cute—he only moves his hands faster. For all the months he’d spent starved for your smile, he’s making up for lost time, he thinks. 

“I’m not…laughing because I’m having fun,” you wheeze, wriggling under him unsuccessfully. “This is basically torture. When I get free…I’m making sure you get a dishonorable discharge.” 

“What?” he smirks down at you. “If this is so torturous, why don’t you just push me off? Waitttt,” he gasps, leaning in conspiratorially. “It can’t be because I’m stronger than you, can it?” 

As his infuriatingly smug, annoyingly handsome face looms over you, Caleb doesn’t realize he’s flown too close to the sun. Before he can react, you capitalize on the opening. Squirming out from beneath him, you take advantage of his surprise and use the momentum to flip him over, your hips now on his waist in a straddle. 

“What were you saying?” you ask sweetly, the triumph in your voice slightly dampened by the way you’re still gulping down oxygen.

“Huh,” he shrugs, voice entirely too cheery for someone who’d just been bested. “I guess I stand corrected. Looks like someone’s been getting their reps in.” 

“Won’t you admit defeat, then, Mr. Monster?” you smirk. And as you lean over him to assert your victory, Caleb can’t help but gawk at the way your lips part, your shirt rides up, your tattoo shines in the warm light of the—Wait. Your tattoo?!?

No matter how many times he blinked, there was no mistaking it. There, right on the side of your once-bare ribcage, lies the prominent, pitch-black ink.

You’re still hovering over him, your light, playful chuckles fanning his face, but they slowly fade out when his muscles go rigid. Perplexed, you follow his gaze down your body until you finally spot your exposed skin, and with the way you go rigid, Caleb can tell an argument is brewing between you. 

The tense silence permeates the air, as if erasing the precious laughter he’d so giddily won from you just moments before. 

Like usual, you break first. You couldn’t stand his silence, you’d said the last time. The way it makes you feel small, like you’ve done something wrong, like you’re in trouble. “So help me God, Caleb, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. Whatever you’re about to say, drop it. You can tickle me until my sides bleed, just—don’t.” 

But Caleb, as much as he loved hearing your voice, wasn’t listening. While you were begging him to drop it, to leave it alone, he was too busy simmering over you doing something so drastic, so permanent to your body without his knowledge—like you didn’t trust him with the information. Didn’t trust him to hold your hand through the pain, to drive you home from the parlor, to wash and treat your tender flesh.

That awful feeling he thought you’d both moved past—had worked so hard to move you past—made him suffocate in his skin. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks lowly, gravel filling his voice. “Were you…hiding it from me?” 

As he rises to lift your shirt and get a clearer view, you intercept his hand in uncompromising resistance. He’d reached for you with his right arm. But somehow, your touch still manages to sting. 

It’s Caleb’s turn to laugh, now, but the sound is hollow. “You won’t even show me,” he chuckles humorlessly. “Not even when I already know.” Firmly, but gently as ever, he lifts you off of him and onto the opposite side of the sofa. 

You scoff at him, and the look of incredulity on your face would cause a less devoted man to back down. “Don’t lecture me about keeping secrets. I have a tattoo, Caleb. You have a double life.” 

“It’s for your own safety that I—”

“Is it for my own safety that you treat me like a child?” 

He pauses, and before he can stop it, he feels his face shift into the mask molded for him against his will. The face—his own, but somehow not—that plagues his nightmares. Cold, unfeeling, uncaring, indomitable.

“You don’t have to trust me anymore. But I’d appreciate it if you said it to my face instead of making me believe you did.” 

He hears the soft gasp that escapes you, but he refuses to look—too consumed by his emotions, too ashamed to face yours. It’s when he turns to leave that he hears your quick footsteps, and almost immediately, you’re whipping him around to look at you.

Your shirt is raised to the base of your sternum. 

And in the warm light of the living room, the soft glow of the summer evening illuminating the streaks on your skin, Caleb sucks in a breath. 

VIII IX MMXLVIII

August 9, 2048. 

The date your lives had changed. The date he’d broken his promise to always be by your side. The date part of him—physical, or something more—had died. 

With a bold, decisive line striking through it.

His eyes dart to the space below. You had another one, he realized. This was the one he’d glimpsed earlier, then—the one that’d made him question your faith in him.

IV XVIII MMXLIX

April 18, 2049. 

The date his life had been revealed to you. The date you’d fought your way back into it. The date your shattered souls had met again and vowed to mend each other. 

This one is different from the last. The numerals are pure. Pristine, clear, unmarred. Unapologetic.

An insidious, deserved pang spreads through his chest. You’d wanted to remember both dates, to etch them into your skin. You’d needed to move past the first. You’d needed to savor the second. 

A space on your sacred body, dedicated to him—to you both. To your tragic end, to your new beginning. Forever. 

“Are you happy now, you jerk?” You seethe, yanking your shirt down and snapping him out of his reverie. 

And as your voice wobbles, Caleb is anything but. 

“Pip-squeak,” he starts hoarsely, feeling anxious bile scald the back of his throat. “I didn’t think…If I’d known….”

“But you didn’t know, Caleb. You didn’t need to know,” you stress. The pained inflections in your voice seem to sync with your steps as you walk to him, your head level with his shuddering chest. “I will bare my soul to you. Happily. When I am good and ready. But forcing me to do it before then? Just so you can convince yourself that I trust you? That gives me all the more reason not to.” 

The bite in your tone numbs him to the way you push past him, shoving his shoulder hard enough to bruise. When you retreat to your bedroom, he hears the sharp click of the door lock and allows a wry grin to cross his face at the irony. And he thought you’d been shutting him out before. 

You wake up with swollen eyes. An uncomfortable reminder of last night’s humiliation. 

With a sigh, you roll your way out of bed, your limbs sore from being hunched in the fetal position for so long. You usually slept with a human-shaped back pillow, but you supposed that arrangement was on pause for the time being. 

You wonder how he’s doing. How he’d spend the night, if he’d left in the middle of it. As much as you hate to think it, you wouldn’t blame him. 

As you exit—or try to exit—your bedroom, though, it seems your worries are unfounded. 

There, slumped against the wooden door, is a sleeping, miserable-looking Caleb. Eyebrows drawn, nose scrunched, hands twitching—he must be having a nightmare.

With a resolute swallow, you push down the pain from the night before and, against your better judgment, prop the door open just enough to slip out. 

Kneeling beside him, you stroke his hair gently and hold his left hand in yours. “Caleb,” you call softly. “Wake up, please.”

At the sound of your voice, his eyes flutter open—slowly, at first, until they focus on you. In an instant, surprise, regret, and a flicker of hope flash across his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tightening his grip on your hand. “I shouldn’t have—even if you hadn’t gotten them for us,” he breathes shakily, “I shouldn’t have pried.”

He’s sitting up now, having pushed himself off the door to get as close to you as you’d allow. The next time he speaks, the rasp in his voice suggests he’d slept about as well as you had. 

“You should…” he begins, swallowing thickly. “You should only tell me your secrets when you’re ready. I’ll wait. I’m lucky to know anything about you at all.”

Your chest constricts, and the ghosts of mortification and unwarranted guilt are the only things stopping you from forgiving him. With a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, you remove your palm from his grasp, pretending not to notice when he chases your touch. “You should stretch your legs.”

The day is slow and awkward.

Your top-floor apartment is sweltering in the summer heat, so you don a loose crop top—it’s not like you have anything to lose anymore—and Caleb tries not to stare at your ribs.

It’s Sunday, the day you usually reserve for chores, and you try to ignore the way he follows you through every room: dusting your bedroom fan, mopping the kitchen floor, cleaning the bathtub while you wipe the counter. It’s a wordless process, but a seamless one—evidently, even a stalemate can’t jeopardize your synchrony. 

He disappears when you’re finishing up, and as you wonder if he’d gotten sick of your anger, the scent of your favorite food wafts through the air. In curiosity, hunger, and abashed dependence—you couldn’t boil an egg without starting a fire—you warily make your way to the kitchen you’d both left spotless. 

It still is, for the most part; the only hint of disturbance is the freshly cooked meal sitting on the island. One plate, one glass, one set of silverware. And Caleb sits in the living room, pretending to busy himself with a diagram, forlornly glancing over to you every few seconds. There if you need him, but not daring to intrude.

It’s nighttime when he tries again. 

You’re reading on the couch, instinctively avoiding the cursed spot from the night before, when Caleb shuffles into the room. In utter dejection, he makes room for himself on the floor between your legs and hugs his knees to his chest. The action tugs at your dwindling resolve, weakened by the care he’d shown you today, and before you know it, you’re running your fingers through his hair. 

He stiffens and relaxes at your touch before leaning back into you, enveloping himself in your embrace. As he presses innocent, lingering kisses to the inside of your knee, you feel the quiet tension in the room begin to build. 

This time, he breaks the silence.

“I never would have imagined those days meant so much to you,” he begins softly. “Wasn’t sure if you thought the first was a blessing in disguise. If you thought the second was some kind of curse.” Your hand falters in his tousled locks, and he exhales shakily. “I was just…surprised, pips. And hurt, I guess. You doin’ something so serious without tellin’ me—it never would’ve happened before,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to guilt trip you into showing me, I just…” 

“I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed,” you whisper, saving him from the struggle of finding the right words. “Not because I don’t trust you. I do, if you can believe it. More than anyone.”

Caleb stills against you, and you place a hand on his shoulder before continuing with a sigh. “I basically saw those numbers in my sleep, at one point,” you chuckle in self-deprecation. “They flashed in my head over, and over, and over—the day I lost you, the day I found you. So I figured the only way to stop it was to carry them with me, always. And when the clarity hit…I thought I was silly. Immature. Like, I had something etched onto my body for you, Caleb. I felt like I was too attached. Too dependent on you.” 

“Is it bad if I say I’d like that?” he quips with a tired smile. “Pip-squeak,” he sighs. “You could never be too attached to me. When I saw those dates—when I realized what they meant,” he swallows, “I wanted to hold you to me ‘til I couldn’t breathe. Wanted to tattoo your tattoos inside my eyelids so I could see them every time I blink,” he jokes, kissing your palm. “That’s too attached, by the way.” 

As you giggle at him—your first in almost 24 hours—he brightens slightly. “I really am sorry for forcing your hand. Makin’ you feel like your only choice was to tell me. But, for the record, those are the least embarrassing tattoos I’ve ever seen. Gideon has one of a monkey, you know.” 

And after you duck your head into his shoulder to stifle your laughter, you haul him up and into your bedroom—no door for a mattress, this time. You’re both due for some much-needed sleep. 

The next day, you stand in front of your bathroom mirror while Caleb hugs you from behind, admiring the inky black lines on your exposed waist. Leaning in to kiss your cheek, he whispers into your ear: “You know, they say rib tattoos hurt a lot. You shouldn’t have had to go through all that alone. Why don’t I get matching ones so we can share the pain?” 

[sukeruton-san]

Sorta Maybe Blind pt 2

First Next

It has been four hours since the initial discovery of his appearance and he's come to figure out it's not just that he looks like he'll kneel over and die with a small breeze but he feels like it too. side effects just keep coming!

Apparently his eyes are extremely sensitive to the light now. he opened them fully once and it hurt like hell, even with the smog. his internal temperature has always been a little bit on the cold side but now he feels like a freezer and his rugged t-shirt and jean combo is not helping. he's a little frustrated with how much he's shaking especially on his left side

Oh he thinks he forgot to mention that his left side now has a huge lichtenberg figure on it, starting from his hand going all the way up his arm and spreading across his back and chest swirling where his heart should be it also goes all the way down his left leg into the bottom of his foot, some of it is even peeking across his neck. He thinks it's the scar that was supposed to show itself when the accident happened but it didn't.

it's here now and it constantly aches too, another aspect of the ectoplasm levels here. He thinks he's become more fatigued but his sleep schedule was already shity to begin with, 4-5 hours a week can do that to a person. same with his appetite, food was more dangerous than edible most of the time at h- Fentonworks.

He ducked into an alleyway to search through the duffle bag that was packed for him, squinting to lessen the light in his eyes. and he found a lot. Hygiene products, a new phone and modified Phantom-phone courtesy of Tucker, notebooks, files, a lot of snacks, bottled water, Med kit, wild survival kits courtesy of jazz, bunch of the Fentonworks inventions now phantom-tech that he and Tucker modified and improved together, some clothing items courtesy of Sam, and a bunch of other miscellaneous items/small bags he didn't want to look into right now except for

Oh. . .

Oh ancients the fuck Sam!?!?

Sam gave him a crossbody satchel filled with big money, and when he says big money he means probably thousands in big money!?!? taking two 50s out and shoving the satchel inside his chest he looked to see what the notebooks and files were about.

One of the files was the necessary paperwork for his new identity that Tucker and Jazz helped create together, and judging by the glowing green sticky note Clockwork helped them too, probably about the sorta maybe blind thing he got going on. The other files containing pretty much all the Fenton works blueprints and or recipes for chemical compounds like the ecto-dejecto and the cleaning spray for ectoplasm.

The notebooks were small but thick, they hold a variety of things ranging from tips and tricks, locations that may be useful, information about Gotham in general, several were blank, and others had other little things he won't get to. One notebook was dedicated to everything he has done as Phantom, his battles, achievements, and things they learned about his weird biology. some of it was clearly done by Clockwork cuz he hasn't told anybody the full story about Dan or the clones or the other fights and challenges he faced.

Did he forget to mention that besides the necessary paperwork everything was written in Braille? No? because it was.

Deciding that he was done searching through the bag for now he put on a black hoodie with blob ghost sewn on the front, took out his new phone, and put the Phantom-phone in. He turned on the blind aid in the accessibility function and turned the brightness down significantly. He pulls up Google to look for a place to rent. They all begrudgingly agreed that they won't call or text until a month has passed so suspicions won't be as tight on them. Finding something close and cheap and pulling up the directions to speak audibly he goes on his merry way.

Hopefully the owner will be nice enough to him even though he's barely 16 trying to rent an apartment.

--------------- *Hour and a half later*------------------

The building fucking abandoned

No like the top half of it looked like it exploded years ago and Google still says it's for rent!?!?

Why!?

You know what fuck it! he's already made his way over here and it geting dark fast. he'll find a decent corner in there to sleep tonight.

Squeezing his his way through a hole that was supposed to be a door, tripping, and landing face first on the broken disgusting floor below him.

_______________________________________________

Batman and Robin were investigating a weapons deal that was happening later tonight in an abandoned apartment complex, half the building gone from an explosion courtesy of Two Face. 30 minutes before the deal they were doing a quick sweep of the two floors that remain when

*Smack*

Someone face planted 5 ft away from them.

"Ow " they rub their face for a minute before sitting up and

" That's a blind child " Robin was slightly bewildered by the black haired, blind and before closing his eyes he was able to make out the dull icey blue color. He was ill looking 13-14 in age.

A blind boy that was deathly pale, warringly skinny and most importantly alone.

He points in the vague direction of Robin before stating "I'll have you know I'm almost 16 and you don't sound much older than I do" he feels across the ground searching for the phone that was a few inches away from his reach.

Batman grabs the phone off the floor before standing the boy up himself and handing it to him. " The apartment building you have been following is out of service "

" Oh, why is it still operational on Google?"

" Tch, It seems someone has failed to inform the online networks of this buildings status, which is a incompetence on their part" Robin walked up to be beside the boy.

" what's more important is why you were looking for an apartment building in the first place. You're alone as well, when someone should be there with you when you cannot see or you should at least have a cain. It is also heading to a time of night where you should not be walking outside."

" What is this an interrogation, why should I be telling you what I am doing, who even are you." The boy crosses his arms backing away slightly

" We are Batman and Robin and we are only concerned of your safety" the big bat himself States in a softer than usual for his Batman growl.

Robin looks over at him giving him a look before signing ' are you serious ' then folded his arms. Batman ignores him.

Multiple footsteps could be heard across the floor, Batman grabs a hold of the child before grappling up and away from sight. Robin does the same in a different direction.

_______________________________________________

Holy SHIT

Fenton luck strikes again because he just walked in on The Batman and fucking Robin on an investigation and he interrupted. Being held in Batman's arms he realizes that either he's tiny or Batman's huge because he's at least three times his size.

This is turning out to be one of the more fucked up situations he has ever been in. Let's hope he won't fuck up the situation even more then he already has.

(sorry for the cliffhanger I need to rest my brain a bit with writing, but here is what I've written Hope you enjoy also I saw the reblog from @athyriaceae and took it into consideration thank you for rebloging)

[classyrbf]

Heyyy could I request Trueform!sukuna fucking his wife in his throne pleaseee!! If that’s okay

LIKE A QUEEN! — RYOMEN SUKUNA

SYNOPSIS...what better way to get fucked than on your kings throne

INFO...true form!sukuna x wife!reader, reader calls sukuna “my lord”, groping, nipple play, oral (f!receiving), double penetration, anal, rough sex, squirting, love bomb (from reader), sukuna is kind sweet (?), sweet ending, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

thanks for the request anon!

The door to the throne room echoed loudly against the stone walls. Your bare feet hit the cold porcelain floors as you stepped into the room, the door shutting behind you. The eerie silence surrounded your cold body, shivers form down your spine as you take notice of your husband, the king, sitting on his throne, wiping blood off one of his hands.

One of the servants had fetched you from the room, said the king ordered you to come to the throne room for a talk. After being married for three years now, you know a talk meant Sukuna was feeling frustrated, looking to take it on you in a sexual manner. “Come.” His deep voice rang in your ears.

Your feet pattered as you walked over, nipples hardening under the silk robe you wore, nothing else underneath. “My lord.” You got down on your hands and knees, bowing to him, showing your respects. Just standing a few feet away from him, you could tell he’s been pushed to his limit. A low audible groan could be heard as he stood from the throne, walking down the steps and standing just inches away from your head.

Your breath hitched, anticipating the moments that would could in just mere minutes. What twisted position would he put you in this time? How many hours until he was done with you? “Look at me.” You followed the simple order, rising your head slowly, still remaining on your knees. You gulped, biting the inside of your cheek, his tall stature casting a shadow over your figure like a mountain. “I’ve had a rough day.” His voice was almost like a growl, yet kept a stoic tone.

“I understand, my lord.” You went to undo his robe, instinctively thinking he wanted you to use your throat first, but he stopped you. His large hand grabbed yours, eyes piercing into yours. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” You cast your eyes to the ground, wincing slightly when he squeezed your hand a little tighter. A small yelp fell from your lips as he pulled you to your feet, wide eyes staring into his. Your chest pressed against his, heart beating frantically.

He sighed, scanning your features. You stood there, unable to say or do anything. He was acting different, more quiet, less demanding. You weren’t sure what he was thinking—you never do. “Undress.” He pulled away from you, walking back up to the throne and sitting down, legs spread wide as he watched you carefully untie your gown. He rested his head in his hand, eyes focusing on the skin that started to reveal itself, before your robe dropped to the floor. A smirk lifted the corner of his lips. “Come closer.” He gestured with his finger. You inched towards the throne, afraid to even step foot near it as no one else but Sukuna was allowed to touch it. “Closer.”

You gulped, going as close at you could without wanting to be disrespectful towards your king. He leaned forward, one of his arms effortlessly pulling you onto his lap. You felt vulnerable, embarrassed. Everytime you’ve had sex with Sukuna, it has never gone this way. He was being so patient, leaving you guessing what’s going to come next. His hands cupped your tits, massaging them, squeezing them, playing with your nipples, tweaking them between his fingers. “Mmph!” You covered your mouth in an attempt to hide your moans, looking away from him.

You could feel his bulges press up against your wet cunt and ass, nudging against your clit each time he moved his hips. “Such perfect tits.” His words went straight to your pussy, your hole clenching around nothing as you began to grow needs for some sort of friction. But you knew better than to get yourself off without permission. “I’ve had a rough fucking day…and all I want,” he clenched his jaw, “is to taste you.” His two arms hoisted you up, sitting you on his face, holding you there on his shoulders. A blissful sigh escaped your throat at the feeling of his hot tongue darting between your folds. He growled, pinching your nipples while his tongue circled your clit.

You were caught by surprise, shocked and even more turned on than ever. It’s very rare that he takes his frustration out by eating your cunt and not fucking you till you can’t walk. Maybe it’ll be both. “Hah! Nngh!” Your eyes screw shut when he sucks on your puffy clit. He sucks up every last drop of your juices on his eager tongue, dark red eyes staring right into your soul. Without realizing, your hands reach for the tufts of his pink hair, grabbing onto it and pulling his face in closer, grinding your hips against him.

He lets out a deep chuckle, placing a sloppy kiss to your clit, his tongue fucking your hole while his nose nudges your clit. “Taste so fucking—mmm—good.” He pulls at your sensitive nipples, earning a squeal from you as you gasp for air. “Eager to cum, aren’t you?” He smirks against your pussy.

“Yes! Yes!” You nod, biting down on your bottom lip as you keep riding his face, his lips and chin coated your slick, glistening under the dim candle light of the throne room. “Please make me cum, my lord,” you beg, meekly. Just the thought of cumming on his tongue while being on his throne has your head spinning.

“You’ve been so patient—fuck—such a good wife to me,” he breathes heavily, savoring your taste on his tongue before he goes back in for more. He twists your nipples as his tongue flicks your clit, running up and down your folds.

“Right there! Hah! Ah! Yes! Fuck!” You cry out, legs quivering above him before you’re finally coming undone, tossing your head back in pleasure as laughs at the way you get so sensitive during your orgasm. “Nngh! Shit!” Your gasping, fistful of his hair in your hand while he drinks up every last drop. “Thank you,” you weakly mumble under your breath.

He placed you back down on his lap, watching the way you fall against him as you prepare yourself, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Go slow, please,” you whisper into his ear, anticipating the moment you feel his two cocks nudge against your holes. His large hands get a grip on your hips, sinking you down on his throbbing cocks. You’re already shaking, holding onto him so tightly. His swollen tip nudges through your soaked folds, the other slowly entering your ass, inch by inch.

“Always so fucking tight,” he grunts through gritted teeth. He thrusts up into you, pushing your hips all the way down until your hips meet, a long drawn out cry leaving your lips as you bite down onto his shoulder. “My queen, always treating me right—ah, fuck yes!” He thrusts his hips upward, the tip kissing your cervix as your eyes roll bock from the sensation of being fucked in both of your holes. “Sucking me in, milking my cocks,” he breathily says. His heavy balls slap against your ass, his nails digging into your plush skin as you mewl, moans echoing through the chambers.

He’s going rough, gritting his teeth and baring his fangs, slamming your hips down to meet his thrusts because you’re not allowed to run from it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you can barely talk, voice barely above a mumble as your brain turns to complete mush. Nothing else filling that head of yours except him fucking you. His hands pulls your arms back, allowing him to get a good look at you while plows your cunt.

He smiles as he watches the way you get shy, trying to avoid eyes contact with him but he makes it even harder when he has a good grip on your chin. You try and wiggle from his grip, but his sheer strength overpowers yours. Your back arches more as he hits your sweet spot, eyes rolling into the back of your head and your jaw goes slack.

His eyes are fixated on the way your titties bounce, snarling at the sight that was you, making him even more hungry for your pussy. He fucks deeper and harder, a cry leaving your lips as you struggle to take it, so much pleasure coursing through you, you were unsure if you had already came on his cocks or not. That was until you felt a liquid gush between your legs followed by a string of curses. “Oh my god! Yes!” You keep squiring the more he fucks you, Sukuna growing feral at the feeling of your holes clenching around him each time you do.

His thighs and abdomen are soaked, covered in your juices as he continues to hit that sweet spot over and over. You’re trembling in his hands, melting like putty, but he enjoys it so much, getting to fuck you like this on his throne. “You deserve this. Getting fucked on my throne like a queen should—like my queen should,” he snarls. “Fuck!” He pushes in deep, holding you there while you feel his cum fill up your holes, coating you insides before slowly dripping down his shaft. He thrusts up into you once more with a grunt, fucking his cum into you. “My fucking queen,” he breathes.

You fall forward onto his chest, head resting on his shoulder, completely exhausted. You can’t find it within yourself to move. “Thank you, my lord,” you weakly say. He removes himself from you, both of slightly whining at the loss of sensation. Though you’ve never done so, you take it upon yourself to plant a soft kiss on his lips, pulling away to scan his eyes. Without fear, you do so again, holding it for longer until he kisses you back. “I love you, my lord,” you say barely above a whisper. You understand he’d probably never say it back, but you’d like to think he’s shows it through his gestures.

“Stay here for a moment.” He holds you on his lap while you both catch your breath. His nails tracing patterns on your sweaty skin. He closes his eyes and rests the back of his head on the throne. Never once has he fucked any of his past wives on his throne, most of them didn’t even make it as far as you have. He’s starting to wonder if you’re actually something special, different. Your words ‘I love you’ is something he’d never heard from his past wives, nor from anyone before. He thinks they mean nothing, but hearing you say them sounds sweet, caring. He can tell you’re still scared of him at some points, but you still cling to him, find comfort in him. It’s odd.

With you in his arms he walks down the throne stairs, setting you on your feet. You look up at his tall stature as he grabs your robe from the cold floor, placing it around your body and tying it tightly. Without uttering a word, he lifts you back into his arms again, carrying you out of the throne room and back to his quarters, your shared bedroom. “We will clean together,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Yes, my lord,” you simply respond.

[miange1]

nfhshdhrv thanos with a male reader who he likes dressing up🤤

like during sex he has all these little outfits saved for him just to fuck him in

can u do it in the form of your head cannons?

THANOS

cross dressing, body type isn't mentioned but reader is shorter than thanos, use of boy(my boy, pretty boy), leaving marks, im hungry, i love jake gyllenhaal, choi su bong can tongue kiss me, sort of black mailing but it's more like a couple type(for example if you don't gimmie a kiss im making you do the laundry.), wrote this in the school bathrooms mb

— at first you thought it was stupid. why would he dress you up like some girl when you weren't one? he made it clear he would only make you wear it if he felt like fucking(which was all the time.)

— he first thought of the idea when you're the one who told him that back in maybe high school, you got dared to wear the female uniform for an entire day or until a teacher told you to take it off and would give you a new one.

"thanos im not wearing that."

"oh come on, please!"

"no."

— it was a school uniform for girls, which was far too skimpy. the tip was cropped almost above your nipples if you moved too much, the skirt enough to cover your dick a bit but it had no issue showing every curve of your ass.

— would purposely embarrass you by staring for way too long before starting anything. if you cross your arms or legs he'd curse at you and tell you to cut that shit out.

"can you hurry up.." your face was burning, eyes averting his gaze as you tried to comply. the both of you knew you were into it, just very embarrassed about it.

"oh pretty boy." he slapped your arms away, gripping your waist and pulling you in closer. his rings pinched your skin.

"if i didn't wanna ruin the fuck outta you, i could stare at your ass all day."

—every single thing would end up with your body twitching, and your hips bucking into nothing once he was done with you. leaves so many marks whether they're scratches, hickeys, bites, it didn't matter.

— pushes you even when you're too tired.

"c'mon, arch that pretty back for me." you'd try your best, but you were so used and stuff that you could barely move on your own.

he shook his head, making a 'tsk, tsk,' with his teeth. "sorry my boy, that won't do." his hand came to the middle of your back, harshly pushing down and making you yelp and wither so your ass could poke up just the way he liked it.

"there we go.." his hands went back to your hips, pulling you back. "wasn't that hard now was it?"

— sometimes he would make you wear that stuff in public. nothing too bad, mainly miniskirts and tight shirts to show off your figure. he had no shame, and would stare at it whenever he pleased.

— most of the time it was willing, other times he'd practically blackmail you.

"this is embarrassing.."

"hey, i asked you and you said you would." you gave him a dirty look, scowling. "no. you said you'd make me cook dinner if i didn't." the man couldn't even cook, so you don't know why you even cared.

— he made a promise to never fuck you in public, he would never do you like that! but that didn't mean he wouldn't rile you up. his hand coming down to graze below your ass when he could, squeezing your thigh a little too close between your legs, and just whispering things he'd do to you in your ear if he could.

— and then he would use his promise to his advantage.

"su-bong, please.." it turned him on when you said his actual name. he didn't know why, he just loved the way you said it especially when you were needy for him like this. "hm? what?" he'd act like he would have no idea what he was doing.

"you know what." your body stuck to his side, arm around his and you were practically grinding on him, but it was barely noticeable to others. "oh, but i have to keep my promise. no can do."

— as much as he'd want to fuck you, he'd want to tease you just as much

[ghostlycamil4]

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜, 𝐾𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑎, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐷𝑒𝑛𝑘𝑖'𝑠 𝑇𝑜𝑝 𝟻 𝐵𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑃𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠

ᵂᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ⠃ ᵀʰⁱˢ ᶜᵒⁿᵗᵉⁿᵗ ⁱⁿᶜˡᵘᵈᵉˢ ˢᵘᵍᵍᵉˢᵗⁱᵛᵉ ˡᵃⁿᵍᵘᵃᵍᵉ. ᵈᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃᵍʳᵉᵉ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵗᵒᵖ ᵒʳ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ˢʷⁱᵗᶜʰ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵃʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ?

• Bakugo

1. Ass

Oh, he loves it. Like, really loves it. Especially when she’s wearing tight clothes. He’s terrible at hiding it. If she’s walking ahead of him? He’s looking. No shame. And if they’re close? He might give her a quick smack, all smug like “what, you gonna say something?” But when they’re alone, he’s not wasting time.

2. Thighs

He’s got a thing for thighs—especially strong ones. If she’s on his lap or just sitting nearby with her legs crossed, he gets distracted. His eyes drift on their own, like muscle memory. He likes how solid they look, how grounded she feels. If she’s been training, even better—it shows, and it drives him a little crazy.

3. Neck

He loves kissing her neck. At first it’s soft, almost lazy—then he’s biting, leaving marks, claiming territory without saying a word. He doesn’t go for it all the time, but when he does, it’s deliberate. Hair up? Low neckline? His eyes linger a second too long.

4. Back

This is where his subtle side shows. He loves catching a glimpse of her back when she’s not paying attention—when she’s stretching, changing, whatever. Something about that curve, that bare line, it just gets to him.

5. Boobs

Yeah, of course he likes them. But it’s not about size—it’s the shape, how they feel when he’s holding her, hugging her, pulling her close.

• Kirishima

1. Arms

Kirishima has a soft spot for T/n’s arms. He doesn’t say it with grand words, but the way he looks at them gives him away. When he sees her carrying something with ease, stretching after training, or when he hugs her and feels that firm grip… a soft smile slips out of him, full of admiration.

2. Abdomen

The abdomen is his go-to contact zone. He can’t be near her without wanting to rest his hand there—whether they’re lying down, cooking together, even mid-conversation.

3. Boobs

Even if he’s not chasing them all the time, Kirishima finds a special kind of joy in T/n’s boobs. Not from a visual obsession, but for what they mean to him: closeness, sweetness, intimacy.

4. Ass

It’s his guilty pleasure, and while he’s not like Bakugo, he’s not made of stone either. He loves seeing the shape of her ass when she walks around the house in pajamas or leggings. A dumb little smile slips out, the kind that says everything without needing to say a word.

5. Feet

It’s his secret, and though he hides it well, every now and then something slips. If her nails are done, her feet soft, he gets this internal buzz he never talks about. “You tired? Want a massage?” he asks casually, while taking his time, savoring every little touch like it’s part of some secret ritual only he knows.

• Denki

1. Things

Denki finds a mix of comfort, desire, and closeness in thighs. Laying his head there, having T/n sit on him, he can’t resist making jokes about it, especially when he slides his hand up her thigh, and she smacks him with a “cut it out, Denki!”

“I can’t help it, your thighs are just too damn tempting.”

2. Boobs

He’s the type to get distracted in class or during training if she wears tight clothes. He finds them hypnotic, beautiful, fun... and adorable. He likes to touch them, cuddle into them, lay on them. But at the end of the day, his obsession is more visual and a little less physical compared to thighs.

3. Ass

It’s his shameless delight. He stares, compliments, follows it with his eyes. No filter, no shame. It’s 100% visual and goofy, and while he loves it, he doesn’t interact with it as much as he does with boobs or thighs (unless T/n lets him… and well, God bless that couple).

4. Waist

This brings out his sweeter, low-key possessive side. Wrapping his arms around her waist, hugging her from behind, gently touching her while they sit together… he loves having her close and feeling like she’s his.

5. Hands

It’s a subtle kink, more mental than physical. He loves watching them, gets ideas when she touches his hair or grabs something with grace, but he doesn’t interact with them as much as other parts. Still sexy to him, just not top-tier priority.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

MASTERLIST

[ruinix]

Quinn getting a huge baby fever after he saw you hold your little cousin (or whomever baby)

Hello, lovely…baby fever… yes, baby fever. Ummm, I fear I have…gone overboard again, so it took me a bit. I had to bring out the big guns (my AO3 thots with my fictional men). He almost turned…dark 🤨🙂‍↔️

Trouble

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Masturbation, a dash of Breeding Kink, Unprotected Sex (use protection, lovelies), Brief Choking, Use of ‘hubby’ (some doesn’t like it so...🙂‍↕️), Quinn being pathetic as he gets hit with an extreme baby fever

Count: 2914 words | Masterlist

You are trouble. So much trouble. Quinn had to lock himself in a bathroom stall as he stares at his phone, his fingers tapping the video over and over and over again. It feels like a loop. A loop of you and that little baby.

Who is that? Who? But the identity of the baby is the second thing in this mind. You’re the first thing.

Quinn can’t stop watching. Can’t stop hearing your little coos for the baby you got in your arms. Can’t stop seeing the way you brush your cheek against the top of the baby’s head. Can’t stop the squeeze in his chest as you smile at the camera, the light shining behind you so perfectly that you appear to have a halo. Can’t stop feeling your happiness in this ten-second-long video. It makes him happy. Too happy that he had to cover up the little one’s face because he’s…his pants tighten up. Fuck.

Before he could type his reply, you send over a text that had him, leaning back against the door which creaked from his weight. His legs and hands shake. His soul shudders. It feels as though he’s not there. This must be a fucking dream.

Your text says, “When we have a baby, will they look as cute as this little duuuuuude?”

‘When. We. Have. A. Baby.’

When. Not if. When. Like you are stating the inevitable future. Like you are looking forward to it. Like you want him to give you children—or child, fuck, he’ll give you any number of children.

It’s just a simple thought, but it feels like a magnitude ten earthquake causing destruction. You destroyed him in the best possible way. Rattled him so much that he can barely function. He got practice for fuck’s sake. He can’t even tease your extended ‘dude’. He can’t. He can’t think straight.

All Quinn’s thoughts are questions.

‘You want a baby with me? When do you want to have a baby? Do you want to start making one now? Next week? Next month? Next season? Next year?’

‘Are you sure you want a baby?’

‘How many babies do you want? One? Five?’

‘Do you want them a year a part? Two? Three?’

Shaking his head to clear it, his tongue feels dry, his heart beating and ramming against his chest. He could barely ask who’s the little dude, barely understand that dude is your friend’s baby, could barely read every paragraph you sent after about little dude. Of course, he still reads it, despite not being able to process them, because he needs to hear you—at least—as he tumbles down the rabbit hole.

More like plummets.

His mind is clogged with images of you. Your tummy barely showing to fully rounded and full of his baby. You eating for two. You being all clingy or irritable with him—he’ll hug or console you either way. You wearing maternity clothes. Most especially, you holding his baby.

Quinn’s done for. He fucking is.

When you send your “I love you”, Quinn’s hand is already wrapped around his cock, your name escaping his lips in a plea, a revelation descending and dawning upon him.

He needs to have a child with you.

That’s why—for weeks, six weeks to be exact—Quinn cannot stop imagining and wishing the babies he sees in the streets, in social media, in the arena during games to be yours and his.

He has…baby fever. He realized that a week in. It’s weird. Quinn doesn’t think about kids or babies. His plan was to be with you. Just you and him without a doubt. Then after some time, he’ll propose. Then you will marry. Then you two will talk about kids, because even if having kids was not yet his focus, he wants a family with you.

You’re his endgame. He’s sure of it, so he’s moving forward with you. Until you sent the video of little dude—Jeremy, if Quinn remembers correctly—with you. Until he literally can’t stop picturing you and babies. Until it’s the only thing in his fucking mind other than hockey and you. Babies. Cute little babies.

He’s so fucked, because it’s not just the wholesome need for little babies. No. It feels primal.

He gets fucking hard, totally bricked up, wanting nothing but to fuck you until you’re bred. So hard that he had to jerk off multiple times during the day. Bathroom stalls. A janitor closet. Even when he’s home, he has to jerk off, given that you’re not there. He tries not to, but his cock would ache as his thoughts worsen, so he fucking fails. Every. Time.

His fogged-up brain will continuously echo: “Kids, now. Kids with you. Now. Now.”

Quinn thinks he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t know what to do, because the thoughts of little ones—with your eyes, your hair, your smile, your sweetness, your quirks, your gentleness, your everything—makes him yearn for it to be true. His heart aches for every day that goes without them. He needs a family with you. He needs little ones to spoil alongside you.

So for weeks, Quinn wants to breech the subject with you. He wishes to present his new foolproof life plan—that will also be your plan, if you accept. His new plan consist of: lots of fucking to make a baby, him providing for you and your children and possibly grandchildren, him being present for every step of the way, him being a good father. But simply, babies. The plan is to have babies, but the words always stop at his throat.

Because…even if he wants babies, that doesn’t equate to what you want right now. Right? He can’t just do what he wants, can he? Like breed you and—

“Little dude,” you say in a singsong voice, “would look so cute with this, right?”

Quinn looks up and sees you hold up a shark onesie. He can only stare, stare, and stare, because this has to be illegal. This, as in you holding up that onesie just a meter away from him. As in you looking proud of every baby clothing you bought. As in you being excited about buying things not for his baby. He hates it. The sudden disdain—to an innocent kid just because he’s not his—is making him all too riled up now. Why are you spoiling someone else’s baby? Fuck.

“Sure,” Quinn chokes out which he tries to mask with a cough.

He nods helplessly when you grin, a sparkle in your eyes, then you dash across the room to get your wrapping papers, tapes, and somehow, more paper bags. Just how many did you buy for that baby? It’s a fucking haul that makes Quinn irritable and also downright pathetic.

He should just say it. He wants a kid with you. He wants to be a father to your children. Easy words to say, but he still can’t say it. He’s such an idiot.

“I want to help,” he offers as you settle on the floor, scooting your legs under the coffee table, looking so cozy.

“Thank you, Quinn, but I got a wrapping system over here,” you giggle. Your arms are comically filled with stuff before you laid them out on the table. “You always crumple the wrapper, silly.”

Quinn does. He can wrap presents, but it’s a battle. Him against the paper. Usually, he wins but the gifts…they’re wrapped so messily. So different with your gift wrapping. While he’s nonchalant about it, you’re particular. He sees your focus for every fold. He has seen you get upset when you fold one piece wrong or if the ribbon is wonky. He loves that about you.

Still, you give him socks and onesies. Still, you let him messily wrap them. You even smile, looking so proud of him like he’s the best, looking utterly kind and patient. You place what he wrapped on your growing pile.

You’ll be a good mother. Quinn knows that. He’ll do his best to be a good father. He can do that. He can—

He jumps when you suddenly hop over his lap.

“Where’d you go?” You ask, pressing a kiss against his jaw. Quinn can only cling to your hips, savor your touch on his nape, the feel of your fingers running through his hair. “Come back, hubby.”

Hubby? Are you insane? Do you know what that does to him? Who is he kidding? You fucking do. You always do. You’ll be the death of him.

“My Love,” he groans, a bit too whiny in his opinion, but he can’t help it. The effect you have on him.

“You like that?” you chuckle, breathing in his sharp exhales. “Hubby.”

Quinn can only growl in response. You’ve short-circuited him and you laugh at him. Cruel. His cruel Love. He hugs you tighter, grounding himself. This is real. You called him Hubby. Not Huggy. Hubby. Your hubby.

He buries his head into your neck, greedily taking in your scent. God. You smell so good, so addicting like a custom-made drug, just for him.

His cock throbs, wishing to be seated in your pussy, wishing to spill his cum in your womb until it takes.

“Do you want a baby?” He forces out, his voice coming out raspy and broken and desperate. He’s probably blushing, because he’s burning up. Even his fucking eyes sting. He’s going to cry and it’s fucking pathetic.

“Hmm,” you hum, hands rubbing over his chest, soothing him.

One hand runs up his jaw, coaxing him to meet your eyes. Your beautiful eyes track every detail on his face, taking everything like it’s your first time when you’ve already done it hundreds of times.

Then you softly kiss his cheeks, the mole on the right, his forehead, the edges of his eyebrows, his eyelids, his lips. A simple soft peck. One by one until he’s just putty underneath you. His heart pounds but not from fear, for his undeniable love for you. Just like that you settle him.

“Been thinking about that, handsome?” you ask.

“Yes,” he nearly stutters.

“Do you want to have a baby?” you ask, pressing another kiss on the tip of his nose.

Quinn shudders, eyebrows meeting, breaths picking up. “Yes,” he confesses like he’s about to confess guilty and be sentenced to death.

A grumbled ‘fuck’ escapes his lips when you scoot closer, sitting your clothed pussy right over his aching cock. You roll your hips once and Quinn almost comes. Shit. What are you doing to him?

You’re saying something, whispering the words on his lips, but Quinn couldn’t focus.

You’re so close. Oh, so close. Your breaths mix together, making him all so dizzy. He wants to kiss you again, but when he tries to close the smallest distance between you two, you move back. Why are you…

Then he realizes what you said.

“I’ve been wanting your baby for so long, Q. So long.”

You want his baby.

It feels like the last tether around his control snaps.

No longer is he chasing your lips and letting you pull away. No longer is he shaking like a goddamned leaf, choking on unsaid words, yearning and begging to the void. No longer because you’ve said it. You want his child.

He captures your lips, hand slipping through hair, firmly tugging. The way you moan against his lips makes his blood rush his cock. Your hands grasping at his shirt. Your hips grinding against his. Your desperation is a distinct reflection of his.

“Quinn,” you gasp, panting for air. Your pupils are blown. Cheeks flushed.

Quinn groans your name, lifting you to rest you on the couch, him still kneeling on the floor, your hips glued together. He grasps your collar, ruthlessly tugging down. Buttons pop out, fabric tearing. It’s his shirt anyway. He can just give you more.

He doesn’t let you complain, easily capturing your lips, as he continues his rush to remove every bit of your clothing. You try to help, but he won’t let it. He can’t or else he’ll lose it.

He needs this. You need this. Those thoughts keep bouncing in his head as he deepens the kiss. His hand finds your pussy, already dripping. Slipping a finger, your pussy sucks it in, quivering, clenching, leaking. God, you’re so wet. He doesn’t even need to prep you, because you’re already so turned on for him. Only for him. He hooks his finger against your special spot, making you scream.

You’re so ready, aren’t you? Ready to be fucked. Ready to be bred.

“It’s such a dangerous day, Quinny,” you whimper, nails digging into his arms.

You’ve already sent him over the edge but hearing you—those new set of words—makes him spiral deeper into his haze.

He somehow gets rid of his shirt but only pushes his pants and boxers down, before he sinks every inch of his hard and leaking cock into your needy pussy. So easily. So smoothly. So eager and greedy.

“Fuck,” he growls, nipping your lips, blunt fingers digging into your thighs to keep them wide open for him. “You feel so good.”

So good. So perfect around his cock. He watches his cock slide out then back in, shivering at the feel of you, shuddering at your exhales, at how pleasure contorts your beautiful face.

“Quinn,” you say his name like it’s a prayer. “Breed me.”

He nearly comes from that. You’re such a minx. He leans back, fucking harder into you, bottoming out and hitting the spot that has you singing your screams, that has your eyes rolling up as your pussy convulses with tiny orgasms. Christ. He might not last long.

He just wants to fill you up, plug you with his cock so nothing spills. He needs to do that. If he doesn’t, you can’t get pregnant. You can’t have the child you want. The child he needs to take care of, to spoil, to love.

He wraps a hand around your neck. Of all the necklaces he bought for you, it’s his favorite and nothing else, but the sight of the little heart pendant resting on your collar bone, just beneath his wrist, has him snapping his hips harder, rolling to heighten his and your pleasure. Fuck, so good.

“Harder, hubby,” you taunt as tears run down your cheeks. “Please, just a bit upward.”

He follows your plea, hitting the spot you wanted him to reach, getting the immediate reward of you arching your back, pussy clamping down around him as you come. Your cum dribble out with your arousal. The squelching noises and skin slapping are so alluring. Quinn needs more.

Quinn rides your orgasm, prolonging it until you are whimpering and gasping, “I’m coming. Quinn.”

He tightens his hand around your neck, feeling your pulse quicken, pussy tightening. You can only hold his arm, hips raising to meet every thrust that makes your tits bounce. Your eyes roll as you come once again as he controls your air. What a sight.

He finally lets go of your neck, running his hand down your chest, teasing your taut nipples, making you whine, your tummy, until he reaches below your navel. He pushes down, then you scream and come around him again.

Look at you surrendering to him.

“That’s three,” he groans out, slowing down his pace. He rises, resting on knee on the edge of the couch, so he can fuck into you deeper. He hooks your quivering leg over his forearm, watching you bite your lips. “Got more for me, my Love?”

“Please,” you breathe. “Fill me with your cum, Q. Please. I need it.”

That’s his fuel. Your words. Your breaths. Your moans, mewls, whimpers, whispers of calling him your hubby. You, whining for more, more, and more, as he ruts and rolls his hips into your sopping wet pussy. The slight drool on the corner of your lips which he couldn’t fight the urge to lick. Your taste, your feel, your touch, all so divine.

He can’t get enough of you.

Soon, he’ll have little you’s whom he’ll love, whom he’ll play his games for, whom he’ll work hard for, whom he’ll be proud of. He’s already doing these things for you, but that promise will ignite—has ignited—another flame in him.

He’ll have pieces of you and him in his arms.

He can’t wait.

He can’t.

He needs to make it happen.

He must.

He captures your lips, your tongue meeting his instantly. Fuck. He can feel your desperation. You need it too.

Quinn slows, drawing every thrust deeper, losing himself in you until he comes so hard that his sight blurs, so hard that he almost crushes you to the couch, so hard that he whimpers your name because you also come. Every spurt of his cum, a silent prayer, a plea for it to take.

But even if it doesn’t, Quinn has the whole day to plug you up with his cock, to fuck you again with your hips raise to lessen the cum that spill which is fucking inevitable. So, he’s there to give you more.

He has to make sure that you’re full of him. Full of his seed on this dangerous day. So dangerous. A perfect time to breed you, isn’t it?

God, he can’t wait until he’s fucking you with your belly is round with his baby.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Come Back Knockin'

Benny Cross x reader (the bikeriders fic)

Summary: When Benny finds out you're pregnant, he panics and takes off. You don't think he's ever going to come back to you, so you start trying to figure out your future without your husband by your side. And then one day, there's a knock at your door.

Notes/Warnings: *Spoiler free*, lots of cursing, mentions of abandonment, angst but not forever, mention of pregnancy, probably typos.

Words: 2900

Part 2: Come Back Together Benny Cross Masterlist 

“Benny, where are you going!” you cry, watching in disbelief as he turns away from you and exits your shared bedroom. “Benny!”

He doesn’t stop at your call. Doesn’t even flinch. Your voice is a pathetic grasp around his wrist that he shakes off like a pesky mosquito. He’s leaving, you realize, and when your body finally catches up with that understanding, you rush after him. 

His strides are long, double the length of yours, and he’s already got his jacket off the hook and is pulling it over his shoulders by the time you’re able to close in on him.

“Benny, don’t go!” you wail in a desperate plea, but it’s still useless, and a moment later you’re chasing him out the front door into the rain. “Please!”

You’re both drenched in an instant, hair stuck to your heads like a pair of drowned alley cats. Your nipples pebble through your thin, white nightgown that now shows every curve of your figure. The denim on his body deepens a few shades of blue from absorbing every drop of the downpour. 

“Benny!” you try once more. 

He doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he crosses the street toward his bike, so you stop your chase before your bare feet leave the last step of your front porch. All you can do is watch. Watch his long leg swing over the seat of the bike. Watch him kick the beast to life. Watch how he glows angelic-like under the intense ray of the streetlight; a spotlight on the man you love who is running away from you. 

You don’t bother calling for him again. Your voice would only be muffled by the relentless drumming of heavy rain on pavement. Benny leans forward, and without checking for other vehicles, pulls into the street and drives until the darkness of night claims every speck of light from his bike. 

He’s gone. 

And you’re alone. 

—

You hadn’t expected him to be overjoyed by the news—it’s why you waited nearly three weeks to tell him—but you didn’t foresee such anger over the actuality of being a father. When you told him you were pregnant, his face had darkened in a manner you’ve only witnessed right before his fist meets the jaw of a rival biker. And, in some respect, he'd treated you the same. Like you were a pest, a nuisance, an object put in his path solely for the sake of pissing him off; the difference being that Benny would never lay a hand on you. So instead, he'd left.

On day three of your husband’s absence, Johnny had stopped by to ‘see if the kid was still alive,’ and you were left with the burden and embarrassment of telling him that Benny had skipped town. Johnny had asked why, of course, so you told him, and by the way his features twisted from surprise to desolation, you knew he also saw little hope in your husband returning to you. 

Benny has had his reasons for not wanting to be a father, failure a prominent knot in the back of his mind, but it’s not as if you planned this. It was an accident. An accident that you can’t just wish away because he doesn’t know how to handle being what you and this baby need him to be. 

“I’m real sorry, sweetheart,” Johnny had said. You’d done your best to hold in the tears while long beats of melancholy silence passed between you. “Listen, you ever need anythin’, you know Betty and me, we love ya, so…”

You’d nodded, wrapping your arms around your middle to stave off a sudden chill. “Thanks, Johnny.” 

He nodded as well, then he'd sighed and glanced around your quiet street as if expecting to see Benny ride up any second. “Well,” he said once it was clear neither of you would be finding that relief, “don’t be a stranger.”

He’d left after that and you haven’t seen him since. Not because you don’t appreciate him, but because he reminds you too much of Benny. Betty had called a few times—she’s as much a mother figure to you as Johnny was to Benny—but you weren’t very forthcoming with enthusiasm at talking baby plans and motherhood. At one point, in an effort to lift your spirits, she’d even mentioned throwing a shower, which immediately made you drop the phone and rush to the bathroom to lose your breakfast. 

When you’d returned, the phone was dangling by the coiled cord, Betty’s concerned voice coming through the speaker. You’d put it up to your ear, told her you'd call her back, and hung up the damn thing. You didn’t call her back. You think she got the message. 

In the weeks that have passed, many of the guys have come by to check on you, and in the beginning, you were somewhat receptive, but it was solely to abstain from hurting feelings and severing ties so harshly. You’re positive the relationships won’t last. You were in the biker lifestyle because of Benny. He brought you into a pre-established family unit, and without him, you don’t belong. 

You know the day may come when you regret letting the club go. Its members are the only people who have reached out their hands to you, but for now, you’re too numb to care, and with that numbness comes self-destruction. And with your particular brand of self-destruction comes isolation. Solitude. Loneliness. You’ve put yourself in place to navigate the future alone. Finding a job to support your child, hoping you’ll make enough so you don’t lose your house—that’s your priority now, and you have no choice but to step up and figure it out. 

—

As it turns out, no one wants to hire a pregnant woman. Well, no one you’ve contacted wants to hire a pregnant woman, but you’re willing to bet they’re a decent indicator of most companies' future rejection. 

It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t be telling them of your condition, but your bones are built of honesty and when they ask if you’ll be able to work long-term, you don’t hesitate to reveal the truth. In fact, the truth is out of your mouth before the thought to lie slithers into your head. 

You’re going to have to toughen up, be someone you’re not used to being, if you intend to survive. And that’s all you let yourself think about anymore. When Benny slips into your thoughts, you work tirelessly to shove him aside. It’s taken practice, self-discipline, but you’ve made some progress. Just yesterday you were finally able to overcome your urge to run to the window at hearing the grumble of a motor passing by your house. 

The next goal is to bag up his clothes and stow them away in the attic, but you’ve yet to face his side of the closet without breaking down. And to make it all the more agonizing, the fabrics still smell like him. You could wash them five times over and it would do nothing to remove his scent.

Sometimes, at the peak of your pathetic impulses, you want to sneak inside and bury yourself amongst the cheap and tattered clothes. Turn them into a blanket. Forget everything. But you’ve managed to resist.

Baby steps, you internally repeat as you bring a spoonful of cereal to your lips. You like the sugary stuff now. The stuff that kids gobble down before school. Bad for an expectant mother, yes, but you’re not about to scold yourself for what little enjoyment you find in this life. 

Suddenly, a knock taps on the door. Your head shoots up and your heartbeat stutters at the sound, but you don’t move to answer it. These days, it’s rare you answer it at all. The guys know not to bother you, as do Betty and Gail and Kathy. If they see you’re home, they leave their tupperware-filled home-cooked meals at your doorstep, knowing you’ll grab them once they leave. Anyone else—salesmen or mailmen or whomever—always gives up after a few minutes. 

However, this knocking has yet to cease. It must be a salesman, you think with a groan, and he must not have gotten the memo from other neglected salesmen that you’re a house to avoid. You can’t afford the latest vacuum model, you don’t care to own a stack of encyclopedias, and for the love of god, if you have to tell one more well-dressed man that your missing-in-action biker husband is not in need of a new shaving brush you’re gonna start keeping Benny’s handgun on the entryway table. 

The tapping turns into full-fledged banging that shakes the house, and now you’re irritated, offended on the weathered structure’s behalf. Your chair scrapes across the floor as you stand sharply and round the corner into the hall. A curse is on your lips as you wrap your hand around the knob, twist, and pull, but it dies. More than dies, it’s sucked right out of your lungs along with your breath. 

You want to slap him, split his puffy lips and watch the blood run down his chin. You want to shove him back so he’ll fall down the stairs and land on his ass. You want to get your breath back because that curse is clawing for freedom and you desperately want to let it out. But you can’t. You’re frozen.

He looks like shit. Well, as much as Benny Cross can look like shit, which is quite unimpressive compared to other men, but at least he doesn’t look well-rested. There’s some satisfaction in that, limited as it may be. 

“Hi, baby,” he says. The low tone shudders your spine. If he’s happy to see you he doesn’t show it, but you know that even if he is, he wouldn’t dare smile after what he did. 

Your swallow is hard, painful, and as the ease with which he spoke those two words sinks in, every emotion you’ve felt since he vanished bubbles over the edge of your resolve.

“‘Hi, baby’?” you echo. “Are you serious? That’s the best you’ve got, you asshole?” Your hand smacks against his chest and the unexpectedness of it forces him to stumble back a foot. You follow his stumble, stepping out onto the porch. “It’s been six weeks, Benny!”

He sighs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I know.”

“Six fucking weeks!” With your second smack, his fingers latch around your wrist, but he doesn’t push your hand away, he keeps it planted above his heart, refusing to let you go. 

Dipping his head, he stares directly into your eyes. The intensity momentarily stuns you. “I know,” he repeats.

“Oh, you know,” you say, trying to jerk out of his grasp. “You abandon your pregnant wife and you think knowing that you’ve done it means a damn thing to me? Fuck off!”

“No,” he calmly replies.

“Yes!” you bark.

“No.”

Tears begin to cloud your vision. He disappeared and broke your heart at the worst possible time and now that you don’t want him here, he refuses to leave. And how horrible, how fucking humiliating to have your husband dismiss your desires so flippantly. 

“I hate you!” you snap.

“I love you.”

“You left!”

“I panicked.” His free hand lands on your shoulder and slides up your neck to cup your cheek. “I panicked, baby,” he says softly.

That gentle tone pierces your skin against your will and seeps into your veins, spreading throughout your body a sedating sensation. Just enough of the drug to slow your violent pulse without knocking you out completely. And in the absence of such potent rage, sorrow takes over. 

Your bottom lip quivers. Salty drops create lines down your cheeks and drip off your chin onto the rotting floorboards beneath your feet. He was supposed to replace those. It was going to be a summer project but a month and a half has already been carved out of the season and the floorboards still bow under your weight.

“Why were you allowed to panic?” you whimper. “I didn’t get to panic, so how come you got to?”

He sighs, his calloused thumb stroking your cheek. He doesn’t have a response but you didn’t expect one, at least not one with any substance, so you continue. “You know what I’ve been doing while you were out panicking? Trying to find a job so I can afford this house and provide for our child the way a parent should. But no one’s been willing to hire me.”

Benny’s brow pinches and his grip on your hand tightens. Broad shoulders fall forward as if you've just placed a few hefty boulders upon them. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I shoulda been protecting you from those kinds of worries. I shoulda been here.”

“Well, you weren't.”

“I'm gonna be,” he tells you, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe that you believe him. “I am.”

You wish you could trust his word. You wish it was that simple. You wish you were more forgiving, but a situation conflicting enough to require this level of forgiveness is not something you’ve dealt with before. You’ve experienced loss in your life, and you know it well—your father left and your mother disengaged from motherhood, but neither were so rude as to put you in a place to contemplate forgiveness for their betrayal. Neither came back to request it. 

“Will you wait here?” he asks, “and not lock me out when my back is turned? Please?”

You’re severely tempted to do just that because, frankly, he’s made you wait for him long enough. But for some reason, you don't. You cast your gaze aside, cross your arms, and after a couple of seconds, nod your head. 

In your peripherals, you detect his light smile. Then he turns, walks back to his bike, and wrestles a brown paper-wrapped package out of the pack attached to his seat.   

“What is this?” you ask as he returns to the porch and offers it to you. 

“If I was just going to tell you then why would I have wrapped it?”

You almost roll your eyes at the image of Benny taking the time to wrap anything for anyone, as normally he’d enlist someone else (you) to do it, but looking at it, it really is a poorly packaged mess. Wrinkled and ripped in one spot, with a lop-sided bow tied from the string that’s holding the parcel together. Definitely Benny-quality work for this sort of task.

As you tear through the wrapping, Benny collects your scraps, balling the shredded paper together and setting that ball down on the porch railing. The small blanket in your hands is made of bright green fabric with fringed trim, and when you unfold it, hanging it high to get a look at the full thing, you see a white duckling embroidered into one of the corners. 

You lower the blanket so you can meet Benny's eyes. “Why a duck?”

He sticks his hands in his front pockets and shrugs. “They didn't have any with little Harley’s,” he teases.

To your great internal shame, you have to choke down a chuckle. His innocent joke instantly reminds you that he’s the one man who can make you laugh, the one who won you over because of his subtle wittiness and his less subtle charm. And now you fucking miss him, damn it. You’d convinced yourself you’d gotten over that, but even as he stands within touching distance, holding distance, kissing distance, you miss him.  

He clears his throat. “Um…if you don't like it I can–”

“No,” you stop him, shaking your head. “I don't particularly like you at the moment, but…” You exhale and give the gift another glance. “I like the blanket.”

Benny nods. His adam’s apple bobs harshly in his throat as you refold the blanket and clutch it to your chest. 

“You think you could like me again one day?” he asks. “You know, if I prove myself real well.”

Your eyes narrow as they flick up to his ocean blues. “Prove yourself as what?”

“A husband,” he says. “A father.”

A husband. A father. One of which he’s been good at in the past—prior to the disappearing act, of course—and one of which you used to believe he’d be good at in the future if that was where fate led you, which it has. But…you don't know. 

You have two options. That’s it. Yes or no. Can you risk it or not? It’s a lot to take in but the reality is, there’s a question you must answer before you can answer any others—did the bomb he threw at your lives shatter your heart to an unmendable state? 

You chew on your cheek, your jaw ticks, and then with a huff, you straighten your spine. 

“You can never do this again,” you declare firmly, poking your index finger into the center of his chest. “I mean it, Benny. If you do, we won't be here when you come back.”

The ropes of rigidness unravel from his body. “Baby, this is where I wanna be,” he says, stepping into your space once more. “I promise.”

You can feel your heartbeat jackrabbiting from his closeness now that your overwhelming emotions have somewhat subsided.

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” you tell him.

Benny grins. “That's fair.”

---

maybe a part 2? Let me know :)

Updated Taglist (if you wanna join)

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. your roommate, toji, can’t pay rent - again. he promises to pay you back soon, but you’re tired of his behaviour.

tags. (perv) roommate!toji fushiguro x female reader. smut, pōrn with plot kinda. dirty talk. rough. p in v -> unprotected. crēampie. fīngering. praise. reader gets called ‘princess, girl’. degrādation. toji’s a womaniser and asshole, like i’m talking dusty, manipulative asshole. unestablished relationship.

“that shit again?” toji rolls his eyes as he lazily switches between the channels on the television. he knows exactly what you’re going to say next. your complaining has a certain pattern that he’s picked up on.

he smacks his lips after being done with his snack. your snack - the one you put your name on before putting in the fridge. the dark-haired man shrugs, “i told ya, girl. i ain’t got the money this month.”

your head feels like it’s going to explode with anger. you know toji has the money. you saw him count the bills on his bed just yesterday, when you passed by his room to go to yours. “yeaaaah - gambled it all away, right?”

the usual excuse he uses. you’re sick and tired of hearing that for the nth time. it’s the same story every month. toji’s a lazy bastard. he’s living off your salary at this point. unapologetically.

“yep,” toji yawns, not even attempting to sound convincing, “got that right.” he knows you’re not going to do anything about it, so he takes advantage of that fact. you’re all bark, no bite.

you always tell him that you’re going to kick him out if he doesn’t pay, though you never take the action you swear on doing. toji has you wrapped around his finger and he knows.

even now, he notices the way you try not to look down at his body. his black shirt is slightly lifted, showing his happy trail that stops at the waistband of his boxers. the fact that he’s sitting on the couch with his legs spread only makes the sight more appealing.

“well, pack your bags then,” you cross your arms after succeeding into averting your attention to the problem at hand. you point at the door with a nod of your head, “i want you to leave by tonight.”

toji struggles to hold back a chuckle. he’ll play along for your sake and act upset by the situation. the tall man sighs and throws his hands up in defeat, trying to gain some pity, “aw, c’mon. have some mercy on me, yeah?”

you’re the one rolling your eyes this time. you’re not going to be naive about this anymore. you’re not going to fall into his trap. you stomp your way over to his room and grab the bag he uses for the gym, aggressively filling it with a bunch of his clothes.

“you’re going out,” you hiss as you walk back to your living room. you throw the filled bag at toji’s chest without hesitation. you know that you’re no match to a grown man, but you’re too fired up to care, “out. i don’t need some useless bum like you in my house.”

toji’s grin drops. his jaw clenches as he gets his bag thrown at him. you seem more serious about this. normally, you’d just cuss him out and lock yourself up in your room. you’re slowly breaking out of the helpless cycle you were in.

“move it,” you huff. your patience is wearing thin. you stand close to toji, your legs nearly touching. you’re towering over him as he sits on the couch, which gives you all the needed confidence. though if he were to stand up it’d be the exact opposite.

toji frowns and starts to realise that his usual manipulation tactics won’t work. he’s trying to think of other ways to distract you of your current dissatisfaction. some more… direct ways.

“you don’t mean that,” his voice turns husky. a real deep tone he only uses when he needs something out of a woman. toji’s veiny hand moves to the side of your thigh, slowly crawling up your skin while he gauges your reaction.

he’s never attempted distracting you in a sexual manner. perhaps now is the perfect moment to try out if it works.

your breath hitches as you feel his touch on your bare thigh. such a warm touch. you’re not going to act like toji hasn’t been attractive to you all this time. his cocky attitude is annoying, yes, but the nonchalance is also a huge turn on.

you’re in a daze. your rational mind is screaming at you to kick that man to the curb—to let him suffer the consequences of his actions—but you’re weak. you’ve sworn never to get involved with him intimately. you wouldn’t want to sleep with an asshole like him.

“do not,” your voice is shaky, revealing the truth behind your contradicting words. you can’t resist him and you’re slowly realising it. you don’t want to end up as all the other women toji’s charmed with his words and actions. you promised yourself that you wouldn’t fall for him.

and yet here you are.

“i can repay you in a different way, y’know?” toji hums, his other hand landing on your left thigh. he rubs your plush flesh up and down in a slow manner. his eyes watch yours intently. you’re nervous and it’s painfully obvious to him. he suppresses a victorious grin, “y’ sure you don’t wanna, princess?”

you’re as weak as they come. toji’s toying with you and you’re allowing it. you’re no different than those women he fucks every other day when he needs something from them. be it money or just stress relief.

you tremble as you feel his fingers graze against the insides of your thighs.

“i take the silence as a yes, hm?” toji chuckles haughtily. he cups the back of your thighs, just below your ass, pushing your body closer to his. you’re standing between his legs and his head is close to your chest. he looks up at you, “use y’r words f’me, pretty thing.”

your brain stops working. you’re so easy. all toji has to do is call you by those alluring names and you’re all his. his callused fingers stop at the hem of your shorts. they continue to sensually rub the material, inching closer to your clothed cunt.

“say you want it,” toji whispers, his raspy voice making your knees weak. you want it, but you’re stubborn enough to deny your desires. you’re throbbing, aching and wet for him. your eyes catch a glimpse of the bulge in his grey sweatpants.

“no, i won’t,” you try to keep your dignity, however you’re slowly losing it. it’s inevitable. you’re putty in his hands. you let out a high pitched whine when toji ‘accidentally’ slides his fingertips back and forth over your clothed pussy, “mgh—okay, okay. fuck—i want you. need you.”

you blurt the words out before you can stop them from leaving your mouth. you silently curse at yourself. your bodily desires have fully taken over. you hold onto toji’s broad shoulders, your grip on them so tight that it sends a shiver down his spine.

he knew that you’d give in sooner or later. the dark-haired man watches as you lower your head, placing it in the crook of his neck to hide yourself from him. he coos condescendingly—

“mhm. tha’s more like it,” toji wastes no time to pull your shorts down to your ankles. he licks his lips, breathing heavily against your bare shoulder. he can’t wait to take this further. he groans the moment your wetness makes contact with his hand, “shiiittt, she’s fuckin’ wet. bet you dreamt about this.”

your panties are discarded on the floor not a second later. you whine in embarrassment, though still spread your legs. you feel ashamed because of how quickly you gave in to his charms. you thought you’d be different, but alas.

your roommate is one hell of a womaniser.

“y’ think i don’t see those lewd looks you give me?”toji clicks his tongue. his green irises are shining brightly. he enjoys the feeling of your sloppy cunt against his bare hand. his thick fingers rub between your folds, teasing your entrance, “nasty little girl. got me wanting to fuck you silly every single time.”

the desire has been mutual all this time. you’ve been driving toji crazy since day one. the way you think you’re being subtle when checking him out never fails to make him hard. or when you walk around the apartment in those skimpy clothes—those shorts that define your ass so well.

he’s sure that you are doing it all on purpose. not wearing a bra, staring at him for too long when he comes out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist, sneaking glances at the outline of his fat cock. you’re not as clever as you think you are.

toji finally has you in his grasp and he’s not letting go. he’ll pound you to the mattress, until you’re satisfied and overstimulated.

he’ll get revenge for all those times you’ve (un)intentionally left him hard. all those times you left him sexually frustrated. all those times he had to resort to other things to relieve himself. all those times he had to waste his cum on his hands or on other women.

all those times he couldn’t fuck you—his pretty little roommate.

“you’re a pervert,” you whimper as you feel toji slip two fingers inside you without warning. his eyes nearly roll back from how tight you’re gripping his digits. it’s going to be so worth it once he’s got your pussy wrapped around his cock.

“yeah, but tha’s how you like ‘em,” toji laughs, not taking any offence to the accusation. he is a pervert when it comes to you and you secretly love it. the squelchy sounds echoing through the living space are all the evidence he needs, “no need to deny it. y’r cunt is doing all the talking for ya.”

you weakly punch his chest at his dirty words. he’s riling you up in both the best and worst ways possible. you moan and your hips shake from pleasure, feeling him curl his fingers up inside you. you hiccup and try to silence him, “shut up!”

toji loves seeing you deny your own feelings. it gives him so much power over you. he knows you’ll come back crawling to him when he’s done here.

after all, you’re stuck with him. literally. he’s not leaving this apartment any time soon. not when he’s got a cute roommate like you awaiting him whenever he comes back home.

soon enough, you end up in his bed. it smells like him. you’ve only imagined being in this situation. with him on top of you, between your legs, filling you to the brim with his cock. it’s huge—bigger than you thought it’d be. no wonder those other girls come back for more.

you can’t talk anymore. the only noises leaving your lips are moans—signs of the pleasurable sensations rushing through your body. your vision is blurry and all you can think of is this moment that you’ve waited for. to be dicked down by your roommate.

perhaps you’re the pervert here.

“bratty attitude nowhere to be found, heh,” toji snickers while his hips ram against yours. flop flop flop — it’s embarrassing how much noise your wet cunt is making. you’re dripping on his sheets while he’s splitting you open. he’s doing it so, so well. he grabs both your wrists with one hand and pins them above your head, giving you no chance to touch him.

toji pants as his thrusts increase in speed. he can’t keep his eyes away from you. you’re beautiful underneath him like this, on his bed, your body a piece of art he wishes to admire every single night. he smirks, “all you needed was some dick to shut that mouth of y’rs up, huh?”

you’re humiliated by how cheap you made yourself seem. you don’t respond to the man’s words and just wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in. toji grunts and slaps your thighs with his free hand, surprised by your actions, “fuck—didn’t know my roommate was such a slut in bed.”

your mouth hangs open. you’re sure you’re drooling by now. toji’s voice nearly becomes inaudible with how focused you are on the feeling of his cock. it’s hitting that right spot over and over again, the curve of his pink tip almost kissing your cervix.

“fffnghh, right there!” you moan loudly. you don’t care if the neighbours file noise complaints against you. they should’ve done so before, when toji had other women over. you remember how many times you had to put your earplugs in because your bastard of a roommate couldn’t keep it down.

the same bastard that’s fucking you so good right now. you can’t recall the amount of orgasms you’ve had already. toji didn’t even cum once and that’s only embarrassing you more. your inability to control yourself is pathetic. maybe not to toji though; he enjoys how easily he can make you spasm and squirt underneath him.

“i got’cha,” toji’s voice turns sweet for a split second once he sees how desperate you are for another mind blowing climax. if he knew you’d be this needy for him, he’d have taken you to bed long time ago.

“need you to say smthing f’me, ‘kay?” toji whispers and bites your earlobe, nibbling on it. his husky voice in your ear is like heaven. it makes you want to listen to whatever he has to say. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he increases his pace, “say that i don’t need to pay y’ back no more.”

you nearly choke on your own spit. toji is an asshole—manipulating your moment of weakness and vulnerability for his own benefit—and yet you allow him. you try to fight the urge to give in, but it’s too late.

“y-you don’t have to pay me back anymore,” you repeat with a whine and shake your head. it’s impossible to think rationally when you’ve got a fat dick all the way in your cunt, hitting all the right spots. your eyes roll back as you babble inaudible stuff in between moans, “promise, you don’t have to—mghhh!”

toji hisses at the feeling of you tightening up around him. you’re insatiable, wanting to continue until you’re able to milk every drop of cum out of his heavy balls. he’s never had a girl be so desperate for him. so dumb and easy.

“atta girl,” your roommate hums and moves his hands to lift your thighs. his inhuman pace only seems to increase with the change of positions. toji stares down at you from behind his black bangs, “no more whinin’ about money ‘n stuff, yeah?”

his gaze is a mix of pure lust and intimidation. you nod your head along to all he says, too cockdrunk to resist anything. you’re living the dream and you’re unwilling to ruin it, “y-yes, not gonna do it again.”

toji groans at the sound of your whiny voice. he’s going to make you addicted to him—that’s his ultimate goal. his hips slam against yours repeatedly, a slick trail of your fluids sticking to his pelvis, “shit, pussy’s sucking me in, princess.”

you can’t get enough of him and vice versa. the dark-haired man fails to keep his composure for a second, pushing his body weight on yours, caging you right against the mattress. he can’t stop his cock from throbbing each time it dives into your insides.

“gonna cum real deep in you,” toji grumbles. he’ll give you every drop, all the way into your womb. he’ll make you his woman for tonight and the many nights yet to come. if it’s left up to him, he’ll gladly fuck you like this every day, “be greedy ‘n take it all.”

you gasp and feel toji thrusting harder into your aching cunt. you didn’t think he’d be able to go faster. you mewl and scream about how good he feels, which only feeds toji’s big ego. he grips your thighs tightly, nails digging into the flesh.

“fuck!” white dots appear in your vision as you reach your peak once again. you feel like your heart stops beating for a second. you involuntarily start convulsing, legs shaking and hips bucking up to meet toji’s.

he hisses and closes his eyes, shooting his creamy load all the way inside of you. ropes of warm cum spurt out of his tip, filling your pussy like both of you have always imagined. he sighs and thrusts a couple more times, making sure no drop escapes your messy folds, “mhmmm, there we go, girl.”

you’re still dazed. you’re slack-jawed, your spit dripping down your chin. you’re more sleepy than ever. no one has made you feel this good in a while. toji watches you struggle to stay conscious and huffs proudly.

he rolls off you and lays down on his back, stretching his arms. he yawns—not bothering with aftercare at the moment. he’ll let you cool off first before he gets you a towel to clean up. toji tilts his head to the side and grins, “debt repaid.”

he’s said it so casually. you don’t notice what he’s implying until you’ve calmed down. your rationality comes back to you after a couple seconds, and when it does, your heart sinks to your stomach. your eyes widen as you recall what you’ve basically promised him.

you promised not to ask for the money he owes you ever again. oh, stupid you.

“wait—”

unfortunately for you, toji’s already snoring. his eyes are closed as he lays there like he hasn’t just rearranged your guts and manipulated you to say stuff you can’t take back. you scoff and rub your eyes, kicking your legs in frustration at your own naivety.

what a bastard.

[hungharrington]

okay steve definitely wouldn’t care about body hair, but i just know that man goes feral over your freshly shaved, smoooooth legs

i took this to make him a sillay boyfriend 🫶 sorry if u wanted HAWTNESS this is just silly LUV…. forgive me

The sheets feel cool against your bare legs.

You can feel the scratch of your hair tucked against your neck but you’re too content, all but sinking into the mattress, to be bothered to move it. Your legs are tucked up, your arms splayed wide across the bed. You’ve just done the hard job of an everything-shower and lying down is your well-earned reward.

Across the room, Steve pulls the curtains to cover the window. Shadow falls across the room, banished after a moment when Steve pads to the bed, turning on the lamp. Amber coats the ceiling.

It’s balmy tonight. You feel warm without even being under the covers. Dozing off sounds like a pretty amazing idea right now.

“Not falling asleep with me, are ya?”

You smile at the sound of Steve’s voice, lifting your heavy eyelids to gaze at him.

He looks scruffy the same way he always does at the end of the day. His hair has lost some of its magnificent volume and he’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt from high school. You can see the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow on his jawline. He’s gorgeous.

And you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. The thought makes you smile wider.

“Mm,” you hum, definitely giving away your sleepiness. “Nope.”

A warm hand touches your knee, Steve’s hand reaching out and rubbing it tenderly. He tsks playfully. “You’re not fooling anyone, baby.”

You huff a quiet laugh and let your eyes fall back closed. Steve’s touch has always had a magnetic property, drawn to you whenever he’s near. It has a similar effect on your heart, which always feels like it’s surging forward in your chest to reach him.

The touch shifts, skimming down your shinbone. You expect him to maybe begin a half-hearted massage on your calves— he’s prone to giving them to you— but then, unexpectedly there’s another touch added to your legs.

You lift your head, peering down at him with squinted eyes. He’s crouched down beside the bed and he’s rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of your legs.

When he knows he’s been spotted, he only grins, shifting his cheek again. “You’re so… smooooth.”

There’s definitely awe in his voice. You laugh, a real laugh this time, and shake your head. You should really stop being surprised when Steve’s a dork — he’s proven to be one time and time again. If you didn’t know different, you might assume this was his first ever relationship.

“Mhmm,” You hum. “That’s part of the appeal, handsome.”

Something glitters in Steve’s eyes at your pet name for him and his grin melts into something softer. His hand on your shin moves again, stroking softly up your calf. His face shows his bewilderment at your supremely smooth skin— and then betrays the look of mischief that crosses his face.

Your brows furrow instinctively. “Steve—” You warn.

He does it anyway, turning and licking one big stroke up your knee. You squeal, surprised at the sensation, and jerk your leg away from him.

“Steve!”

“What!” He mimics your tone, finally getting up onto the bed and crawling up to meet you. He’s smirking, looking terribly proud of himself. He plops himself down, half of his weight pressing into your shoulder as he nuzzles himself into your neck.

“S’just wanna a little taste, that a crime?”

His breath is hot and almost tickles against your neck. It’s impossible not to dissolve into quiet giggles, leaning into him. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling the two of you closer.

“You’re a dork.”

You can feel the little puff of air he lets out in a laugh as well as the smile that spreads on his mouth. He pokes his tongue out, a minuscule touch against your neck that has you shrieking again— except this time, Steve’s holding you too tight to squirm away.

“Mmhm,” He says. “Your dork.”

You grin, turning to nose against his temple and make a noise of agreement. “Absolutely.”

[really-burnt-toast]

Redesigning my COTL cast pt.1

HAHA I'm finally done! I only made busts tho bc Im lazy and Im not putting myself through drawing a size chart... YET.

It WILL come, just so I can show pretty outfits and show how ridiculous Leshy's hight is LOL

If you see any spelling mistakes, please ignore them <3

(more info and rambling under cut)

Here I'll write some more things relating to each character;

Lamb

Born in Darkwood to a single mother, their mom had named them Mellia after the flowers that grow there, since they had aided in striving off an illness she had during the pregnancy.

The Lamb grew up pretty happily despite being on the run. Their mother was eventually caught whilst they made an escape. During their years of hiding, they broke their leg during one particularly risky escape and were caught not long after.

Their number is 1.600.666 because I keep making a connection between Darkwood and Germany's Schwartzwald - there are 1.6 million sheep in Germany - so I decided to have that be the approximate number. 666 was just added for fun.

Their ear was tagged to keep track of how many sheep were caught in which realm. They just so happened to be the last to be executed. By mere coincidence.

They were born without horns and kinda made the crown shape into a set. It has the benefit that they can rip em off and use them as impromptu weapons.

Due to centuries of being treated as a tool for a prophecy and merely a vessel, their self esteem is downright horrid. Whilst they don't condone followers speaking ill of them, they pretty much let Narinder trample on their feelings up until they had snapped one day. In the end it did help them both, but it wasn't great it had to be taken to that point.

Extra: I added the vitiligo because when I imagine a human version, I couldn't help but see them as having Vitiligo. Their leg limp was made after I thought it would make them look more imposing seeing someone "weak" suddenly pull out a giant hammer.

Narinder

Found within a burning village under rubble, clutching a crown as war raged around them. He was found by Shamura and taken in.

He was the first to create resurrection and back then it was an EXTREMELY taxing ritual. It would require his own godly flesh to beckon people back to life - thus it would literally cause his skin and flesh to melt off his bones. Now that's not needed anymore but his body is still weak to it, meaning during certain stress factors, he can still become skeletal. He doesn't have scarring from it, but gained some cool markings.

He was bound by his arms, torso and neck - all of which are scarred. In the afterlife he was perpetually sitting, causing him to be paralyzed from the waist down. Once he was usurped he had to regain his ability to walk and was taken care of by the Lamb.

He was in a catatonic state for many years and it only got better gradually with many setbacks. For years he never left the bed and by the time his Siblings had been rescued, he had barely started going outside. He was also suffering from chronic pains which wasn't really helpful.

He's also very... Temperamental. It took him just as long to say anything nice to the Lamb and it took him extra long to see them as more than his vessel.

Extra: I changed his markings to be more like I had imagined them. The catatonic trait and chronic pain was added after the update and I remember how horrible it was having tendonitis and I wanted to channel my distaste into Narinder.

Shamura

Found and raised by the last gods, they weren't the greatest sibling. They may have taken in the others but it took them a long time to be anything other than cold. With Kallamar, Shamura was distant and strict - then with Narinder they attempted to be less harsh after the kid started crying himself to sleep. With Heket and Leshy they got less and less cold. They tried their best, they'd argue.

They got carried away by their feelings as they had feared at the start and that's when the first prophecy came to them. They had kept it hidden for way too long until the balance of the crown's powers were ripping at the seams due to Narinder's pursuit in power - and they made a decision. They had told Kallamar first. Then Heket and Leshy were brought in.

Stuff happened. Now they are barely coherent and at most have an hour or two at a time where they seem to make sense. Leshy stays with them the most. Kallamar takes care of them. Heket takes care of the rest. Their skull is caved in, they lost an eye and limbs - some of the damages can't be hidden by bandages.

There's also this thing that their crown keeps getting out of control whilst trying to keep their mind stable - sometimes they'll get startled - attempt to form a weapon and instead end up with their arm speared through. They have scarring all over their body from it.

Upon recruitment they are pretty overwhelmed. Their crown can't stop them from breaking anymore and they have gotten so used to godhood that mortality now feels like they are literally rotting alive. They can feel their body wasting away.

Only after getting their relic back do they start becoming more independent and stable. They nowadays go through some sort of rehab to try and regain their sense of self.

Extra: Not much was added. I wanted to give them Glasses but I can't for the life of me draw them with a pair... So Ill just say they have them but not show them LOL

Kallamar

His past is basically forgotten. It sorta slipped away since he hadn't deemed it fit to be remembered. At first he had MANY fights with Shamura, then it ceased after a confrontation turned violent which left him with a bad scar.

He had to take care of his younger siblings whilst coming to terms with godhood - filling in whenever Shamura wasn't physically or mostly emotionally unavailable. For a long time he was the only one that could comfort his ailing siblings. Dealing with that sort of made him pretty easily agitated.

When Shamura proposed the plan, he had been hesitant - but ultimately didn't say anything.

Now he takes care of his siblings medically. He hates himself more than he hates anyone else and as much as he is quick to condemn and betray Shamura - he is also quick to condemn himself. Though maybe not as enthusiastically or openly.

He likes to compensate. Giving gifts to request forgiveness - grand displays of favoritism or mainly decking himself and his multiple spouses out with Jewels. He still keeps his wedding rings around his neck and his earring references his siblings.

Funnily enough, he caused the least troubles to the Lamb. They could argue he even seemed relieved after a short while of staying in the cult.

Extra: Added Jewelry and two tentacles because he looked naked without them.

Heket

Loudmouth frog that when found with her crown, she started trying to fight Shamura - insulting whatever parent they had. She kept threatening to poison them too.

In the lineup of her siblings, she was often the one who took the sidelines. If she was happy, she was left alone. If she was displeased, she'd let herself known. The most uncomplicated of the siblings.

You'd almost miss how every other bishop would seek her out when help was needed. While Shamura helped with godhood and Kallamar with emotional needs - Heket was a good person to pester with anything else. She'd handle it - just let big sis do it. Even if she was the second youngest - it's funny how even Kallamar and Narinder would occasionally use the nickname.

Then when everyone else was dealing with their wounds, she picked up the pace and kept their respective cults from falling apart. She handled Silk cradle until Shamura could - helped with Darkwood and took over Anchordeep when Kallamar was tending to the others. No problem.

She was still loud when entering the cult. Not as much as her brother - but she loved to cause scenes. Her muteness didn't seem to hinder her at all with that. She's not allowed near knives but somehow can handle axes?

Her temper problems don't get better. She just stops being an asshole about it.

She prefers having scarfs covering her neck bandages whilst they're all bloody and disgusting.

Extra: Nothing because Heket is already perfect.

Leshy

Literally a weird insect that kept clinging to the crown until it grew big enough to hold in one hand. It bit anything that got close and by the time Shamura found it - he had started eating small critters.

And god, he kept growing and growing until he wasn't a small worm in Shamura's hand but literally too big to fit through most doors. They suspected he'd grow until the end of time. Or well, now since his crown is gone.

He never listens. He screams for fun and overshares the worst details to the point he manages to break his siblings into just accepting anything he talks about. They can't even scold him or punish him since Leshy always finds a way to make things worse for anyone else but himself.

He also copies everyone. First it was Heket's tone. Then it was Narinder's behavior - now he started growing flowers and vine braids to make fun of Kallamar and his antlers were at first a crude mimic of Shamura's pedipalps and now they grow vines to be similar to the jewels hanging from them. He refuses to acknowledge doing so.

He's very clingy. After locking away Narinder, he stayed with Shamura every day until they were out of bed rest. He follows his siblings around and when he does give them a second to breathe - hes probably laying around in Darkwood instead of doing anything productive. He does tends to plants occasionally, but he prefers "to let chaos do its thing" - as if that means anything.

He makes for a great gardener after he stopped trying to break everything upon recruitment. And once he got over growling at every living thing - he actually became one of the most well liked people living there.

Leshy knows exactly what someone needs and somehow finds a way to achieve that with the littlest of efforts. It's the thought that counts.

Extra: Braid and vines because I thought Leshy would look cute with it.

Special: The 4 bishops all wear old faith themed robes, but Shamura got the elder clothes for comfort and Leshy kept tearing his clothes apart so he is not permanently excluded from having any special outfits as punishment. Narinder wears fancy robes (who happen to be loose and warm while being special - otherwise he'd complain)

The Lamb wears one of the leaked fleeces since I loved the red riding hood aesthetic.

In the end this turned more into biographies than actual explanations but its 3:30am, Im sleep deprived and I wanted to get my thoughts out because I start having memory problems again YIPPEE

[peanutpinet]

Hi! I would love to see a fic on how innocent reader x sylus met? since we are not a hunter

Beloved - Sylus x Innocent Fem Reader

A/N: Hi anon, am so sorry it took me practically forever to write this for you. It took me a while but I think I’ve come up with a backstory that hopefully you and everyone will like

Also, happy new years everyone!! How we doing after Sylus’ myth and the nightly rendezvous. Somehow, I managed to get Sylus’ myth pair (after 132 pulls and cost me an arm and leg) but I also got lucky with this spicy update and got 3 of them aka Zayne, Sylus, and Xavier AKA THE 3 MOST INTENSE CARDS AND SYLUS + ZAYNE’S CARD IS ASDFGHJKL

Anyways, onto the story :D sorry I’m doing it in bullet points and I might refer to innocent reader as you/her

Disclaimer: I do not own the images nor the characters or you (the MC). All images were taken from Pinterest and credit goes to the image's respective owners.

Innocent reader is not the hunter MC but her soul is the one that Sylus fell in love with

LET ME EXPLAIN!!

Hunter MC only has the same face as the girl sylus fell in love with in his past (aka his myth)

Sylus had been spying on hunter MC for quite some time but he was still unsure whether she was the one he was looking for

Sylus bumped into you when you were at one of your lowest times, barely surviving but still kept going on

Let’s say Sylus owns a bar and you were working there in the beginning. You also didn’t know that Sylus owns the place; you had only heard rumours that whoever owns the place also had several other business streams, including part of the black market

But on the night when you were working, Sylus came to check in on the place. To you, Sylus didn’t seem like the big scary or ruthless boss you’ve been hearing. Sure he was intimidating, but he didn’t seem mean or scary. At least not to you.

As you were working, you overheard some men talking about “stealing” from Sylus and youdecided to inform Sylus. Though Sylus knew that these men weren’t just “stealing” from him like a typical robber, they were planning to ambush him and take his riches

Sylus sent Luke and Kieran to handle the “robbers” and once your shift was done, he started to ask personal questions regarding why “someone like you” (aka someone who seemed young and innocent looking) would be working in a place like this where you can never be sure who would be coming and who would be leaving

Sylus pitied you, reminding himself of who he was in the past. Struggling to survive for being part beast

But then it clicked him. That fire to survive, it was her. It had to be. You might not look the same as in the past. But Sylus was more than sure that it was truly her soul that was now in another body

Sylus started to get to know you more and every time, he was more than convinced that she was the one

Sylus started to pay close attention to you, worried that if he were to turn away for a moment, you would slip away from him

Sylus was also worried that any sudden advance he made would only drive you further away from him

As Sylus kept coming back to where you worked, the more he got to know you and the more nervous Sylus became as he wanted nothing more than to tell her, to show her that he was serious with you

That all Sylus desired was to be reunited with his beloved lover

It wasn’t until one of the busiest nights that Sylus got his chance to be real and vulnerable with you; albeit not in the most perfect situation

Throughout the night, Sylus was in a meeting with a fellow business partner who one of their men was eyeing on her; saying all the nasty things he wanted to do to her

As the meeting was coming to a close, you came to the room to give Sylus his drink and food which his partner and their men were eyeing her from top to bottom

Right as you were about to leave, the men tried to hit on you and even went as far as to almost touch you, making her clearly uncomfortable and shaking

Luckily, before it got too far, Sylus got in between you, pulling you into his chest, softly soothing your shaking self

“Don’t look, sweetie. Trust me. I won’t let them touch you. Let me take care of you”

With that Sylus used his evol to hurt the men, his partner cowering in fear as Luke and Kieran stood by, not letting anyone escape their boss’ wrath

It wasn’t until Sylus felt a soft gentle touch on his hand that he decided not to kill the man

“I’m okay. You don’t have to waste your energy on something like this”

Sylus immediately released his evol, making the man drop to his knees as he assessed her face, wanting nothing more for you to be comfortable and hoping that he hadn’t stepped over the boundary

“Get out. Our deal is over. If I ever see any of your faces in any of my properties, I’ll make sure you won’t have a face anymore”

Once everyone left, it was just sylus and innocent

But instead, you gave him the softest smile he had ever seen. The same smile and eyes that he saw in his past all while telling him that you were grateful and thankful for him

“Thank you. No one has ever stepped in like that before”

Hearing those words, Sylus gently stroked your cheeks as he pulled her closer, letting you bury your face in his chest; knowing that he had finally found his beloved lover again

“Anytime. I’d do anything for you. Let me take care of you from now own”

And ever since, Sylus finally felt reunited with his beloved lover, loving her once more despite the slightly different personality and looks, she was still his as he was hers

A/N: Aghhh I know it's bad, I've been rusty and haven't had inspiration to write. I'm also posting this while having a bad migraine but I feel bad for not posting for an entire month T^T I hope this was alright for you anon and happy new years again everyone!!

May 2025 be kinder to us all and to my fellow 00 liners, let's just enjoy our quarter-life year together :') xoxo peanutpinet

[rafessecret]

Hey beautiful! I have a request if you are still taking them :)

Bullie / mean rafe who jokes about how weird it would be to sleep with y/n (insinuating she would be bad in bed)

(He really believes)

Thats until they have to play 7 min in heaven at a party

And y/n has him c mming in his pants in minutes

Thank you :)

⋆˚࿔ ' weird ' reader && mean¡rafe cameron

7 MINUETS OF . . .

The party thrums with heavy bass and perfume-slick air. Sweat glistens across collarbones, lights blink red-blue-gold over bare skin, and the kitchen is packed shoulder to shoulder. You’d rather be anywhere else, honestly. But you look good tonight. You know it. Tight little dress, glossy lips, that glow you only wear when you're sick of being the quiet girl people whisper about. Especially him.

Rafe Cameron is somewhere in the house, probably already drunk, definitely high, mouthing off with his arrogant, sweaty friends. He’s been like a shadow behind you since junior year — sneering in your direction, throwing snide little barbs at parties, and shit-talking you for something that happened two years ago. You didn’t fuck him that night. You could have. But he was coked out, wide-eyed and mean, too rough with your hips when he tried kissing you. You pulled away, and ever since, he’s made it his mission to act like it was your loss. He took it personally. You know he did. You could see it in the way he stopped looking at you like a challenge and started talking about you like you were a joke.

There was the party after prom, where he loudly told everyone that you were probably still a virgin and not even the fun kind. Or when he threw a beer can into the bonfire and muttered how ❝you probably fuck like a starfish.❞ Last summer, at the beach, when you showed up in that little bikini and all the guys were turning their heads — Rafe just had to ruin it. ❝Looks don’t mean shit if she just lies there.❞ He says it loud enough for you to hear. Like always.

You spot him now in the den, splayed on some threadbare couch, hair falling across his face. He looks infuriatingly good — tanned, smirking, thighs spread, bottle at his knee. His voice is unmistakable, thick with liquor. He’s talking about girls. Someone mentions your name. 

He laughs. ❝Her? Nah. She’s the type to cry after. Like, no rhythm. Would probably say, ‘Are you done yet?’ halfway through.❞ Another guy chuckles, and Rafe keeps going. ❝Bet she’s still thinking about that one time she turned me down. Like she had the upper hand. I was just trying to be nice. She’s weird.❞

You should leave. You should roll your eyes and call him pathetic. Instead, you smile. Because you’re done being quiet.

When the call for Seven Minutes in Heaven echoes through the room, there’s chaos, groans, cheers — and fate plays its hand. Your name. Rafe’s name. You lock eyes across the room. He looks like he might protest — but a few of his friends holler and tease. He can’t back out. Not when he’s built his whole rep on pussy and pride. You walk past him slowly, brushing his shoulder as you go.

The bathroom’s narrow and dimly lit, with a sink crusted with old makeup stains and a mirror fogged from too many hot showers. You perch on the edge of the counter, arms folded. Rafe leans against the door, arms crossed, cocky smirk in place, but his eyes? They flick to your legs.

❝So,❞ you hum, ❝still think I’d cry after?❞ He scoffs and pushes off the door. ❝Don’t know. Depends how bad it is.❞ But his voice is lower. Throatier.

You reach for him, fingers slipping under the waistband of his jeans.

❝What the fuck are you—❞ You shut him up with a kiss, slow and syrupy, just to fuck with him. His mouth tastes like whisky and trouble. He groans into it, surprised. You smile against his lips as you work his zipper down, your hand slipping into the warmth of his boxers.

Rafe’s sharp inhale tells you everything. He’s hard already. ❝Shit,❞ he hisses, forehead tipping against yours. His eyes flutter as your hand starts moving — slow, tight strokes that make his hips jerk. ❝Fuck, that’s—shit, wait—❞ He grips the counter like it’s keeping him alive. He’s usually all bark, full of taunts and swagger, but now he’s quiet. Moaning. A breathy, broken mess.

His pants are barely past his thighs. You stroke him faster, twisting just right, watching his jaw clench. You lean in and nip his bottom lip. ❝Still think I’m shit, Cameron?❞

His eyes snap open, wide and glassy. He looks wrecked. He looks good like this. ❝Please,❞ he whispers. ❝Fuck—don’t stop, please.❞ It’s delicious. The control. The power. His hand trembles where it grips the counter. You let go.

He groans, loud and needy. ❝What the fuck—❞ You slide back, open your legs, slow and deliberate. ❝Eat.❞ His eyes go darker. He drops to his knees.

No teasing now. No cocky smirks. Just a tongue that knows what it’s doing — long, hot licks that melt you open. The first drag of it has your lashes fluttering, breath catching. Fingers tangle in his hair as he groans against you — a deep, desperate sound, like he’s starved. His nose nudges your clit, tongue working in slow, deliberate circles, then faster, sloppier, more urgent.

His hands grip your thighs like they’re lifelines. You feel the tremble in his fingers, the heat of his breath, the way he murmurs between licks — incoherent, reverent. ❝Taste so fucking’ good. Can’t believe—fuck, you’re so—fuck, I could live here.❞ Lips close around your clit, you suck hard, and you jolt, a cry spilling from your throat.

Then — a finger, slow and gentle, slipping in, then another, curling just right. The wet sound of it is obscene, matched only by the way he moans into you like your pussy is the only thing keeping him alive. He’s messy with it. Passionate. Completely gone. Rafe looks up, face flushed, eyes glazed. Lips slick. He looks worshipful. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his.

Your thighs tighten around his head, hips grinding against his mouth as the pleasure crests and crests until it breaks — shattering through you in a loud, shivering moan. You fall apart on his tongue, thighs twitching, breath gone. And below, with a strangled groan, he jerks — hips twitching against his jeans.

He came. In his pants. On his knees. Still eating you like he didn’t even notice. You pull back, panting, and he blinks up at you — a dazed, ruined mess. You tilt your chin, basking in the moment. ❝Still think I’d be bad in bed?❞

He shakes his head, barely able to speak. ❝No. Fuck, no. You’re—fuck. Please.❞ You hop off the counter, smooth your dress down, and step over him — sticky and flushed, cock softening in soaked denim, his pride left in a puddle on the tile.

Let him talk now.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : i’ve never been so excited to write something this petty and hot. there’s just something about rafe talking shit for two years only to end up begging on tile, pants around his thighs, coming in his jeans like a little slut. this one is for everyone who likes their revenge glossy, their kisses messy, and their rafe a little ruined. more requests like this please, I’m obsessed. I wish this was my only piece, I love it that much. give me more filthy, petty, hot-as-hell setups that end with Rafe begging. my inbox is open and I’m feral. i wanna kiss the anon who sparked this idea fr. hope y’all enjoy seeing him brought to his knees <3 kinda lost the concept of it being 7 minuets as well but idc

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire , @faiyaz555

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[scarletwinterxx]

chase the cut - jeon wonwoo imagine

hello~ i've been wanting to write a med au for so long, i tried my best here so i hope you like it!🤍

alsooo i opened an acc on x. you can follow me there, my un there niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You bolt out of the room like your life depends on it.

Behind you, heavy footsteps follow, growing louder with each second. "Come back here!" Wonwoo’s usually calm voice has a sharp edge, but you don’t dare slow down

"It’s just a scratch!" you yell over your shoulder

"A scratch?!" Wonwoo sounds offended. "You’re a surgeon, and you’re bleeding! Do you hear yourself?"

Mingyu and Seokmin barely react as you sprint past them. Mingyu, sipping his coffee, raises a brow. "What did she do now?"

"She got a cut," Wonwoo answers, still in pursuit

Seokmin blinks. "A cut? We’re literally surrounded by scalpels and needles every day—why is he freaking out?"

You duck behind a chair, panting. "Because he’s a pediatric surgeon," you whisper dramatically. "He deals with tiny humans, not full-grown surgeons with minor injuries!"

Wonwoo rounds the corner, eyes locked on you. "You. Sit. Down."

Mingyu, ever the agent of chaos, casually blocks your escape route. "Just let him patch you up. Or keep running—I’m entertained either way."

Seokmin grins. "I say we take bets. Five bucks says he tackles her."

You glare at them. "Some friends you are."

Wonwoo takes a step forward, and you take a step back. It’s a ridiculous standoff in the middle of the hospital lounge.

"Do not make me chase you around the hospital," he warns.

You make a break for it. Seokmin and Mingyu laugh as Wonwoo groans and sprints after you. He catches you in less than five seconds. He’s faster than he looks, and before you can dodge, an arm wraps around your waist, effectively trapping you.

"Gotcha," he mutters, his breath warm against your ear

You squirm uselessly. "This is unfair! You have long legs!"

"You have terrible decision-making skills," he counters, steering you toward the nearest chair with ease. Seokmin and Mingyu watch like it’s their favorite reality show, Mingyu even grabbing a snack.

Wonwoo lets go just long enough to grab the antiseptic wipes, and that’s when the real panic sets in.

"Wait, wait, wait—just let me mentally prepare—"

"You had plenty of time to do that while you were running," he deadpans

The moment the antiseptic-soaked wipe touches your skin, you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted. "Ow, ow, OW—"

Wonwoo sighs. "You literally cut people open for a living, and you’re whining over this?"

Seokmin snickers. "Zero pain tolerance. It’s honestly embarrassing."

Mingyu nods sagely. "Every time she gets a paper cut, she acts like she’s been stabbed."

You glare at them through watery eyes. "This hurts—"

"It stings," Wonwoo corrects, holding your wrist firmly as you try to pull away. "Stay still before you actually make it worse."

You groan dramatically, but Wonwoo, ever patient, finishes patching you up despite your flinching and whining. When he’s done, he presses the bandage down with a little more force than necessary, just to be petty.

"There. All better," he says, finally letting go.

You cradle your injured hand and pout. "You’re mean."

Wonwoo exhales, exasperated. Then, softer, "You should be more careful." 

For a second, something unreadable passes between you. Then Seokmin ruins it. "So, who owes me five bucks? I said he’d tackle her, but technically, it was more of a grab—"

"Pay up, Seokmin," Mingyu smirks. "A catch is a catch."

You groan, while Wonwoo just shakes his head, rubbing his temples like he regrets ever being friends with you three.

As soon as Wonwoo walks out, probably to regain some of his sanity before starting his rounds, you finally relax. Big mistake because the moment the door clicks shut behind him, you feel it—the shift in atmosphere. You don’t even have to look up to know that Mingyu and Seokmin are staring at you with that look. The one that spells trouble.

Seokmin grins. "Sooo…"

Mingyu wiggles his eyebrows. "Are you two dating, or is Wonwoo just your personal on-call nurse?"

You groan. "Oh my god, not this again."

"Look, I’m just saying," Seokmin continues, leaning back like he has all the time in the world, "Wonwoo doesn’t act like that with anyone else."

"Yeah, I mean, I literally saw him step over a crying intern last week," Mingyu adds. "But the second you get a tiny little cut—"

"A painful cut," you interject

"—he’s running after you like you just lost a limb," Mingyu finishes, ignoring you

You roll your eyes. "He’s just like that."

Seokmin scoffs. "No, he’s not."

Mingyu hums. "Do you ever see him chase me down when I get hurt?"

"You get hurt on purpose for attention," you deadpan.

"Fair," Mingyu concedes. "But still. Wonwoo’s different with you."

You shake your head, standing up. "Whatever. I have patients to see."

As you reach for the door, Seokmin calls out, "Hey, don’t run too fast—wouldn’t want to scrape your knee. Wonwoo might carry you to the ER next time." Mingyu cackles as you slam the door on your way out.

It’s way past midnight—closer to 3 AM, when Wonwoo finally walks into the on-call room. His hair is slightly disheveled, white coat draped over his arm, and dark circles under his eyes deeper than before. It’s been a brutal shift.

Seokmin, who’s sitting at one of the desks, barely acknowledges his entrance, too focused on some patient charts. But Wonwoo doesn’t need to say anything. He just walks over to the bunk beds, takes one look at Mingyu—who’s sprawled out, snoring on the bottom bunk—and wordlessly yanks him off. With a loud thud, Mingyu hits the floor.

"Huh—?!" Mingyu startles awake, flailing like a fish out of water. "What the—?!"

"Get up," Wonwoo says flatly.

Mingyu groans dramatically, rubbing his eyes. "Dude, what is your problem—"

Wonwoo ignores him, already turning toward you. You’re curled up awkwardly on the couch, using a rolled-up hoodie as a pillow, arms folded in a way that guarantees you’ll wake up with at least three different cramps.

Wonwoo sighs. Then, in a tone much softer than the one he used on Mingyu, he murmurs, "Get in the bed."

You don’t stir at first, still half-asleep, but then you mumble, "‘M fine here…"

Wonwoo doesn’t buy it. "You’ll complain about back pain tomorrow, and we both know it."

Seokmin finally looks up, watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. Mingyu, still half on the floor, blinks at Wonwoo, then at you. Slowly, a knowing smirk creeps onto his face.

"Ohhh," Mingyu hums. "This is why you pulled me off the bed."

Wonwoo doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he reaches down and lightly taps your arm. "Come on, just sleep on the bed."

You grumble but finally crack your eyes open, too exhausted to argue. Wonwoo steps back as you groggily push yourself up, stretching. You shuffle toward the now-empty bottom bunk, collapsing onto it with a sigh.

"See? Much better," Wonwoo murmurs, pulling the blanket over you without a second thought.

Mingyu and Seokmin share a look.

"Dude," Mingyu says once Wonwoo turns around. "You could’ve told me to move instead of dragging me off like a sack of potatoes."

"You wouldn’t have moved fast enough," Wonwoo replies.

Seokmin smirks. "So, she gets the ‘gentle tuck-in’ treatment while Mingyu gets yeeted off the bed? Interesting."

Mingyu nods, still rubbing his shoulder. "Yeah, Wonwoo. Interesting."

Wonwoo gives them both an unimpressed look before muttering, "I’m going to sleep," and heading toward the other bunk.

Even with his back turned, he can feel their teasing grins.

You’re pretty sure you’ve ascended to another plane of existence. Or maybe you’ve died and are currently haunting the hospital as a sleep-deprived ghost. Either way, you’ve been awake for way too long over 32 hours, to be exact and your body is done.

Mingyu isn’t faring much better. He’s slumped over the shared office desk, forehead pressed against an open patient chart, lightly snoring. You’re half-sitting, half-melting into the couch, cradling a lukewarm coffee that does nothing to fight the exhaustion clawing at your soul.

And then because life isn’t unfair enough already, Seokmin walks in. Bright-eyed. Energized. Well-rested. The worst kind of person.

"Good morning, besties!" Seokmin chirps, stretching like he didn’t just take a whole day off.

You don’t even look at him. "I will kill you."

"I second that," Mingyu mumbles into his chart.

Seokmin gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. "Why the hostility? I thought you’d be happy to see me!"

"We hate you," Mingyu groans.

"You’re dead to us," you add.

Seokmin grins. "Wow, so much love in this room." He walks over and purposefully ruffles Mingyu’s hair, making him whine in protest. Then he turns to you, poking your cheek. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," you mumble. "Exactly what I needed to hear."

Seokmin flops onto one of the chairs, grinning. "You know what I did yesterday? Slept a full eight hours. Went out for brunch. Touched grass."

Mingyu lifts his head just to glare. "Leave. Now."

Before Seokmin can keep being insufferable, the door opens again. Wonwoo walks in.

And unlike Seokmin who is obnoxiously loud about being well-rested Wonwoo looks just as exhausted as you and Mingyu. His coat is slightly wrinkled, his tie is loosened, and there’s an untouched coffee in his hand that he’s clearly forgotten about. He glances at Seokmin who looks too refreshed to be tolerable then at Mingyu, who is back to pretending to be dead.

Then his gaze lands on you.

You blink at him, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Hey."

"Hey," Wonwoo murmurs. He steps closer, eyes scanning over you in that way he always does when he’s subtly checking if you’re okay.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

You let out a weak, humorless laugh. "Did you?"

Wonwoo doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets his coffee down and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

Seokmin—who has been watching the whole thing like a spectator at a soap opera—leans back with a smirk. "Wow, this is so interesting."

Mingyu groans, flopping back onto the desk. "Not now, Seokmin. I’m too tired for this."

Wonwoo ignores them both. He looks at you again, eyes softer now. "Eat something and get some rest."

"You too," you mumble, already sinking further into the couch.

Wonwoo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You’re impossible."

Seokmin wiggles his eyebrows. "Ohhh, this is fun."

"You know what else is fun?" You finally turn your head to glare at Seokmin. "Murder."

Wonwoo just sighs again and walks over to the bunk beds, mumbling something about how all of you are hopeless. Mingyu groans like he’s been personally attacked when his pager starts beeping. He doesn’t even look at it just slams his forehead against the desk.

"No. No, no, no. I reject this," he mumbles against the wood.

You barely have the energy to process the noise until of course yours goes off too. You and Mingyu make eye contact, equally dead inside.

Seokmin, the only one without a pager going off, grins. "Wow. Couldn’t be me."

"I will end you," you mutter, already reaching for your coat.

Wonwoo watches silently as Mingyu sluggishly gets up, flipping his pager over to check the message. He sighs. "ER’s a mess. Multiple traumas incoming."

You check yours, blinking slowly as the words process in your sleep-deprived brain. "OR needs backup. Guess I’m heading there."

Mingyu looks at you, eyes drooping. "Want to switch? I don’t want to talk to families."

"Absolutely not."

Mingyu pouts but doesn’t argue. He drags himself to his feet, rubbing his face aggressively like that’ll give him the will to live.

Seokmin claps his hands together, looking way too cheerful. "Well, have fun, kids! I’ll be here. Rested. Thriving."

Mingyu flips him off on the way out.

You barely register Wonwoo standing beside you until he tugs at your sleeve. When you look up, he’s frowning slightly.

"You sure you’re okay?" he asks, voice quieter now.

You exhale. "No, but I don’t have a choice."

Wonwoo’s frown deepens like he wants to say something else, but before he can, a voice crackles over the intercom calling for additional surgeons.

You sigh, giving him a tired half-smile. "See you later."

Wonwoo watches as you head out, his jaw tightening.

Seokmin hums as the door closes behind you. "You know," he says, stretching out on the chair, "for someone who refuses to admit his feelings, you really don’t do a good job of hiding them."

Wonwoo shoots him a glare, but Seokmin just grins.

A few more hours later, Wonwoo rubs at his eyes as he shrugs on his coat, his shift finally over. He grabs his bag from the office, shoulders aching from exhaustion. Just as he’s about to leave, the door swings open, and Mingyu stumbles in, looking like he’s barely holding himself together.

"ER was hell," Mingyu groans, dropping onto the couch with a loud thud. "I think I aged five years."

"You already look thirty," Wonwoo says, deadpan.

Mingyu glares at him, too tired to argue. Instead, he waves a lazy hand. 

Then Wonwoo asks "Where’s she? OR still has her hostage?"

The other doctor nods "She hasn’t come back yet. She’s probably running on caffeine and spite at this point."

Wonwoo hesitates for a second before speaking. "Make sure she eats and gets some rest when she’s done."

Mingyu cracks one eye open, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "You like her."

Wonwoo stares at him blankly. "Make sure she eats, Mingyu."

"You like her," Mingyu repeats, grinning now. Wonwoo doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.

"Hey, where are you going?" Mingyu calls after him.

"Home," Wonwoo mutters.

"Liar!" Mingyu shouts, but Wonwoo is already gone.

What feels like hours to Mingyu before you entered the room. You trudge into the on-call room, every bone in your body protesting. Your scrub top is slightly wrinkled, your hair is a mess, and you’re running on nothing but sheer willpower at this point.

Mingyu is already knocked out on the bottom bunk, snoring lightly. You barely spare him a glance before collapsing onto the couch.

That’s when you notice it.

On the small coffee table, there’s a neatly packed meal. Your favorite.

You blink, staring at it like it’s a mirage. There’s even a bottle of water next to it, condensation still fresh, like someone just left it there.

Curious, you reach out and poke at the food, half-expecting it to disappear. When it doesn’t, you frown.

"Who…?" you murmur to yourself.

Mingyu shifts on the bed, groaning. "Shut up and eat."

You glance at him. "Did you get this?"

He grunts, eyes still closed. "Nope."

You pause. "Then who—?"

Mingyu cracks one eye open, smirking lazily. "Who do you think?"

That stops you. Your brain, sluggish from exhaustion, takes a moment to process.

Then it clicks.

Wonwoo.

You stare at the food, heart doing something weird in your chest.

Mingyu snickers before rolling over. "Just eat, dumbass."

You don’t argue. But as you take the first bite, you can’t help but think about a certain pediatric surgeon who definitely isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.

You exhale, shaking your head to yourself. Subtle, Jeon.

Mingyu shifts on the bed again, cracking one eye open. "You’re thinking too hard about this," he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

You stab at your food with your chopsticks. "No, I’m not."

"Yeah, you are."

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. "Go back to sleep."

Mingyu hums lazily, but then he adds, "He does this all the time, you know."

You pause mid-bite. "What?"

Mingyu smirks, barely awake but still committed to being a menace. "Making sure you eat. Checking if you’re okay. Wonwoo’s always been like that… but only with you."

Your stomach does something stupid at that. "That’s not true."

Mingyu chuckles, shifting onto his side. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

You open your mouth to argue, but Mingyu’s already passed out again, snoring softly. You sigh, leaning back on the couch. The food is warm, comforting, and frustratingly thoughtful.

You try not to think about it too much. You fail.

It’s another long shift for you.

After parting ways with Seokmin, you make your way to the nurses’ station, hoping to check on some charts before heading back to the on-call room. You’re running on fumes at this point, but the habit of making sure everything is in order before you crash is too strong to ignore.

As you approach, you hear a group of nurses talking in hushed but excited tones. You don’t think much of it until you catch a familiar name.

“Dr. Jeon is so amazing,” one of them gushes, practically sighing. “Did you see him with that little boy’s parents? He was so gentle and reassuring.”

“I know! And he’s always so calm, no matter how bad things get.”

“Not to mention how good he looks in scrubs,” another nurse adds, and they all giggle.

You freeze mid-step, blinking.

Are they seriously—?

“I swear, if he wasn’t so intimidating, I’d totally ask him out.”

“Right? But he’s always so serious. Like, have you ever seen him smile?”

“Only sometimes. But guess what?” The first nurse leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I did see him smile today.”

“No way. When?”

“When he was talking to Dr. Y/N.”

Your stomach drops.

Oh no.

“Oh my god, wait, you’re right! He actually looked... softer?”

“And she’s the only one he ever seems to talk to outside of work stuff.”

Another nurse sighs dramatically. “That’s so unfair. Do you think they’re, like, a thing?”

Your brain short-circuits. You have got to get out of here. Clearing your throat loudly, you step into their line of sight, making them jump. “Hey, uh… I just need to check some charts.”

The group scrambles, trying to look busy, but you can feel their eyes on you, filled with curiosity and knowing looks. Great. Just great.

As you grab the nearest patient file, you swear you hear one of them whisper, “Oh my god, she totally heard us.”

You pretend you didn’t.

You nearly drop the patient file when a rolling chair suddenly appears beside you.

“So,” Seokmin drawls, arms crossed as he lazily spins in the chair, “how do I break it to them that Wonwoo is a total softie for you?”

You glare at him, pressing a hand to your racing heart. “Can you not sneak up on me like that?”

Seokmin grins, completely ignoring your complaint. “Seriously, though. They think he’s this untouchable, brooding genius, but we both know he turns into a golden retriever when it comes to you.”

Your eye twitches. “He does not—”

Seokmin cuts you off with an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god, you’re in denial.”

You slap his arm with the patient file. “I am not.”

He just laughs, rubbing his arm. “Y/N, I literally watched him rip Mingyu off the bottom bunk just so you could sleep comfortably.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Okay, fine. That was suspiciously caring behavior.

Seokmin smirks, clearly enjoying your inner struggle. “And let’s not forget how he tells Mingyu to make sure you eat and sleep. Or how he leaves food for you. Or how he only ever gets flustered when it involves you.”

You groan, dropping your head onto the counter. “I hate you.”

He pats your back like a supportive older brother. “No, you hate that I’m right.”

Before you can argue, one of the nurses clears her throat loudly, and you glance up to see them all very obviously pretending not to listen.

Seokmin leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “They’re totally listening.”

“I know, Seokmin.”

“Wanna give them a show? Maybe dramatically sigh Wonwoo’s name?”

You grab the patient file again and smack him with it. That’s when another doctor—Dr. Lee from orthopedics—walks up beside you.

"Dr. Y/N," he greets smoothly, offering a smile. "Haven’t seen you around much. Busy saving lives?"

You glance up, slightly caught off guard by the sudden conversation. "Uh, yeah. Something like that."

Dr. Lee leans casually against the counter, watching you with interest. "You should take a break sometime. Maybe grab a coffee?"

Oh. Oh.

Is he… flirting?

You don’t get the chance to react before you hear a loud, exaggerated cough from nearby. Seokmin is sitting just a few feet away, blatantly eavesdropping with zero shame. He’s pretending to look at a chart, but his expression is screaming Oh? What’s this?

You try to ignore him, forcing a polite smile at Dr. Lee. "That’s nice of you, but I’m actually running on negative sleep right now."

Dr. Lee chuckles. "All the more reason to step away for a bit. It’s just coffee, no pressure."

Seokmin lets out another obnoxious cough. "Thirsty, huh?"

You whip your head toward him, glaring. "Do you need medical attention, Seokmin?"

He grins. "Nah, I’m just—" he gestures vaguely between you and Dr. Lee "—observing."

Dr. Lee, bless him, is oblivious to the absolute menace that is Seokmin. "No worries. If you change your mind, let me know," he says with an easy smile before walking off.

The moment he’s gone, Seokmin wheels his chair over at full speed, stopping right beside you.

"So," he drawls. "Are you gonna tell Wonwoo, or should I?"

You groan, dropping your head onto the counter. "Seokmin, I swear to god—"

Of course it didn’t take long. Mingyu and Wonwoo are lounging in the on-call room when the door slams open. Seokmin bursts in, cackling like a maniac, running full speed across the room.

And right behind him. You.

"LEE SEOKMIN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

Before he can reach the safety of the bunk beds, you launch yourself at him, nearly tackling him to the ground. Seokmin barely stays on his feet, wheezing through his laughter.

Mingyu, sitting up from the bottom bunk, blinks in confusion. "…Do we want to know?"

Wonwoo, sitting at the small desk, doesn’t even look up. "No."

Seokmin, still trying to escape your grip, gasps between laughs. "I—I was just helping!"

"You were eavesdropping and causing problems on purpose!" you yell, tightening your hold around his waist as he tries to wriggle free.

Mingyu perks up at that. "Ooh, what happened? Spill."

Seokmin dramatically falls onto the couch, bringing you down with him. "Our dear Y/N here was getting flirted with."

Mingyu’s eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

Seokmin grins, panting slightly. "Dr. Lee. Ortho. Real smooth. Asked her to coffee."

Mingyu gasps like this is the most dramatic thing he’s ever heard. "And you tackled him over this?!"

"No, I tackled him because he ran in here to tell you two like a gossiping old lady!" you snap, still half on top of Seokmin, who is not helping by laughing even harder.

Mingyu turns to Wonwoo, who has yet to react. "Wonwoo. Thoughts?"

Wonwoo, still not looking up, simply flips a page in his book.  Seokmin wheezes. You groan, letting your head drop onto the couch.

Mingyu clutches his chest, looking between you and Wonwoo with pure delight. "Oh, this is better than a telenovela."

You push yourself up from where you were half-crushing Seokmin, brushing off your scrubs as you glare at him. Before you can properly scold him for being the absolute worst, Wonwoo finally speaks—completely nonchalant, like this whole thing isn’t ridiculous.

"He asked if you wanted coffee?"

You pause. Seokmin and Mingyu do not. Seokmin looks thrilled. Mingyu straight-up leans forward, eyes sparkling with interest.

You narrow your eyes at Wonwoo. "Why do you sound like that?"

Wonwoo doesn’t even look up from his book. "Like what?"

Mingyu grins. "Yeah, like what, Wonwoo?"

Wonwoo flips a page. "Just asking."

You scoff. "You buy me coffee all the time"

Wonwoo hums. "Exactly."

Your brain short-circuits. "…Wait. What does that mean?*"

Wonwoo, still infuriatingly casual, finally glances up. "Nothing. Just seems unnecessary to get coffee with someone else when you already get it from me."

Seokmin and Mingyu explode.

"OH, THAT'S RICH—"

"DID HE JUST—"

You groan into your hands as they lose their minds. Wonwoo, unbothered, closes his book and stands. "I’m going to get coffee. You want one or not?"

Mingyu is on the floor laughing. Seokmin is gasping for air. And you—you are never going to hear the end of this.

Wonwoo, as unbothered as ever, grabs his ID badge and heads for the door.

Mingyu and Seokmin are still wheezing from his last comment, but you’re too busy processing to move.

He’s almost out when he pauses, tilting his head slightly. "Not coming?"

You cross your arms, still suspicious. "I think I’ll stay here and recover from whatever that was."

Wonwoo shrugs. "Suit yourself."

He steps out. You don’t follow but right before the door swings shut, you shout after him

"Caramel macchiato, extra shot, not too sweet!"

Seokmin and Mingyu stare at you. You stare back.

Then Mingyu loses it, laughing so hard he nearly falls off the bunk. "OH, SO YOU’RE NOT GONNA FOLLOW HIM, BUT YOU’RE STILL MAKING HIM GET YOU COFFEE?"

Seokmin clutches his chest, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Unbelievable. Absolutely shameless."

You sigh, rubbing your temples. "I hate you both."

Mingyu wipes fake tears. "No, you hate that you’re in too deep and we’re just here to witness it."

It’s your well-deserved day off, which means the hospital is not your problem for once. But unfortunately for Wonwoo, it means he is the problem of the two very nosy individuals stuck with him today.

Mingyu and Seokmin have been relentless since morning, waiting for the perfect opportunity to grill him—and the second they’re all in the on-call room, Seokmin strikes.

"So... you and Y/N."

Wonwoo doesn’t even look up from his tablet. "What about her?"

Mingyu flops onto the couch dramatically. "You know exactly what about her."

Seokmin leans forward, grinning. "You act different around her."

"I don’t."

"Oh, you absolutely do," Mingyu says, propping his chin on his hand. "You let her get away with things you’d never tolerate from us."

Seokmin nods enthusiastically. "Like running away when she has a cut?"

"Or demanding coffee like she’s a queen and you’re her personal barista?" Mingyu adds.

Wonwoo finally glances up. "She doesn’t demand. I offer."

Silence.

Mingyu and Seokmin gasp.

"HE ADMITS IT!" Seokmin nearly topples over. "HE VOLUNTARILY GETS HER COFFEE!"

Wonwoo sighs. "You two have too much free time."

"And you have too much denial," Mingyu shoots back. "Be honest, if she asked for your left kidney, you’d at least consider it."

Seokmin laughs. "He’d have it prepped and ready before she even finished asking."

Wonwoo rubs his temples. "You’re both insufferable."

"And you’re in love," Mingyu sing-songs.

"I am not," Wonwoo deadpans.

Seokmin smirks. "Would you say no if she asked you out?"

Wonwoo doesn’t answer immediately, making the two guys exchange another look.

"Oh my God," Mingyu whispers. "You wouldn’t say no."

"Pack it up, folks, we got him," Seokmin grins. "That’s a wrap."

Meanwhile it’s your day off, technically you were supposed to be having a relaxing day off. No pagers, no surgeries, no Mingyu whining for coffee or Seokmin launching into dramatic gossip. Just a simple grocery run—bread, eggs, maybe even some overpriced snacks if you were feeling indulgent.

But fate, as usual, had other plans.

The sound of screeching tires and the crash of metal on metal jolts you from your thoughts as you step out of the store. A small crowd is already forming near an intersection, the sight of two badly dented cars making your stomach drop.

Then you hear it—panicked voices.

"She’s pregnant!"

Your body moves before your brain fully catches up. Pushing past stunned bystanders, you rush toward the most damaged car, where a man is frantically trying to pry open the passenger door. Inside, a woman—clearly pregnant—clutches her stomach, her face contorted in pain.

"Ma’am, can you hear me?" you ask, voice sharp with urgency.

She gasps, nodding weakly. "M-My baby—"

You glance around. The fire department isn’t here yet, neither are the paramedics. The door is crushed in, and she’s stuck.

Your pulse pounds, but you push the panic aside. Focus.

You turn to the man still struggling with the door. "We need to get her out, but carefully. Do you have something I can use to break the glass?"

He nods shakily, rushing to his car. Meanwhile, you crouch by the woman, speaking in a soothing tone even as your mind races through possible complications.

"You're doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Help is coming."

She nods again, but her grip on her belly tightens.

You don’t have your scrubs, your hospital badge, or even your gloves. But right now, none of that matters because doctor or not—you have to help her.

You refuse to leave her side. Even as sirens wail in the distance and bystanders are urged to step back, you stay crouched next to the woman, monitoring her breathing, checking for signs of distress.

"You're okay. Just hold on," you murmur, your hand steady on her wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your fingers. The first responders finally arrive, moving quickly to assess the scene. 

A firefighter rushes toward you. "Ma’am, we need to extract her now. You should move back."

"Not until she’s safe," you insist.

They're working on prying the door open when it happens—

An explosion.

A sudden BOOM rocks the area as flames burst from the wreckage. The force knocks you backward, and before you can react, shards of glass and debris fly straight toward you and the pregnant woman.

Your first instinct is to shield her. You duck, arms raised, making sure not a single piece touches her. She screams, but the paramedics quickly cover her with a thick emergency blanket.

You barely notice the sharp stings as glass embeds itself into your arm, your shoulder, a few grazing your cheek. The pain is secondary.

"She’s stable!" one of the EMTs shouts, carefully moving the woman onto a stretcher. "Let’s transport her now!" You exhale in relief, watching as they wheel her toward the ambulance. You step back, feeling a slight dizziness, but shake it off.

"Doctor?" One of the firefighters eyes you carefully.

"I’m fine," you say automatically.

The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and hushed urgency. The paramedics work efficiently, monitoring the pregnant woman’s vitals as you sit beside her, keeping her calm. You press a gauze pad against one of the deeper cuts on your arm, but otherwise, you don’t acknowledge your injuries.

When the ambulance finally arrives at the hospital, the woman is rushed into the ER. You climb out right after them, rolling your stiff shoulders, determined to go check on her—

Only to run straight into Mingyu.

"Hey, we got a—" His usual laid-back tone vanishes the moment his eyes land on you. His brows shoot up. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I’m fine," you say immediately, waving him off. Big mistake.

The moment you move, dizziness washes over you. You stumble slightly, catching yourself against the wall.

Mingyu lunges forward. "Yeah, okay, fine people totally do that."

His eyes sweep over you. Your torn sleeve, the cuts littering your arm, the faint streak of blood on your cheek. "Are you serious right now?"

You sigh. "It’s not that bad—"

"Not that bad?" He gestures wildly at you. "You were supposed to be on your day off, not playing action hero in the middle of the street!"

Mingyu groans, already reaching for his pager. "Seokmin and Wonwoo are going to kill me."

Mingyu barely has time to react before your knees buckle.

"Oh, for—okay, nope, you’re done," he mutters, catching you before you hit the ground. His hands grip your shoulders, guiding you onto a nearby gurney despite your weak protests.

"I—I'm fine," you mumble, though the dizziness makes your head swim. The pain you’ve been stubbornly ignoring is very much making itself known now, sharp and stinging from every cut.

"Uh-huh, tell that to your blood loss," Mingyu huffs as he quickly assesses the wounds. "How are you this dumb?"

You try to glare at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. He just sighs, guiding you to the nearest vacant bed then grabbing antiseptics and bandages from a nearby tray.

"This is gonna sting," he warns, dabbing at the gash on your arm.

The burn makes you flinch. "Mingyu—"

But before you can complain, the door to the ER slams open.

"Where is she?"

Your stomach drops.

Wonwoo stands at the entrance, still in his scrubs, his chest rising and falling like he ran all the way here. His usual composed demeanor is nowhere to be seen.

The moment his eyes land on you—bruised, bloodied, and definitely not fine—his expression shifts into something dark.

"You have got to be kidding me," he mutters, storming over

Mingyu looks up but barely gets a word in before Wonwoo cuts in, voice tight. "What the hell happened?"

You open your mouth, but Mingyu beats you to it. "She was out running errands and decided to become a damn superhero. Got caught in a car explosion or something—"

"It wasn’t an explosion—" you try, but Wonwoo turns his glare on you so fast you shut up.

"You refused to tell anyone you were hurt?" Wonwoo’s voice is low, laced with barely contained frustration. "Do you even know how reckless that is?"

You blink at him, a little caught off guard. Wonwoo gets annoyed, sure—but this? This anger? This fear simmering under his words?

Mingyu shifts awkwardly. "Uh, so, I’ll just—keep cleaning these wounds?"

Wonwoo ignores him.

"You should’ve been treated immediately," he snaps. "You could’ve gone into shock, Y/N. You could’ve—" He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

You swallow, voice quieter now. "I had to make sure she was okay."

Wonwoo stares at you for a long moment. His jaw clenches. Then, without another word, he grabs the antiseptic from Mingyu’s hand and kneels down beside you.

"Hey, I was—" Mingyu starts

"You’re taking too long," Wonwoo says flatly, inspecting your arm.

Mingyu throws his hands up. "Oh, I’m the problem? Sure, yeah, okay."

But you don’t pay attention to Mingyu anymore—because Wonwoo is suddenly so close, his fingers gentle as he carefully tends to your wounds. The frustration is still in his eyes, but his touch is steady, precise.

You wince when he presses the gauze against a deeper cut, and his grip instinctively tightens around your wrist. His voice softens, just a fraction.

"I don’t care how capable you are," he mutters. "Don’t ever do that again."

You bite down hard on your lip, willing yourself not to cry. But the antiseptic burns, and the way Wonwoo presses down on your wounds with such precision makes it impossible to ignore the sharp sting.

Your eyes start to prickle. You will not cry. You refuse.

Mingyu, ever the observant one, notices immediately. He leans in slightly and mumbles, “Hey, man, she’s already injured. You’re making her cry.”

Wonwoo freezes.

Your head snaps up. “I am not crying.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You kinda look like you’re about to.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Wonwoo sighs, rubbing his temple. “Mingyu, stop talking.”

Mingyu just shrugs, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just saying, maybe be a little gentler? You know, since you care so much.”

Wonwoo pointedly ignores him, but his grip on your arm loosens just slightly, his movements becoming even more careful. He still looks pissed, but his touch is softer now, like he’s trying to make up for it.

You try to focus on anything other than the fact that your face feels ridiculously warm.

Mingyu stands, stretching with an exaggerated groan. “Alright, I’m gonna check on the woman since someone needs to be useful around here.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare. “I’m useful.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to your blood loss.” He waves you off, throwing Wonwoo a quick glance before walking out, leaving the two of you alone.

The silence that follows is heavy. Wonwoo is still focused on cleaning your wounds, but his jaw is tight, and his movements though gentler now are still a little too precise.

You watch him for a second before speaking. “You’re really mad, huh?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “No.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

His grip tightens just slightly before he lets out a quiet, frustrated sigh. “…Yes.”

You shift a little, suddenly feeling weird under his gaze. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Wonwoo finally looks up at you, and the way his eyes darken makes you shut up real quick.

“Not that bad?” he repeats, voice low. “You were in an accident, Y/N. You got caught in a literal explosion.”

You try to brush it off. “It wasn’t that big—”

"You were bleeding and didn't even think to get yourself treated first."

You falter. His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, like he’s trying really hard to rein himself in.

“Do you know how many times I’ve seen people come in, thinking they were fine, only to collapse later?” His voice is quieter now, but it’s laced with something heavier. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

Wonwoo’s gaze softens—just barely—before he looks back down, carefully placing the last bandage over your arm. His hands linger for a second, his fingers warm against your skin.

“…Just don’t do that again.” His voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “Please.”

You sniffle, trying to hold it in, but a few tears betray you, slipping down your cheek before you can stop them. Wonwoo notices immediately. His hands, still hovering near your arm, tense.

“Hey—”

You quickly wipe at your face, sniffling again. “I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles, completely betraying you.

Wonwoo exhales through his nose, and before you can react, he’s reaching for the tissue box nearby, wordlessly handing you one.

You take it, mumbling, “Thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in a small voice, you ask, “Is the woman okay?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you carefully before finally saying, “She’s stable. Mingyu’s checking on her now.”

You nod, squeezing the tissue in your hand. “That’s good.”

Wonwoo still doesn’t look away. His lips press together like he wants to say something else, but in the end, all he does is let out a quiet sigh.

“You should rest,” he says softly. “You lost some of blood, you might feel light headed”

You huff, forcing a weak smile. “You sound like me when I tell my patients that.”

He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he reaches out, hesitates, then gently presses his hand against your head, smoothing down a stray strand of hair. The touch is so light, so careful, that it nearly makes you tear up all over again.

“Then take your own advice for once.”

Before you can even process the warmth of Wonwoo’s touch, the door bursts open.

“OH MY GOD—YOU’RE ALIVE!”

Seokmin practically lunges toward you, arms wide like he’s about to hug-tackle you, but Wonwoo smoothly steps in his way, stopping him with a single hand to his chest.

“Seokmin.” Wonwoo’s voice is flat. “She’s injured.”

Seokmin blinks, then gasps like he’s just realized something. “YOU’RE INJURED?!”

You stare at him, deadpan. “Did you think I was just here for fun?”

Seokmin dramatically grips his chest. “I—I just thought maybe you were being dramatic again! But you actually got hurt?!”

Wonwoo sighs, stepping aside because, at this point, there’s no stopping Seokmin. Sure enough, he leans down, carefully inspecting your bandages like a concerned mother.

“How bad is it? Are you dizzy? Do you need water? Do you need me to spoon-feed you soup?”

You groan, pushing his face away. “I’m fine.”

Seokmin ignores you and turns to Wonwoo. “Doctor, will she survive?”

Wonwoo looks unimpressed. “She lost blood but nothing major. She just needs to rest.”

Seokmin gasps again, gripping your hand. “BE STRONG, MY FRIEND.”

You shove him. “You’re the worst.”

Seokmin sniffs dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear. “If you do die, can I have your favorite pen?”

Wonwoo pinches the bridge of his nose while you grab a pillow and throw it at Seokmin’s face.

After everything that happened, of course Wonwoo refused to let you out of his sight or atleast have someone watching over you while the three guys finish their shift.

After work, the four of you go to a barbeque place you're a regular at.

You’re all starving by the time you reach the restaurant, exhaustion from the day momentarily forgotten at the sight of sizzling meat and bubbling stews.

Mingyu and Seokmin are loud, bickering over who gets to grill first, while you just lean back in your seat, still pretending to sulk.

Wonwoo, sitting beside you, wordlessly places some meat on your plate before you can even lift your chopsticks. Then, as if it’s second nature, he reaches over and rolls up the loose sleeve of your hoodie, neatly tucking it to make sure it doesn’t dip into the sauces.

Mingyu pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Seokmin, in the middle of arguing over dipping sauces, suddenly stops and squints.

The most shocking part?

You don’t even react. You just pick up your chopsticks, casually eating the food Wonwoo put on your plate like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Mingyu slowly puts his chopsticks down. “Okay, hold on.”

Seokmin leans in. “Have you always been like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

Mingyu gestures vaguely at you and Wonwoo. “That.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, sipping his water. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Seokmin waves his chopsticks between you two. “You’re basically a married couple and she doesn’t even blink when you baby her.”

You scoff, but before you can argue, Wonwoo speaks first. “She’d spill sauce on herself if I didn’t.”

Mingyu stares. “So you admit you’re babying her.”

Wonwoo shrugs. “She doesn’t complain.”

You shove a piece of meat in your mouth to avoid answering, but your reddening ears don’t go unnoticed. Seokmin and Mingyu exchange knowing looks before grinning at each other.

Oh, they’re never letting this go.

The two of you are crammed into the back of a small van, bumping along a dirt road on the way to the rural clinic. It’s too early, you’re running on barely any sleep, and Mingyu has already decided now is the perfect time to interrogate you.

“So.” He leans back against his seat, arms crossed, looking far too entertained. “You and Wonwoo.”

You groan immediately. “Absolutely not. We’re not doing this.”

Mingyu grins. “Oh, we’re definitely doing this. We have, like, four more hours to go.”

You glare at him, but he just continues. “I mean, come on. He feeds you. He rolls up your sleeves. He practically tracks your movements in the hospital without even trying. And you don’t even react anymore.”

“Maybe I’m just used to it.” You shrug.

Mingyu narrows his eyes. “That’s what I’m saying! You’re used to it. As in, it’s been happening for so long that you don’t even notice.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s just how we are.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Please. If Seokmin tried to do that for you, you’d stab him with your chopsticks.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, Seokmin deserves it.”

Mingyu ignores that. “Just admit it. You like him.”

You pause. Then, after a beat, you say, “Of course I like him. He’s my friend.”

Mingyu groans dramatically, flopping onto your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

You shove him off. “And you’re annoying.”

He smirks. “I know. But I’m also right.”

You refuse to answer, choosing instead to look out the window. But you can’t shake the way your stomach flips at Mingyu’s words.

Mingyu stretches out his legs, looking way too comfortable for someone who’s supposed to be working. “Alright then, since you’re so sure it’s nothing—explain this to me.”

You sigh. “What now?”

He smirks. “Why hasn’t Wonwoo dated anyone since med school?”

You blink. “What?”

Mingyu tilts his head, looking far too smug. “I mean, Seokmin and I have dated around. You’ve had, like, two almost-relationships. But Wonwoo? Not a single girlfriend. No dates. No flings. No nothing.” He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that weird?”

You scoff. “Maybe he’s just not interested.”

Mingyu shakes his head. “Nah. I asked him once, and you know what he said?”

You hesitate. “…What?”

Mingyu grins. “‘I don’t have time for that.’” He leans in, lowering his voice dramatically. “But I think the real reason is that he’s been too busy looking after you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

Because now that you think about it… Mingyu’s kind of right.

Wonwoo has never once shown interest in dating. Even during med school, when everyone else was either in relationships or at least going on dates, he never did. He was always around, always steady, always—

You shake your head. No. No way.

Mingyu watches you, eyes glinting. “Oh my god, you’re actually thinking about it.”

You shove him. “Shut up.”

He cackles. “I love being right.”

You groan, turning to the window to ignore him. But your heart is beating just a little too fast, and your mind keeps replaying Mingyu’s words.

Why hasn’t Wonwoo dated anyone?

And more importantly, why does the answer make your chest feel tight?

Once you’re done with the medical mission, you go back to the hospital. You push open the door to the on-call room, utterly drained from the long day. Mingyu had peeled off somewhere to check on the ER, but you went straight here, hoping to collapse onto the couch for at least a few minutes.

The room is dimly lit, quiet except for the faint ticking of the wall clock. At first, you think it's empty—until your eyes land on Wonwoo. He’s at his desk, head slightly tilted down, eyes closed.

You pause, debating whether you should leave him be. But before you can take a step back, his voice—low and a little rough from exhaustion—breaks the silence.

"You're back."

You blink. "I thought you were asleep."

He opens his eyes, looking at you with that unreadable expression of his. "Just resting my eyes."

You scoff lightly, stepping further inside. "You say that like it’s any better."

Wonwoo watches you as you drop your bag onto the desk, stretching your arms over your head with a tired groan. You don’t notice the way his gaze lingers, just for a second, before he leans back in his chair.

"Long day?" he asks.

You sigh, rolling out your shoulders. "Very. Mingyu was extra annoying, as usual."

Wonwoo hums, amused. "What did he do now?"

You hesitate, suddenly remembering the entire conversation about him. About how Mingyu basically implied that Wonwoo hasn’t dated anyone because of you.

You glance at Wonwoo, who’s waiting for your answer with a neutral expression. And for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to bring it up.

“Just the usual nonsense,” you say instead.

Wonwoo doesn’t press, just nods before looking back at his desk. There’s a brief silence—comfortable, familiar. The kind you only get with someone you’ve known for years.

Then, softly, he says, “You should eat before you sleep.”

You glance at him, arching a brow. "Did you just give me my own advice?"

A small smirk tugs at his lips. "You never follow it yourself."

You shake your head, but there’s something warm in your chest that wasn’t there before.

Damn Mingyu. Now you can’t stop noticing things.

You drop onto the couch, exhausted but still watching Wonwoo out of the corner of your eye. He hasn't moved from his desk, but now you notice the way he's rubbing his temples, his brows slightly furrowed.

His glasses aren’t on, which is rare. Wonwoo without glasses usually means one of two things—either he’s about to sleep, or he has a headache.

Judging by the way he keeps pinching the bridge of his nose, it’s definitely the latter.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Mhm." He doesn’t look up, still rubbing slow circles into his temples.

You frown. "Did you even rest today?"

"I did," he says, but you don’t believe him for a second.

With a sigh, you push yourself up and walk over to him. He barely reacts when you place a hand on his shoulder, but he finally opens his eyes when you gently pull his hand away from his forehead.

"You have a migraine, don’t you?" you ask, squinting at him.

Wonwoo blinks at you, then exhales through his nose—something between amusement and surrender. "Just a small one."

You roll your eyes. "Right. Small enough that you’re sitting here rubbing your head like an old man."

He gives you a flat look. "Thanks."

Ignoring his sarcasm, you reach for his desk, rummaging through one of the drawers. You know he keeps medicine in here somewhere—he’s always prepared for everyone else’s headaches, just never his own.

After a few seconds, you find what you’re looking for and shake two pills into your palm before grabbing his forgotten water bottle. You hold both out to him expectantly.

"Take these."

He doesn’t move at first, just stares at you with that unreadable look again.

"Wonwoo," you say, more firmly. Finally, he sighs and takes the pills from your hand, swallowing them with a sip of water.

You nod, satisfied. "Good. Now go lie down before you pass out at your desk."

He exhales slowly, then mutters, "You’re bossy."

You smirk. "And yet you listen to me."

He doesn’t argue. Just shakes his head with the smallest hint of a smile before standing up. And for some reason, as he moves toward the bunk beds, you feel that warmth in your chest again.

You leave the room after turning the lights off to let him rest. You find Mingyu, maybe grab some late night snacks. As you and Mingyu walk through the hospital corridors, making casual conversation, a familiar figure approaches.

It’s him—Doctor Lee, the one who had flirted with you before.

Mingyu notices the way your shoulders tense and immediately perks up, eyes darting between you and Doctor Lee with barely concealed interest. "Oh, this should be fun," he mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look. "Shut up."

Before Mingyu can tease you further, Doctor Lee reaches you, flashing that same confident smile.

"Hey, fancy seeing you again." His tone is smooth, casual, but there’s something pointed in the way he looks at you.

"It’s a hospital," you reply dryly. "You’ll probably see me a lot."

Mingyu barely hides his laugh behind a cough.

Doctor Lee, unfazed, chuckles. "Right. Still, I was hoping I’d run into you. Thought maybe this time I could convince you to grab a coffee with me?"

Mingyu freezes beside you, his head snapping toward you so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. He is way too interested in this.

You open your mouth to respond—politely decline, of course—but before you can, a voice cuts in.

"She already has a coffee supplier."

You turn your head just in time to see Wonwoo standing a few steps away, arms crossed, looking completely unimpressed. His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it, something just sharp enough that it makes both you and Doctor Lee pause.

Mingyu, of course, is thriving.

"Oh, do you now?" Doctor Lee glances between you and Wonwoo, one eyebrow raised.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. "Wonwoo, don’t—"

"She never has to ask. Her coffee order just appears," Wonwoo continues smoothly, ignoring you. "Sometimes with snacks too."

Mingyu wheezes.

Doctor Lee blinks, clearly trying to figure out if there’s something more to Wonwoo’s words. You’re pretty sure you know exactly what he’s doing, but before the other man can press further, you exhale and take a step back.

"Anyway, I have rounds to finish," you say quickly. "See you around."

Before Doctor Lee can respond, you grab Mingyu’s sleeve and yank him along with you, leaving the poor guy standing there confused.

Mingyu is absolutely dying.

"Wonwoo totally just alpha-blocked that guy," he laughs, struggling to keep up with your fast pace. "Like, not even subtle. That was lowkey territorial."

You groan. "Don’t start."

"Oh, I’ve already started." Mingyu grins, wiggling his eyebrows. "So… your coffee supplier, huh?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you walk even faster, pretending you don’t hear Mingyu’s continued teasing all the way down the hall.

As you speed-walk down the hall, Mingyu still snickering beside you, you hear the sound of familiar footsteps following behind. You don't even need to turn around to know who it is.

You sigh dramatically, slowing your steps just enough to glance over your shoulder. "Weren't you suffering from a migraine?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at Wonwoo.

Wonwoo, walking at a completely casual pace as if he didn’t just interrupt an entire conversation to assert his place in your life, simply shrugs. "It went away."

Mingyu claps a hand over his mouth, trying so hard not to burst out laughing. He fails.

"Ohhh, interesting," Mingyu chokes out between laughs. "So you had a migraine, but the moment Doctor Lee showed up, you were suddenly fine? Wow. Almost like it wasn’t that serious to begin with."

Wonwoo shoots him a blank look. "Or maybe I just recovered."

"Right, right," Mingyu nods, "or maybe you just didn’t like what you were seeing."

You groan, rubbing your forehead. "Mingyu, please—"

"No, because listen," Mingyu continues, fully ignoring you now, "if I had a migraine, I would not be up and walking this fast just to make sure my ‘friend’—" he even throws up air quotes, "—wasn’t having coffee with someone else."

"I wasn’t walking fast," Wonwoo deadpans.

"Okay, but you were there," Mingyu counters. "Like, right there. That’s suspicious, man."

You throw up your hands. "Oh my God, both of you, stop."

Wonwoo just blinks, completely unbothered. "Do you still want coffee?" he asks, as if the last five minutes of chaos didn’t just happen. Mingyu wheezes again.

You groan even louder. "You are so annoying."

Later Wonwo drove you and Mingyu home. The car ride is quiet after Mingyu gets dropped off, leaving just you and Wonwoo. The city lights blur past the window, and you drum your fingers lightly on your thigh before finally speaking

"Hey."

"Hm?" Wonwoo doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you know he’s listening.

"That thing Mingyu said … about you not dating anyone since med school—"

Wonwoo glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "What about it?"

"Is it true?" you ask, shifting slightly to face him. "You really haven’t dated anyone all these years?"

He doesn’t answer right away, but you notice the way his fingers tighten slightly around the wheel. "I was busy," he finally says, voice even.

"We were all busy," you counter. "Mingyu dated. Seokmin dated."

Wonwoo exhales softly through his nose. "And you?"

You blink, caught off guard. "What about me?"

"Did you date?" He doesn’t look at you, but there’s something in his voice, something careful, deliberate.

You hesitate, then shrug. "Not really."

That makes Wonwoo glance at you, just for a second. "Why?"

You huff a quiet laugh. "Why are you answering my question with another question?"

"Because you’re deflecting," he replies easily.

You frown, arms crossing. "Maybe I just didn’t feel like it."

Wonwoo hums, the sound low and thoughtful. "Then I guess we’re the same."

That makes you pause. He’s right, in a way. You never thought much about dating, always too caught up in the chaos of work, of life. But hearing that he was the same—that he never even tried—makes something uneasy stir in your chest.

"So…" you start carefully, "was there really no one? Not even someone you liked?"

The streetlights cast long shadows over his face, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then, softly—so softly you almost don’t hear it—he says,

"I wouldn’t say that."

Your breath catches, but before you can press further, the car slows. You realize, belatedly, that you’ve already arrived at your place.

Wonwoo shifts into park and finally, finally looks at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes, something deep and quiet and there.

You swallow. "Wonwoo—"

"Go inside," he says gently, cutting you off.

You hesitate. The air feels heavy, thick with something unspoken.

But in the end, you don’t push.

"Okay," you mumble, unbuckling your seatbelt. "Drive safe."

He nods, watching as you step out and close the door behind you.

As you walk up to your building, you don’t turn back snd inside his car, Wonwoo stays parked for a long time, staring at where you were.

You’re never like this.

You’ve known Wonwoo for years, been friends with him for so long that his presence has always felt natural, something you never had to think about. But now? Now, after what Mingyu said, after what Wonwoo didn’t say, you’re noticing everything.

The way he automatically sets a coffee cup in front of you in the morning, the way he subtly reaches out like he’s ready to catch you when you take a sharp turn in the hallway, the way his eyes linger when you’re talking—like he’s listening to every word, even the useless ones.

It’s worse in the on-call room.

Wonwoo’s at his desk, writing notes, glasses perched on his nose. It’s a normal sight, something you’ve seen a thousand times before. But for some reason, today, you can’t stop looking. The way his brows furrow slightly in focus. The way he absentmindedly taps his pen against the desk. The way he reaches up to push his hair back, exposing his forehead just a little more.

Seokmin, lying on the bottom bunk, suddenly snickers. "You good over there?"

You snap your head toward him. "What?"

He grins, flipping through his phone lazily. "You’re staring."

"No, I’m not."

"Uh-huh."

Wonwoo, completely unaware, flips to the next page in his notes. You glare at Seokmin before quickly grabbing your own chart, pretending to focus. But even then, you’re way too aware of the fact that Wonwoo is right there.

And maybe you have been staring.

The moment you walk out, Seokmin doesn’t even wait.

He turns to Wonwoo with a slow grin, tossing his phone onto his chest. "So…"

Wonwoo doesn’t look up. "So?"

"She was staring at you."

That gets Wonwoo’s attention. He finally lifts his eyes from his notes, blinking at Seokmin. "What?"

"She. Was. Staring." Seokmin emphasizes each word like Wonwoo is dense. Which, honestly, he kind of is. "Like, full-on eyes stuck on you. If I wasn’t here, she probably would've burned a hole through your head."

Wonwoo frowns, shifting slightly in his seat. "You’re exaggerating."

"Am I?" Seokmin smirks. "I don’t think I am."

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything to that. He just exhales through his nose and turns back to his notes. But Seokmin knows him too well—sees the way his ears go just the slightest bit red.

Seokmin grins. "Dude, I’m telling you, she’s noticing things. That’s a good sign."

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, flipping a page in his notes. "Go to sleep, Seokmin."

"Oh, I will. But just so you know…" Seokmin stifles a laugh. "I think you’re in trouble, man."

The rest of the day is… annoying. Not because of any difficult surgeries or unbearable patients, but because you are now painfully hyper-aware of Wonwoo. It’s stupid.  Like when he rolls up his sleeves before scrubbing in for surgery, and you catch yourself staring at his forearms for half a second too long.

Or the absolute worst—when you’re eating lunch with the others, and Wonwoo absentmindedly pushes the side dishes you like closer to you. It’s such a small, automatic thing, and normally you wouldn’t even blink at it. 

But today? Today, you almost drop your chopsticks.

"You good?" Seokmin asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

"Fine!" you say way too quickly, shoving food in your mouth to avoid talking.

Mingyu, the menace that he is, narrows his eyes at you. "Are you sure? You’ve been kinda weird today—"

"She’s fine," Wonwoo interjects smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee.

And just like that, you’re spiraling again. Because now you’re overthinking that. He just said you were fine. That’s normal, right? That’s just Wonwoo being Wonwoo. But now it sounds like he knows something, like he can see how much you’re overthinking him—

You hate this.

By the time your shift ends, you’re exhausted—not just physically, but mentally from all the overthinking. So when Wonwoo casually says, "Let’s go," and gestures toward the exit, you don’t even question it.

It’s routine, anyway. You don’t drive, and if Mingyu isn’t around to make you suffer through his questionable playlist, it’s usually Wonwoo who gives you a ride home.

The car ride is quiet at first, just the low hum of the engine and the faint sound of the radio playing some late-night ballad. You try to focus on anything else, but of course, you’re hyper-aware of every small thing he does. 

"You were weird today," he says suddenly.

You stiffen. "No, I wasn’t."

He hums, like he doesn’t quite believe you. "If you say so."

You scowl, slumping in your seat. "You’re annoying."

"And you’re terrible at hiding things."

You whip your head toward him. "Excuse me?"

Wonwoo glances at you with the tiniest smirk before turning his attention back to the road. "You keep staring at me."

You nearly choke. "I— that’s not—you—"* You shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself even more.

"Don’t overthink it," he says, like he can hear your brain short-circuiting.

You glare at him, crossing your arms. "I’m not."

"Sure."

He pulls up to your place, and before you can even reach for the door handle, he beats you to it, leaning over to unlock it from the inside. You freeze for half a second because he’s too close, and you swear he hesitates too before leaning back.

"Get some rest," he says simply.

You step out, and just as you close the door, he rolls down the window. "And stop staring so much. It’s obvious."

"I WAS NOT—!"

But he’s already driving away, leaving you standing there, burning with embarrassment.

Wonwoo didn’t mean to say it.

But the way you froze, the way your eyes widened in sheer panic before you tried to deny it—yeah, that reaction was worth it.

He’s not stupid. He noticed the shift in you over the past few days. The way you’ve been watching him more, like you suddenly started paying attention. Like you were seeing things for the first time that have always been there. It would’ve been amusing if it wasn’t also kind of frustrating.

Because he’s been looking at you like that for years.

He doesn’t usually let things slip. He’s careful, measured. But with you? It’s always been a little different.

As he drives away, he catches a glimpse of you in the rearview mirror—still standing there, fuming, probably cursing him under your breath. He exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a chuckle he allows himself.

"Took you long enough."

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he catches his own reflection in the mirror. And he definitely doesn’t realize that his fingers tap against the steering wheel the entire way home, like he’s buzzing with something he refuses to name.

After that you try to avoid him. Not in an obvious way, just enough to make sure you don’t end up alone with him again. It’s stupid, but you can’t help it. Unfortunately, Mingyu and Seokmin have noticed.

“You’re acting weird,” Mingyu says while stuffing his face with food.

Seokmin leans in. “Super weird. Suspiciously weird.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not acting weird.”

“You literally just turned around when you saw Wonwoo walking this way,” Seokmin points out.

Mingyu snickers. “Yeah, and you ran in the opposite direction.”

“Okay, first of all, I had places to be.”

“You went to a supply closet.”

“…Shut up.”

Mingyu and Seokmin exchange a look before turning back to you, both wearing the same smug expression.

“You’re doomed,” Mingyu says with a grin. Seokmin agrees.

Before you can threaten them, someone clears their throat behind you. You turn around—and there’s Wonwoo.

His eyes flick between the three of you. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out, grabbing your tray and bolting.

From behind you, you hear Mingyu snicker, “Yup. Doomed.”

Later after another very long shift, you all but crawl out. There you see him. Wonwoo is standing outside the hospital entrance, hands in his coat pockets, glasses perched on his nose, looking completely unbothered by the cold night air. His eyes flick up the moment you step outside, and your heart does a stupid little flip.

“I thought you went home,” you say, stopping in front of him.

He raises a brow. “You were gonna chase the bus, weren’t you?”

You cross your arms. “Maybe.”

He huffs out a small laugh, then tilts his head toward his car. “Let’s go.”

You hesitate for half a second before following him. Because, well—this is Wonwoo. And he’s always been there, hasn’t he? Even when you didn’t notice.

You freeze halfway to the car. Wonwoo stops too, turning to face you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a slight furrow in his brows, his hands still tucked in his coat pockets.

"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice is steady, calm—but you know him well enough to hear the shift in his tone.

"I’m not," you lie, immediately looking away.

"You are," he counters easily. "You barely look at me during rounds, you leave the on-call room the second I walk in, and you suddenly act like you're allergic to coffee when I offer."

Okay, maybe you were being a little obvious. You shuffle your feet, gripping the strap of your bag. "I—it's nothing."

Wonwoo doesn’t budge. He just stares, waiting, and you swear the silence between you feels louder than anything right now.

Then, quieter, he says, "Did I do something?"

That makes you look at him. His expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s something in his eyes—something careful, hesitant. You shake your head quickly. "No! You didn’t—You never—" You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. "It’s just… I don’t know."

That’s a lie. You do know. It’s because of everything—Mingyu’s words, Seokmin’s teasing, the way you suddenly can’t stop noticing every little thing Wonwoo does. And the way it’s making your heart act in ways it shouldn’t.

But how the hell are you supposed to say that?

Wonwoo studies you for a moment, then sighs, shaking his head. "Get in the car," he says, walking ahead. "We’re not doing this while you're sleep-deprived."

You stare after him, a little dumbfounded, before scrambling to follow. Because, well. This is Wonwoo. And he's always been there, hasn’t he?

The car ride is quiet. Not the usual comfortable silence, but something heavier. You glance at Wonwoo from the passenger seat—his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, eyes focused ahead, his expression unreadable. He looks deep in thought.

And so are you.

Something stirs in the back of your mind. A memory, hazy but persistent.

It was years ago, after a long semester. You remember celebrating—too many drinks, too many laughs. And then… nothing. Just the aftermath. A raging headache, and the strange shift in Wonwoo’s behavior.

The day after that night, he started avoiding you. At first, you thought you were imagining it, but it became obvious—he wouldn’t meet your eyes, he stopped sitting next to you in class, and any conversation felt painfully awkward.

It lasted for weeks.

You never knew why.

Now, sitting next to him again, the memory presses into your chest. You glance at him once more, debating whether to ask.

But before you can, the car slows to a stop in front of your place.

"We’re here," Wonwoo says, voice even. He finally looks at you, and for a split second, there’s something in his gaze—something almost hesitant.

You swallow the words sitting on your tongue.

"Thanks for the ride," you mumble instead, pushing the door open.

But even as you step out, the question lingers.

It’s been bugging you for days. You try to brush it off, but the memory keeps surfacing at the most random moments—during surgeries, in the on-call room, even when you’re just grabbing coffee.

So, on a completely random day, when it’s just you and Wonwoo in the break room, you finally blurt it out.

"Why did you avoid me back in med school?"

Wonwoo, who was in the middle of sipping his coffee, freezes for a second. He lowers his cup slowly, eyes flickering to yours. "What?"

"You know," you insist, leaning against the counter. "After that one night out. The next day, you just—" You wave a hand, frustrated at how much this has been bothering you. "You barely talked to me for weeks. I thought I did something wrong, but I never knew what."

Wonwoo stares at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off or change the subject. But instead, he exhales and places his cup down.

"You don’t remember anything from that night?" he asks carefully.

Your brows furrow. "Not really. Just that I drank too much, and I felt like death the next morning."

Wonwoo is quiet. Too quiet. Now you’re nervous.

"What did I do?" you ask cautiously.

He hesitates, then sighs. "You… said something."

Your stomach drops. "What did I say?"

"You were drunk. I didn’t think you meant it, but—" He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically unsure. "You told me you liked me."

Your brain short-circuits You what?

Wonwoo keeps going, voice softer now. "I didn’t know how to react. I thought maybe you’d forget, or that you didn’t mean it. So I just… avoided you." He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "It was stupid. I know that now."

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You think your brain might actually shut down.

Wonwoo looks down at his coffee cup, almost like he's debating whether to continue. Then, with a small sigh, he says it—

"And you kissed me."

Your mouth opens, then closes. You blink at him, trying to process what he just said. You kissed him?

Wonwoo glances up at you, his expression unreadable, but you can tell he’s waiting for your reaction.

"I—" You swallow, scrambling for any memory of that night. But all you can remember is drinking too much, maybe laughing too loud, and then waking up with the worst hangover of your life. "I what?"

"You kissed me," he repeats, slower this time. "Just once. It wasn’t… it wasn’t a big thing. But you looked at me like—" He stops himself, shakes his head. "I don’t know. I didn’t think you meant it, so I thought it was better if I just avoided you until things went back to normal."

Your heart is hammering now. You kissed him. You kissed Wonwoo. And he never said a word about it.

"Why didn’t you ever bring it up?" you ask, your voice quieter now.

Wonwoo lets out a short, humorless laugh. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, do you remember kissing me that night?' You never brought it up either."

You stare at him, still trying to wrap your head around this. It’s not just the fact that you kissed him—it’s the fact that he’s looking at you now like this matters. Like maybe it wasn’t just a stupid drunken mistake to him.

And the worst part? You’re starting to think that it wasn’t just a stupid drunken mistake to you either. You hesitate for a moment before asking, "Is that why you weren’t dating?"

Wonwoo blinks, clearly caught off guard by the question. His fingers tighten slightly around his coffee cup before he exhales and leans back against the chair.

"I don’t know," he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. "Maybe. Part of it, yeah."

You feel something twist in your chest.

"What does that mean?" you press, your voice quieter now.

Wonwoo looks at you then, really looks at you. Like he’s debating whether or not to say what he actually wants to say.

"It means," he finally murmurs, "that maybe I was waiting."

Your breath catches. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. You can read between the lines. And suddenly, everything—the way he always looked out for you, the way he always made sure you ate, how he was always there—feels different. Feels heavier.

Like maybe you were supposed to notice a long time ago.

"I told you I liked you," you say, your voice sharper than you expected. "And you never told me."

Wonwoo doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, unreadable, his grip tightening around his coffee cup.

"You were drunk," he finally says.

You let out a frustrated scoff. "And? That doesn’t mean it wasn’t true."

He exhales slowly, looking away. "I thought you wouldn’t remember. Or that maybe you’d regret it."

Your jaw clenches. "So you just decided that for me?"

Wonwoo rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "I didn’t want to risk losing you."

You let out a breath, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. You’re mad—at him, at yourself, at the way this conversation is only happening now.

"That’s so stupid," you say, shaking your head. "That’s so—you’re so—"

You stop, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You just know it makes you angry.

Wonwoo gives you a small, almost apologetic smile. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Maybe."

You push past Wonwoo, your head spinning with frustration, and storm out of the room. You make your way to the surgery ward, still replaying the conversation in your head. Your steps are heavy, your thoughts even heavier.

Seokmin is at the nurses’ station, casually flipping through a patient chart when he sees you approaching. He immediately notices your expression and sighs. “Alright, what did Mingyu do this time?”

You shake your head, dragging a chair and plopping down beside him. “Not Mingyu.”

Seokmin raises an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like you just found out your whole life was a lie?”

You groan, resting your forehead against the cool surface of the desk. “I did find out something. From med school.”

Seokmin hums in interest. “Go on.”

You lift your head slightly, hesitating before mumbling, “Apparently, I told Wonwoo I liked him back then.”

Seokmin freezes. Blinks. Then leans forward dramatically. “You did what?”

“I don’t remember, okay?” you hiss, slapping his arm. “I was drunk. But he remembered. And guess what? He never said anything.”

Seokmin lets out a low whistle. “Oof. That’s tough.”

You slump back in your chair. “I don’t even know why I’m mad. Am I mad at him? At myself? At the universe?”

Seokmin clicks his tongue. “I’d say all of the above.”

You glare at him.

He chuckles before getting serious. “Look, you’re mad because it meant something. Even if you don’t remember confessing, the fact that he never responded—never even acknowledged it—hurts.”

You bite your lip, looking away. “Yeah.”

Seokmin nudges you. “So, what are you gonna do?”

You exhale sharply. “I have no idea.”

Seokmin grins. “Well, this is gonna be fun to watch.”

And so, you do what any reasonable person would do. You avoid Wonwoo.

You’re not dramatic about it—at least, you tell yourself that. You’re just busy. Too busy to sit in the on-call room when he’s there. Too busy to grab coffee at the same time. Too busy to share a ride home.

Mingyu and Seokmin notice immediately.

Seokmin corners you first, casually blocking your way to the scrub room with a patient chart. “So, avoiding your not-boyfriend now?”

You groan. “I’m not avoiding him.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head. “Then why did you suddenly start doing your post-op notes in this hallway instead of the lounge?”

You cross your arms. “I like the lighting here.”

Seokmin snorts. “Right. Because overhead fluorescent lights are so flattering.”

Mingyu, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother being subtle. He slaps a tray of food down at your table during a late dinner break. “So, what’s the plan?”

You blink at him. “For what?”

“For whatever mess you and Wonwoo have gotten yourselves into.” He waves his chopsticks. “It’s been days. Wonwoo looks like he’s about to lose his mind, and you look like you’re trying to ascend into another plane of existence just to avoid eye contact.”

You scowl. “I just need time to think.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly are you thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. Everything? The fact that I apparently confessed years ago and he never told me? The fact that he’s acting like it doesn’t matter? The fact that maybe it does matter, but I don’t know what to do with that?”

Mingyu chews thoughtfully, then points his chopsticks at you. “Sounds like you’re not over him.”

You groan, dropping your head onto the table.

He pats your shoulder. “Just talk to him. Before one of you explodes.”

The moment the hospital alert blared through the speakers, it’s like everything was put on hold. A mass casualty incident. Multiple vehicles. A bus, a few cars.

The ER instantly became chaos—stretchers being wheeled in, nurses and doctors shouting orders, the smell of antiseptic and blood thick in the air. Wonwoo moved on instinct, running toward the commotion just as Mingyu turned to him, face pale.

“She took the bus today,” Mingyu said.

Wonwoo’s stomach dropped. He didn’t even need to ask who she was. His feet were moving before his brain caught up. He barely heard Mingyu yelling for him as he shoved past people, making his way to the hospital entrance. Paramedics were still unloading patients. Some were conscious. Some weren’t moving at all.

He turned, gripping the arm of a paramedic. “The bus—where is it? Was everyone taken out?”

“There are still people at the site,” the paramedic said. “Some are trapped. First responders are working on it.”

Wonwoo didn’t wait to hear the rest. He ran.

The crash site was a scene of wreckage—twisted metal, shattered glass, the air heavy with smoke and the sharp scent of gasoline. Emergency lights flashed red and blue against the darkening sky, casting eerie shadows over the scene.

Wonwoo barely registered the shouts of firefighters and paramedics as they worked to extract victims from the wreckage. His mind had narrowed to one thing—you.

He scanned the scene frantically, his pulse hammering in his ears. People were being pulled from the bus, some dazed, some unconscious. His breath hitched when he saw a familiar figure slumped against the pavement, a paramedic crouched beside you.

"Y/N!"

His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking as he sprinted toward you. Your head turned sluggishly at the sound of his voice. Blood streaked down your forehead, a cut splitting just above your eyebrow. Your white coat was smudged with dirt, torn at the sleeve, and you had one hand pressed to your side, wincing.

“Wonwoo?” you murmured, blinking up at him, disoriented.

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering over your face, your arms, as if afraid you’d shatter at his touch. “What the hell—why—why are you still here? You should’ve been in the hospital already—”

“Dr. Jeon?” The paramedic beside you spoke up, recognizing him. “She’s stable for now, but we need to move her. There might be internal injuries.”

Wonwoo clenched his jaw. He knew that but it was different when it was you, when he was staring at your bloodied form and realizing how close he’d come to—

No. He refused to think about it.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice tight, as he helped lift you onto the stretcher.

Your fingers curled around his wrist, gripping weakly. “Wonwoo,” you murmured.

His heart stuttered. “What?”

“Don’t look so sad.” Your smile was faint, barely there. “I’m okay.”

He exhaled sharply, gripping your hand. “You better be.”

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, the pain dulling into exhaustion. The sounds around you—sirens, shouts, the rustle of movement—were starting to blur together.

“Hey, hey—no.” Wonwoo’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with panic. His grip on your hand tightened. “Stay with me.”

You hummed, barely nodding. “Just… tired.”

“I don’t care. You’re not sleeping right now.” His other hand cupped your cheek, the warmth grounding you. “Look at me.” You tried. Really, you did. But the weight behind your eyes was unbearable. Your head lolled slightly, and that’s when his voice broke—

“Y/N, please.”

Something in his tone made you fight harder to stay conscious. Your blurry vision focused just enough to see his face—his usual calm was gone, replaced with pure, raw worry.

“You’re always… so bossy,” you mumbled, forcing a weak smirk.

“And you never listen,” he shot back, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “So listen now—stay awake.”

The paramedics lifted your stretcher, and Wonwoo moved with them, never letting go of your hand. “We’re almost at the hospital,” he told you, voice softer now. “You’ll be fine.”

You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the pain, or the way he was looking at you, but for a moment, you believed him. Wonwoo’s heart nearly stopped when your body went limp. He swallowed hard, his mind racing even as his training kicked in. You’d lost blood. Too much. Your skin was too pale, your breathing too shallow.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

As soon as they reached the ambulance, he climbed in with you, pressing two fingers to your wrist again just to reassure himself that your pulse was still there.

"Stay with me," he murmured, more to himself than to you snd when the ambulance doors shut, sirens wailing as they sped toward the hospital, he didn’t take his eyes off you for even a second.

The ambulance screeched to a halt outside the emergency entrance, and the doors flew open. Wonwoo barely waited for the paramedics before he moved, helping guide the stretcher out.

“Female, late twenties, sustained injuries from the crash site,” one of the paramedics called out. “Multiple lacerations, possible concussion, and significant blood loss—she lost consciousness on the way.” Mingyu was already there, his eyes widening the moment he saw you. 

“Shit—Get her inside. Now! Bay 7!”

Mingyu paled but immediately snapped into action, helping the nurses prep you for assessment. Seokmin rushed in a second later, his expression shifting from relief to worry in an instant.

“Her BP’s low,” a nurse reported. “We need fluids started now.”

Wonwoo knew he should step back, let the trauma team handle it. But his feet refused to move. His pulse was racing, hands clenched at his sides.

“You need to get checked, too,” Mingyu said, glancing at the blood on Wonwoo’s scrubs—not his own, but yours.

“I’m fine.” Wonwoo’s voice was tight. “She—” His words caught in his throat. “Just take care of her.”

Mingyu exchanged a glance with Seokmin, who rushed down the ER the moment he heard about the accident, before nodding.

“Wonwoo,” Seokmin said carefully, “let them work. She’s in good hands.” he pulls Wonwoo out the hallway to let Mingyu and his team do their work.

Wonwoo’s jaw locked. He knew that. He did. But watching you, lying there so still, covered in bruises and blood—he’d never felt this helpless before. His mind was a mess. He should have driven you home. He should have made sure you weren’t avoiding him. He should have—

The doors burst open. A nurse rushed past him. Then, through the small window of the ER, he saw Mingyu and the rest of the team working frantically around you. Something was wrong.

He stepped forward, but Seokmin was suddenly there, blocking his way. “They’re doing everything they can,” Seokmin said, his voice firm but laced with worry. Wonwoo barely heard him. His eyes were locked on the room, on Mingyu pressing down on your chest.

You had coded.

A sharp breath left him as he staggered back, hitting the wall. Seokmin’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke. Wonwoo’s hands were shaking. He curled them into fists. He’d never been this scared before. Not once in his life.

Wonwoo tried to push past Seokmin, but Seokmin held him back, gripping his arm tightly.

"Wonwoo, stop," Seokmin said firmly, his voice steady despite the tension in his face.

"I need to be in there," Wonwoo snapped, his breathing uneven. "I need to—"

Seokmin shook his head. "Mingyu’s got this. Do you think he’d let anything happen to her?"

Wonwoo clenched his jaw, his entire body tense, but he didn’t push forward again. He knew Seokmin was right but knowing didn’t make it easier. All he could do was stand there, watching through the window as Mingyu fought to bring you back.

Mingyu gritted his teeth, his hands steady even as the tension in the room thickened. The sound of the flatline rang in his ears, drowning out everything else.

"Charge to 200," he ordered, his voice sharp and controlled.

The nurse complied, handing him the paddles. Mingyu placed them on your chest, his heart hammering. "Clear!"

Your body jerked slightly as the shock coursed through you.

He checked the monitor. Still flat.

"Again! 300!"

Another shock.

Nothing.

Mingyu refused to let panic settle in. His friend was on this table. No, not just a friend. You were family.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, sweat forming at his brow. "You're not done yet."

He pressed his hands to your chest, beginning compressions. "Give me one milligram of epi!"

Time blurred. His arms burned from the force of CPR, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t.

Then A blip. Another. A weak, slow rhythm appeared on the monitor.

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "We've got a pulse," he announced, his voice hoarse but firm. The tension in the room eased slightly, but Mingyu knew it wasn’t over yet. He looked at you, unconscious but breathing, and exhaled sharply.

"You scared the hell out of us," he muttered under his breath. Then, he turned to the nurse. "Get her to the ICU. I'll update the others."

As the team moved into action, Mingyu pulled off his gloves, exhausted but relieved. Now, he just had to face Wonwoo.

Mingyu stepped out of the ER, exhaling deeply as he ran a hand through his hair. The hallway felt suffocating with tension, and the moment he looked up, his gaze met Wonwoo’s.

Wonwoo was still pacing, his fists clenched at his sides, eyes dark with worry. Seokmin stood nearby, watching carefully in case he had to physically restrain him again.

The second Wonwoo saw Mingyu, he froze. "How is she?"

Mingyu sighed, pulling off his surgical cap. "She coded."

Wonwoo’s face drained of color.

"But we got her back."

The relief was visible—Wonwoo’s shoulders slumped for just a second before he straightened, jaw tight. "Where is she now?"

"ICU. We stabilized her, but she’s not awake yet."

Wonwoo didn’t wait for another word. He turned on his heel, heading straight for the ICU.

Seokmin let out a breath. "I’m going after him before he scares the nurses."

Mingyu didn’t stop him. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, exhaustion hitting him full force.

"You better wake up soon," he mumbled to himself. "Or he’s gonna lose it."

Wonwoo barely made it past the ICU doors before the nurses blocked his way.

"You can’t see her yet, Dr. Jeon," one of them said firmly. "She’s still unconscious, and we need to monitor her closely."

His jaw tightened. "I just need to see her—"

"Wonwoo."

Seokmin grabbed his arm before he could push past them. "Stop."

Wonwoo turned sharply, eyes flashing. "She almost died, Seokmin. I—" He clenched his fists, unable to finish.

Seokmin’s grip didn’t loosen. "I know. But you barging in there isn’t going to change anything. Let them do their job."

Wonwoo’s breathing was heavy, his body tense as if he was holding himself together by a thread. His gaze flickered toward the door, frustration clear on his face.

Seokmin sighed. "Come on, man. Let’s sit for a second. You’re no good to her if you pass out from exhaustion."

Wonwoo didn’t move for a long moment, but finally, he exhaled sharply and let Seokmin pull him back toward the waiting area.

Still, he kept his eyes locked on the door, like sheer willpower alone could wake you up.

Hours passed, dragging on painfully. Wonwoo sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together so tightly they were turning white. Mingyu and Seokmin were on either side of him, equally exhausted but keeping watch.

No one spoke much. The weight of everything that had happened hung heavily in the air.

Then, finally, a nurse stepped out of the ICU.

"You can see her now."

Wonwoo was on his feet instantly, not even waiting for the others as he rushed through the doors. His heart pounded as he stepped into your room, his breath catching at the sight of you.

You were stil unconcious, but you were breathing. There were bandages wrapped around your head and arms, an IV hooked up beside you. But your chest rose and fell steadily. 

"You’re an idiot," he muttered, voice hoarse. But even as he said it, his hand hovered over yours, hesitant, before finally resting gently over your fingers.

Hours passed before you finally regained consciousness. The first thing you notice is the hand holding yours. The weight of everything sinking in. 

You gently squeeze his hand making Wonwoo sit up and look at you, “Hey you” you mumble at him. He didn’t say anything at first, just looking at you. Making sure he isn’t dreaming, he takes your warm hand pressing it against his cheek

“You scared me” he whispered

“Sorry”

He shakes his head. He stands up, leaning down to give you a kiss on the forehead. His lips lingering there for a while like he’s savoring every second. When he pulled back, his gaze met yours, filled with something unspoken.

“You should rest,” he murmured, voice still rough with emotion.

You gave him a small, tired smile. “Only if you do too.”

“I’m not leaving.” You already knew that. Even if he didn’t say it, you could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t going anywhere.

The door swung open, and Seokmin practically burst in, arms spread wide. “She LIVES!” he announced dramatically, as if you had risen from the dead.

You gave him a tired glare. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, plopping down in the chair beside you. “Do you know how much stress you caused us?”

Mingyu walked in behind him, arms crossed. “You had me working overtime,” he said, half-joking, half-serious. “And I don’t even get paid extra for that.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was warmth in your smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll schedule my near-death experience at a more convenient time.”

Mingyu clicked his tongue. “That’s all I ask.”

Seokmin gasped. “Excuse me? That is not all we ask! How about you don’t get into life-threatening accidents at all?”

You sighed, leaning back into the pillows. “Noted.”

Wonwoo, who had been quiet this whole time, just exhaled, shaking his head. “They’re never gonna let this go, you know.”

“Obviously,” you muttered, but your chest felt lighter. Because as much as they nagged, you knew it just meant they cared.

Your recovery days were… frustrating, to say the least. As a surgeon, you were used to being the one treating patients, not being the patient. And the worst part? Your own friends were your caretakers, which meant zero chances of slipping out of bed unnoticed.

Seokmin was the worst about it. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked one afternoon when you tried to stand up.

“For a walk,” you said.

He pushed you back down with one finger to your forehead. “You’re on bed rest, doctor.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

Seokmin gasped dramatically. “You coded! You died for a minute, and now you want to go for a walk?”

Mingyu walked in just in time to hear that. “Wait, she tried to get up? I knew we should’ve strapped her down.”

You scowled at both of them. “I’m not a psych patient—”

“Then stop acting like one,” Mingyu shot back.

But it wasn’t just them. The nurses were in on it, too. They absolutely loved watching the usually stubborn and independent surgeon get bossed around. Every time Wonwoo came to check on you, you swore you saw them watching from the nurses’ station, whispering to each other.

And speaking of Wonwoo…

He was quiet but relentless. While the others nagged, he just watched you, making sure you ate, making sure you took your meds, making sure you rested. He didn’t have to say anything—his mere presence was enough to keep you in place.

But one evening, when the others had left, you finally had enough. “Wonwoo, I swear if you tell me to ‘take it easy’ one more time—”

“I won’t,” he said simply, sitting beside your bed.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked at you for a moment, then exhaled. “I just… I was really scared.”

Your throat tightened. “Wonwoo—”

“I almost lost you,” he murmured.

You stared at him, heart pounding. “…Okay.”

He gave your hand a light squeeze. “Good.”

“But that’s unfair, you can’t use that on me everytime”

Wonwoo’s lips twitched, barely holding back a smirk. “Use what?”

“You being all—” you waved your free hand vaguely, “—soft and serious. Making me feel bad for worrying you. That’s not fair.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “It’s not fair that you keep scaring me either.”

You groaned, sinking further into your pillows. “Fine. Truce?”

Wonwoo tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider it. “…Only if you promise to stop being reckless.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Define reckless.”

He sighed. “I hate you.”

You smirked. “No, you don’t.”

“…No, I don’t,” he admitted, his voice softer this time.

You stretched your arms as you walked into the hospital, feeling a mix of exhaustion and relief. Being back at work after weeks of recovery felt oddly normal, except for the way your friends hovered around you like you were made of glass.

You sat across from Wonwoo at a quiet restaurant near the hospital, picking at your food while he watched you like a hawk. He had already subtly pushed a side dish closer to you twice, and when you slowed down again, he raised an eyebrow.

"Eat," he said simply, taking a bite of his own food.

You sighed, shoving a spoonful into your mouth to appease him. “Happy?”

He hummed in approval before sipping his drink. The meal went on in comfortable silence, but your mind kept drifting back to the last real conversation you had before the accident. 

“Wonwoo.”

“Hmm?”

You hesitated for a second, then pushed forward. “Before the accident, when we were talking… You said I kissed you.”

His grip on his drink tightened slightly. “Yeah.”

“And you never told me,” you continued, voice steady but firm. “I told you I liked you, and you never said anything. Is that… is that why you never dated anyone?”

Wonwoo let out a slow breath, placing his drink down carefully. “I thought you were drunk.”

“I was drunk,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t lying.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I didn’t know that.”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “So what, you avoided me for weeks, pretended like nothing happened, and then just… never dated anyone because of it?”

Wonwoo didn’t respond right away. He stared at you for a long moment, like he was deciding something. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we had.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I thought if I told you, it’d change everything. And I didn’t—I couldn’t—” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I just didn’t want to lose you.”

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest. “And what about now?”

He met your gaze, something softer in his expression now. “Now, I think I almost did anyway.”

The weight of his words settled between you, and for the first time in weeks, maybe years, you felt like you were finally getting somewhere.

You stared at him, processing everything he’d just said. The years of friendship, the silent moments, the things left unsaid—all of it led to this.

“So,” you started carefully, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass, “you spent all these years… what? Waiting?”

Wonwoo let out a short, breathy laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “It’s not like I planned to. I just—no one else ever felt right.”

Something in your chest tightened. “Wonwoo.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. “Do you regret it?”

You blinked. “Regret what?”

“Telling me you liked me back then.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“I don’t regret it. What I regret is not remembering anything”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You really don’t?”

“Not even a little,” you admitted. “If I had, we probably wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”

“And now?”

You held his gaze. “I don’t want to waste any more.”

For the first time in weeks, Wonwoo smiled—not the small, fleeting ones he’d been giving you, but a real one, the kind that reached his eyes.

“Then let’s not.”

The moment stretched between you two, something unspoken settling into place. Wonwoo didn’t say anything else instead he reached for your hand across the table, his fingers brushing yours before curling around them. It was such a simple gesture, but your heart still stuttered at the warmth of his palm against yours.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” you murmured, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

Wonwoo’s thumb traced lazy circles over your skin. “I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

You squeezed his hand, rolling your eyes playfully. “You should’ve.”

After your shift of course he waited for you to drive you home, the drive was quiet. Like how it usually is. But this this there's a sense of peace, something more comforting. Wonwoo made a thoughtful hum before, to your surprise, he reached over at a red light, fingers brushing against your hand. Then, in the most unexpected act of affection, he intertwined his fingers with yours.

“What—”

“I like holding your hand,” he admitted casually, as if this wasn’t the first time he was doing something like this outside of a life-or-death situation. “It’s warm.”

You blinked at him. This man. “Wonwoo,” you deadpanned, but your grip on his hand tightened, betraying you.

“Do you have any idea how confusing you are?” you muttered, squeezing his hand.

Wonwoo chuckled again, the sound low and warm. “I think I’m making it pretty obvious now.”

Your face heated up. You turned to look out the window, trying to hide the giddy feeling bubbling up in your chest. And just like that, the rest of the ride home was spent with your fingers still laced together, neither of you letting go.

You swallowed, heart stuttering in your chest at his words. Wonwoo's hand was still in yours, warm and steady

“If I’m reading this wrong,” he said, voice softer than before, “we can stop. I don’t want to force anything on you.”

You turned to him, watching how he kept his eyes on the road, his usual unreadable expression now laced with something else—something hesitant, something careful.

Your chest tightened.

“You think you’re reading it wrong?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Wonwoo sighed through his nose, thumb unconsciously brushing against your knuckles. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t want to assume anything. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to go along with me just because…” He trailed off, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter with his other hand.

Just because he’s Wonwoo? Just because he’s been there always, in ways you never fully understood until now?

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You weren’t used to this—him being the one doubting things when it was usually you who overthought.

The car slowed as he pulled up in front of your place, but he didn’t make a move to let go of your hand. His fingers curled around yours loosely, like he was giving you the chance to let go first.

You didn’t.

Instead, you took a breath and turned to face him fully. “You’re not reading it wrong,” you said, firm but not unkind.

Wonwoo finally looked at you, the flickering streetlight outside casting shadows on his face.

“You’re not forcing anything,” you added, squeezing his hand. “I like this, okay? I like… us.”

Wonwoo just smirked, giving your hand a squeeze. “This is years in the making,” he murmured, like it was the simplest fact in the world. “Let me hold my girl’s hand for a minute more.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head, but your heart was doing something completely different—stumbling over itself at the way he said my girl.

You swallowed, feeling warmth bloom in your chest. Years in the making. You’d never thought about it like that, but now that he said it, you realized—he was right.

All those late-night study sessions, the quiet moments in the on-call room, the way he always made sure you ate, the way he was just… there. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t new. It was just something that had always been there, waiting for the two of you to finally stop dancing around it.

“…Fine,” you muttered, fighting the smile but failing miserably. “One minute.”

Wonwoo chuckled, and instead of arguing, he just laced his fingers through yours, holding on like he never planned on letting go.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene and you pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling completely mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still humming through your skin, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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